You… Are… An… A**hole…

, , , | Right | January 10, 2020

(I have been standing in line at the post office for just over an hour, waiting to get a parcel posted. The post office cashier is Indian; she speaks English very well but has a slight accent. Two teenage girls are standing at the front of the queue, gossiping away.)

Cashier: *to the teen girls* “Hello, can I help you today?”

Girl #1: *scoffing* “Why else would I be here?”

Girl #2: *whispering to [Girl #1], loudly enough for everyone to hear* “I can barely understand her. Why do they even hire their kind, anyway?”

Cashier: *visibly upset, but continues to try to do her job* “What would you like to send today?”

Girl #1: *speaking loudly and slowly to the cashier* “I… need… this… box… to… go… to… dis… place. You… read… no?”

Cashier: *trying to ignore their rudeness* “Please place it on the scale.”

Girl #2: “No… you… take… box… you… curry… eater.”

(This exchange goes on for a while, with the cashier asking them to put the parcel on the scale and them refusing point-blank, talking to her in the insulting slow tone. I have finally had enough. Stepping forward, I mimic the girls’ tone of voice.)

Me: “No… she… wants… you… to… put… box… on… metal… thing.”

Girl #1: “Why are you talking to us like that, b****?”

Me: “Oh, sorry, just from the way you were talking, I thought you might be a bit slow.”

Girl #2: “No, the cashier is the stupid one!” *stomping her feet like a child*

Me: *patronisingly* “Yes, yes, okay, sweetie. Put your box on the scale now.” *she puts it on the scale with me watching over* “Aww, who’s a big girl? Now pay the nice lady, apologize, and walk out.”

(The girls do as I say, beet red at being confronted, and finally, they leave.)

Cashier: “Thank you. They always come in here to harass me.”

(Apparently, they never returned to harass the woman again.)

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Why Santa Shouldn’t Outsource

, , , , , , , | Working | December 25, 2019

Some years back, I was ordering Christmas presents online. A few days later, the website informed me that my packages had been delivered, but I had nothing. I checked with apartment management. They were actually surprised that nothing at all had been delivered for two days — unusual for a large apartment complex.

I had a tracking number with USPS, so clearly the next stop was the post office. I showed the tracking number. They showed me that their computer said it had been delivered to me. I showed empty hands. I was frustrated and I’m sure they were thinking I was another crook wanting free stuff. They asked me again for the delivery address. I told the clerk and then her eyes widened and her demeanor changed. I was told that, during the Christmas rush, they sometimes hired independent contractors for deliveries. She suggested I try the neighboring apartment complexes.

Since I had no other choice at that point, I went to the one closest to me. I walked into their offices — which also housed their mini gym and lounge area — and was shocked to see the place looking like a warehouse. Boxes were stacked to eye level against every bit of open wall space. More were on tables and chairs.

I eventually found my packages. Apparently, the contractor wanted to make an easy score. He showed up at the first big apartment complex on the route with all the packages for three apartment complexes and about a square mile or more of residential neighborhoods and simply unloaded his truck into their offices. The lone secretary at the time was confused and overwhelmed. 

Ho! Ho! Ho! Thanks, dirty Santa.

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Darn Obama, Making Christmas About Jesus!

, , , , , | Right | December 21, 2019

(It’s Christmas time after the 2012 elections. We’re always really busy and the demand for Christmas stamps is very high. There are usually two types: one religious and one secular.)

Customer: “I need four books of Christmas Stamps.”

Me: “Would you like religious stamps or Santa?”

(I show him the stamps so he can choose.)

Customer: “I don’t want any of those d*** [other religion] stamps. D*** Obama, making us have [other religion] Christmas stamps now. 

Me: *now dead inside* “Sir, that’s the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus.”

(There is silence in the packed lobby for a few seconds until someone in the back chuckles.)

Customer: “Well, [Conservative Political Commentator] said there were [other religion] stamps! I’ll take Santa.”

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Where Santa’s Work REALLY Happens

, , , , , | Right | December 16, 2019

(It’s about a week and a half before Christmas and I go to the post office to mail a package that I really should have mailed earlier. When I get there, the line is out the door. Since I won’t have another opportunity to get there before Christmas — and it’s bound to be that busy all the way up until the holiday, anyway — I go ahead and get in line. There are two young ladies in front of me in line that are complaining about the wait time. They look at me to elicit my opinion on the wait time; I just shrug and tell them that it’s my own fault for not coming sooner. By the exit door is a little stand with a smiley face, a neutral face, and an angry face on it, as well as buttons you can press to rate your experience at the post office. Almost everyone in line reaches over and slams down the angry face as they pass it, even though they haven’t actually been helped yet. When I get to the front of the line, only about twenty minutes have passed as they have five employees working very rapidly behind the counter. I get called up to the station where one of the more brusque and loud employees is working.)

Employee: “Hi there. How are you doing? What are we doing for you today?”

Me: “I’m doing fine. You?” *sets my box on the counter* “Just this.”

Employee: *starts the process of weighing and processing* “Oh, I’m fantastic. You picked a good day. But every day here is a good day. Not if you ask most people, though.”

Me: “It’s almost Christmas. It always boggles my mind that people would complain. They should know better. Plus, this line didn’t take that long, really.”

Employee: *reaches into his drawer and pulls out a candy dish with, I kid you not, homemade cookies on it* “Do you like cookies? Have a cookie!”

Me: “Oh! Thank you!” *picks a small cookie and he runs me through the mailing options*

Employee: “Do you like chocolate?”

Me: “Yeah, I do.”

Employee: *pulls out ANOTHER candy dish filled with fun-sized chocolate bars* “Help yourself!”

(I take one but he insists I take at least three of them.)

Employee: “All right, that’ll be [price]. Would you like to pay with cash, card, or firstborn child?”

Me: *chuckling* “Card. I think I’ll keep my son a bit longer.”

Employee: *as payment is processing, pulls out a foil-wrapped package from his drawer and hands it to me* “You can take these ones home and share them with your boy.”

Me: “You sure?”

(The foil contains MORE cookies.)

Employee: “Yup, I don’t need any more.” *pats his belly* “You have a great day!”

Me: “You, too!”

(On my way out the door, I slammed down the green smiley face button, cookie in mouth. By far that was the weirdest and best post office experience I’ve ever had.)


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A Signature Of Not Knowing What They’re Doing

, , , | Working | December 6, 2019

(When I am a kid in the 70s, my mum sets me up with a Post Office Savings Account with her as a trustee. Just after I turn sixteen, my mum and I go in to switch it into my name only. My mum is asked to sign something, and then it is my turn. My full name is quite long; let’s say it’s Elizabeth Suzanne MacKenzie.)

Cashier: “I need you to sign this signature card to put in your Savings Book.”

Me: “Okay.” *signs card*

Cashier: “No, I need you to sign your name.”

Me: “I did.”

Cashier: *sighs* “You signed ‘E MacKenzie.’ The name on the account is ‘Elizabeth Suzanne MacKenzie.’ That’s what you need to sign.”

Me: “But…” *pointing* “…that there is my signature. Do you want me to just write my name?”

Cashier: “You need to do your signature, but with your full name.”

Me: “But… my signature, that I use all the time, is that: it’s just my initial and surname. My signature doesn’t have my full name in it.”

Cashier: “Well, we need you to sign your full name.”

Me: “I can write my full name, or I can do a signature, but they’re completely different things. What one do you want?”

Cashier: “You need to sign your full name.”

Me: *totally fed up at this point* “Okay, fine.”

(And that’s why, until I got married ten years later and changed my name, I held an account where my signature was just my name, entirely printed in bold capitals. Yes, apparently that was perfectly acceptable as a “signature.”)

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