Saving A Damsel From Distress

, , , , , , | Right | January 5, 2020

(I have been traveling around Europe with only a small piece of luggage with me. I’m not allowed to bring anything else as my ticket is a simple one, but in Toledo, I have to buy a sword because of who am I as a person. Going to Italy, I pay a fine of €50 to bring Damsel, my sword, with me. This happens when I’m in Italy’s airport again, flying to Madrid in a connection flight so I can go back to my country, Argentina. After giving my passport and ticket, the check-in lady, who looks really grumpy, tells me to give her my luggage and the box with Damsel to weigh them.)

Me: “Oh, no, this one comes with me inside the cabin. The box with the sword goes with the cargo.”

Lady: *annoyed* “The plane is full, so everything has to go with the cargo.”

Me: “I understand. No problem, then. I still have to pay the fine for the box.”

(We both make a pause and I realize it.)

Me: “People have been giving you h*** for this, haven’t they?”

Lady: “Yes! They complain and complain!”

Me: *laughs* “Don’t worry; I understand that this is not something you control. Do whatever you have to do; I’m not going to get mad.”

Lady: “Thank you! You know what? Your ticket from Madrid to Buenos Aires does allow the extra cargo; I’m sending both your things directly to Argentina, so you don’t have to pay the fine.”

Me: “Are you serious? Did you just save me €50?”

Lady: “Yes, have a nice flight!”

(Lady, thank you a lot for your work. Damsel and I are very grateful that you saved this poor writer so much money.)

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Making Italy Great Again  

, , , , | Right | December 2, 2019

Hostess: *in Italian* “Hello, sir, welcome to [Restaurant]!”

Customer: *in English* “Godd*** it, speak English, for God’s sake! Stop this barbaric dead language!”

Hostess: *switching to English* “I’m sorry, sir, but this is Rome, and most people here speak Italian.”

Customer: “Why? They should speak the good, proper language of English, not this freak stuff.”

Hostess: “But, sir, we are in Italy. Most everyone here speaks the language of our country.”

Customer: “Well, they shouldn’t. They’re just dumb to not learn our language as well as their own.”

Hostess: “Well, sir, how many languages do you know?”

Customer: “Just English. Good old English, like we all should.”

Hostess: “Well, I’m sorry, sir, but we cannot serve bigoted a**holes. Goodbye.”

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Unfiltered Story #147726

, , | Unfiltered | April 23, 2019

Hostess: (In Italian) Hello sir, welcome to [Name of Restaurant]!
Customer: (In English) God d*****, speak English for god’s sake! Stop this barbaric dead language!
Hostess: (switching to English) I’m sorry sir, but this is Rome, and most people here speak Italian.
Customer: Why? They should speak the good, proper language of English, not this freak stuff.
Hostess: But sir, we are in Italy. Most everyone here speaks the language of our country.
Customer: Well they shouldn’t. They’re just dumb to not learn our language as well as their own.
Hostess: Well sir, how many languages do you know?
Customer: Just English. Good old English, like we all should.
Hostess: Well I’m sorry sir, but we cannot serve bigoted a**holes. Goodbye

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You Can Hear The Bells Of Bow From Saint Peter’s

, , , , , , | Friendly | April 10, 2019

(My wife and I are on our honeymoon and have just finished a tour of the Vatican. We are making our way through people trying to join the entry queue. I try to speak — bad — Italian, complete with accent, and weave through the crowds, wife in tow. I am over six feet tall and from London, and I have my arm out to part the crowd.)

Me: “Scusi… Scusi… Prego… Scusi.”

(I spot some British tourists up ahead trying to join the back of the line by climbing over the barrier, rather unsuccessfully. I keep an eye out, prepared for the inevitable.)

Me: “Scusi… Prego…”

(I drop into a thick London accent with no time to deal with idiots.)

Me: “COMING THROUGH, MATE!”

(The family parted faster than the Red Sea as we came through, my wife laughing her head off!)

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Making A Leap Of Understanding

, , , , , , | Learning | March 13, 2019

(Two classmates and I are chatting and waiting for class to finish. The topic of leap years comes up.)

Classmate #1: “I have a friend who was born on leap day. He’s only had like three birthdays.”  

Me: “I heard about a family that had three kids born on consecutive leap days.”

Classmate #2: “Twelve years apart? That’s quite a gap.”

Me: “No, it’s eight years apart, which is not that weird.”

Classmate #1: “A leap year is every four years. Three kids, that’s twelve years. You need to check your math.”

Classmate #2: “Yeah, that’s right.”

Me: “No… Okay. You have a kid in 2000. Four years later, you have another kid. Four years later, you have a third kid, and it’s been eight years.”

(It dawns on them that I am correct.)

Classmate #2: “This never happened.”

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