A Symptom Of Our Oversharing Society

, , , , , | Right | October 28, 2018

(I work for a travel insurance company. One of the things we  do is medical screening. If you have certain pre-existing medical conditions — such as asthma, angina, or diabetes, etc. — you need to pay a small extra premium to cover you. None of us are medically trained; we just input the illness and ask whatever questions our system presents. We need to know exactly what the illness or condition is, and if any medication is taken, exactly what that is, too.  A woman calls who has just bought her insurance for a trip, and we are now onto the medical questionnaire as she has said, “Yes,” to having a pre-existing medical condition.)

Me: “Okay, can you tell me what medical conditions you have and what medication, if any, that you take for it?”

Customer: “Oh… I have a venereal disease.”

Me: “I need to know which one specifically.”

(The customer then proceeds to go into graphic detail about her illness, because she’s not quite sure which one it is.)

Me: *interrupting* “Madam! I’m not medically trained! I can’t diagnose what it is from your symptoms. I need to know the name of the illness.”

Customer: “Oh. I’m not sure.”

Me: “If you can’t find any paperwork, I suggest calling your doctor. If you take any medication, get them to confirm it, as well, and call back and give us your policy number. Once you have all the relevant information, we can continue the questionnaire.”

Customer: “Okay. Thanks for your help!”

(When the customer hung up I had to go and get some water as I felt queasy. Whatever she had, it was unpleasant, I can tell you that.)

New From Ben & Jerry’s: Cigarettes & Saliva

, , , | Right | October 23, 2018

(I work at a small gas station near a popular casino, so I see a LOT of weird stuff. Shortly after I start my shift, a customer walks in with an ice cream he’s already opened and started to eat.)

Me: “How can I help you, sir?”

(The customer proceeds to attempt English with his mouth full of ice cream, while he points at cigarettes.)

Me: “I’m sorry?”

(The customer leans over and drops a disgusting ball of ice cream coated in his saliva into his hand.)

Customer: “I’ll take [Cigarette Brand].”

(I did my best to keep a neutral face I’ve mastered over a long career in customer service as I grabbed the cigarettes and watched him put the ice cream back in his mouth and lick his fingers, before he proceeded to hand me his money with the hand he’d just dropped his ice cream into. Thank God I have a special spot just for disgusting money. I’ve never run to the back to wash my hands faster than I did after he left.)

Wish You Could Flush This Experience Down The Toilet

, , , , , | Right | October 23, 2018

(A teenage boy of about fourteen or fifteen comes out of the bathroom and approaches me.)

Boy: “Um, ma’am, there’s a problem in the bathroom.”

Me: “Okay, let me take a look.”

(I am thinking I’ll just have to plunge or something. I walk in, and my eyes grow wide. The entire floor is covered in poo water. A HUGE ball of paper towels full of poo has clogged the entire toilet — not just the drain, the whole bowl — and some is hanging out of the toilet. Several more pieces of paper towel are strewn on the floor. The empty paper towel roll is laid on the counter. Yes, there is an ENTIRE ROLL OF PAPER TOWELS in the toilet.)

Me: “What happened?”

Boy: “Well, there wasn’t a lot of toilet paper left, so I tried to use the paper towels.”

Me: “You needed that many paper towels to take care of yourself?”

Boy: “No. I mean, I used the first bit, but then it wouldn’t flush down, so then I just kept shoving more in there thinking it would fix it. I’m really sorry; this is so nasty.”

(I look at him, and then, in silence, I walk out and fetch his mom. I bring her into the bathroom to take a look. She peeks in, and as she does, the boy says:)

Boy: “I’m so sorry, Mom. I didn’t know what to do.”

Mom: *with a blank face she responded* “Oh, honey, it’s okay. Don’t be embarrassed; this happens.”

(In my mind, I’m screaming, “NO, IT DOESN’T! THIS DOES NOT HAPPEN. THIS IS NOT A THING PEOPLE DO. PEOPLE DO NOT SHOVE ENTIRE ROLLS OF PAPER TOWELS DOWN THE TOILET. THAT IS NOT SOMETHING THAT JUST ‘HAPPENS.’ WOULD YOU BE SAYING THAT TO HIM IF HE DID THIS AT HOME?!” But I keep my cool and I stay silent. The mom looks at me.)

Mom: “Okay, let’s go, Son. Or did you want to ask about that book?”

(I’m standing in a puddle of her son’s poo water, staring. The boy looks at me and says:)

Boy: “Oh, yeah. Do you have Bram Stoker’s Dracula?”

Me: *still staring* “No. No, I don’t have that one. Or any more paper towels.”

(The mom laughs. The boy laughs. I do not laugh.)

Mom: “Okay, have a nice afternoon!”

(The mom and boy walk out. I’m still standing in the middle of poo water in the bathroom. I stare at the mess around me, dumbfounded. I call my landlord and ask her to send a plumber over. I begin cleaning. The plumber arrives, and he gets to the bathroom, opens the toilet, and exclaims:)

Plumber: “OH, MY GOD, WHAT HAPPENED?! THIS COULD CLOG A SEWER! THIS IS NOT TOILET PAPER!”

(Yes, yes, I know. $95 and two hours of cleaning later… Moral of the story: I now understand why there are signs in public restrooms stating, “Do not flush anything down the toilet that isn’t toilet paper.” We’ve removed all paper towels, napkins, and hand towels from the bathroom and put them outside.)

Just Gave Birth To A Monster

, , , , , | Healthy | October 23, 2018

When I was very pregnant — ready-to-pop pregnant — I went to an appointment, to make sure everything was still going good, heart beating, moving around, all that stuff. I decided to grab fast food on the way in, and soon realized that my stomach wasn’t happy with my choice.

When I got into the appointment, I mentioned that I was slightly worried that there had been no Braxton Hicks, and the nurse assured me that I probably had but just didn’t realize it, and hooked me up to monitors. The whole time we were talking, I was holding in an incredible amount of gas, and trying to be discreet. She walked out and closed the door, and I finally let it go.

My husbands eyes were watering, and the thunder actually knocked things off the shelves. The first was followed by several more rather powerful explosions. At this point I was surprised the paint wasn’t peeling off the walls, and I looked over at the contraction machine and realized that it was faithfully recording every rumble. I was dying, knowing that the nurse was going to come in any second and have her eyebrows sizzled off by the noxious fumes. My husband was trying very hard to appear supportive and not laugh, but failing miserably.

The nurse came back in, and apparently completely oblivious to the smell, triumphantly held up the contraction tape to declare, “See?! You are having contractions! Powerful ones, too. Those are what we are looking for!”

My husband almost fell out of his seat, howling and wiping his eyes, while I was left to explain that no, that was my lunch, and those were literally the most monstrous farts I had ever been involved with.

To this day, I cannot figure out how she was able to walk into that green haze, and not realize what was actually going on.

Paper Recycling Has Become A Toxic Task

, , , , , , , , | Working | October 18, 2018

I used to work in the credit department for a regional department store. My job was attached to the collections department, but I wasn’t a collector. We had a dress code, which was ignored by the collectors. Since we weren’t the only business in the building, we had a code of conduct to prevent swearing in the elevator or the lobby. That was also ignored, also without consequence.

The high point came with the paper-recycling bin. Each group had a large rolling bin to put paper in for recycling, which was picked up weekly by an outside company. One group of collectors used theirs for garbage, including fruit remnants and packaging, and the recyclers refused to touch it. Since it wasn’t in the trash bins located at each desk, the janitorial staff wouldn’t touch it, either.

It sat there and rotted until complaints got to the VP. I was told to take it down three floors on the elevator, wheel it across the street and over a block to the store, dump it in the compact, and bring it back. I tried making the point that this wasn’t my job, that I’d had no part in creating the problem, and that it should be fixed by the people that did create it, but that didn’t fly.

I did as instructed, and parked the stinking bin — rancid juices streaking the sides, flies orbiting around it — in front of that supervisor’s desk, and told her she could clean it.

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