CONTENT WARNING: Dead Animal (Squirrel), Gross

One summer, I was working in my garage and smelled something… funky. I looked around and tried to trace the scent but couldn’t find anything. The odor got worse over the course of a few days, and it definitely started smelling like something had died in the garage. Maybe a mouse or chipmunk? It had happened before, so I searched more thoroughly and still found nothing.

Finally, I noticed that the smell was strongest when my wife’s car was in the garage — but I could not smell anything inside the car. She took it through the car wash several times, but the smell only got worse. We searched the wheel wells, engine compartment, trunk, grill, and air intakes, and finally, I started crawling around underneath.

There it was! I could not see it from just looking underneath but only if I went under. It looked like a gray squirrel had somehow gotten caught up on the underbody and was just… hanging there. Eww!

The car was actually scheduled for service, and when my wife drove into the shop, she saw several employees wrinkle their noses and give her car nervous looks. She talked to the tech about the squirrel, and he said they would take care of it.

All we could imagine was that some poor newbie got stuck cleaning it off.

“Hey, Bob, come here. Heh heh. Clean out under this car. Do you have a clothespin?”

The service notes when we got it back just said, “Removed dead squirrel.”

For the last year, I worked at a small town grocery store. Since we are about three years out from the start of the global health crisis and infection rates are down, masks are optional and only a handful of staff and customers wear them, and I am one of the few. 

One day, I think, “You know, my coworkers aren’t getting sick. Maybe it would be okay to unmask.” And I try a shift with no mask. 

It goes fine until my last customer of the day, a little old man, open-mouth coughs in my face through the entire transaction. I take a step back to try and be as far from his cigarette breath as possible while trying to get him through my line as fast as I can. It is skin-crawlingly gross.

And this is why I will probably continue to wear a mask when working a busy public-facing job, health crisis or not.

My dad worked at the county shop, which used convict labor. One of the convicts was working near Dad, and either the convict or my dad farted loudly. (I don’t remember which.)

Dad: “That was an African Barking Spider.”

The convict blinked and then burst out laughing. He laughed for a good long time, repeating, “African Barking Spider!” to himself. He calmed down enough to get back to work, but he would still periodically burst into giggles with “African Barking Spider!” for the rest of the day.

Dad broke the convict with “African Barking Spiders.”

CONTENT WARNING: Bugs/Insects

This happened about twenty-five years ago, back when I was engaged to the woman who would ultimately become my ex-wife.

I’m not sure where she picked up these parasitic follicle hitchhikers, but she got head lice. Nit at all funny. Still, these things happen.

I checked my hair, and whilst I didn’t think I had any, I still treated my hair with medicated shampoo and a special comb anyway. My fiancée also treated her hair, but her mother had advised against using the specialist shampoos, instead suggesting more natural remedies. 

She advised the use of tea tree oil to kill the lice and banana conditioner to make the hair more slippery to aid in the removal of the lice and eggs.

So, after [Fiancée] dosed her hair up with the gunk, I brandished the comb and got to work. It quickly became apparent that we were in for a long evening. The first comb-through pulled out a lot — as did all the subsequent pulls. I carefully looked through her hair, and as well as a few lice, there were lots and lots of eggs. 

But were they all eggs?

You know that conditioner we used? It turns out they make it by mashing up bananas. And you know what’s inside bananas? Banana seeds. Which are about the same size and shape as lice eggs.

Oh, I didn’t say how long [Fiancée]’s hair was. It was long — reaching the small of her back. And thick. And about the same shade as the eggs I was trying to find. It was clear that this ordeal was far from ova.

All in all, it took about three hours for me to go through [Fiancée]’s hair to remove every trace of lice, egg, and banana seed. (Conversely, it took her about ten minutes to go through my short banana-free hair.)

Afterward, I pleaded with her to never use that treatment again. Fortunately, she agreed, and that method of treatment was scratched.

I approach the office manager. We are both male.

Me: “The men’s facilities are almost out of toilet paper. Where do you store it?”

Office Manager: “It’s in [storage room], but thanks for the reminder. I’ll order some more.”

A nearby coworker, also male, scoffs at our interaction.

Coworker: “Why are two men so concerned about toilet paper. Seriously.”

Me: “Uh… well I don’t know about you but it’s kinda hard to wipe without it.”

Coworker: “You wipe? What are you, gay?”

My brain stutters.

Me: “Uh… what?!” 

Office Manager: “Can’t believe I’m asking this, but what do you wipe with?”

Coworker: “Nah, wiping a butt is gay. I’m not a f** like that.”

I am beyond words, and totally grossed out by the idea of this guy just… not wiping.

Office Manager: “Do you hold your junk when you pee?” 

Coworker: “Uh, duh! Gotta aim somehow!” 

Office Manager: “So touching your own d*ck isn’t gay, but wiping your butt is?”

Coworker: “Shut up! You know it’s different!”

Office Manager: “I really don’t. Explain it to me.” 

Coworker: “It’s… butts are gay, alright!”

Me: “So… wait… you never wipe?”

Coworker: “No! That’s gay!”

I walk away quickly to hide my disgust. The office manager tells me to leave it with him. That coworker is given a talking to about “office hygiene etiquette” by his manager (I wasn’t told that officially, but I was told that there’s a standard HR script for that) but that didn’t do down too well and he was let go a month later for… health reasons.