That Refund Just Glided Through

, , , , , , | Right | October 31, 2017

(I work at the customer service desk dealing in returns, exchanges, etc. Today, a customer comes up to my colleague with a bottle requiring a pump-action to get the contents out.)

Customer: “I bought this the other day, but it’s not working; can I swap it for one that does?

Colleague: “No problem; if you bring up what you want to exchange it for, I’ll put it through.”

(The customer goes to get a replacement and comes back to the desk.)

Customer: “The thing is, I don’t want to get it home and find out it doesn’t work, either. Can you test it?”

Colleague: “Of course.”

(By this point, the customers and colleagues at the adjoining kiosk desk are laughing. My colleague presses down on the top and some of the contents squeeze out into her hand. The customer is quite happy as the exchange is put through.)

Colleague: *rounding on colleagues who are now rolling on the floor* “What’s so funny?”

(She looked down at the defective bottle in her hand and saw that it was sexual lubricant — which she now had on her hand. Everyone was laughing, including her, as she ran to the bathroom to wash her hands. By the end of my shift, about an hour and a half later, everyone working heard the story. You’d have to have a set of brass ones to go up to a customer services desk to say, “The lube doesn’t work!”)

Stripped Of The Relevant Training

, , , , , | Working | October 30, 2017

(I am 17. I have left home and am broke, so I lie about my age to get a job in a nightclub. I am a month away from being 18, so I don’t feel too bad. There are no checks and screenings by a lot of places at this point in time. However, I am THE most naive young woman. I know nothing about how the world works in reality, and I find myself working in a nightclub that has seven different rooms and bars, all with different themes. I’ve never even been to a pub or bar socially before this night. I am assigned to [Bar #1], which is pretty normal, and most of the customers seem to be okay. I mess up quite a few drinks, but it is laughed off when I tell the customers it’s my first night. I am doing okay, I think, and even manage to navigate my way around the multi- and split-level corridors to get to the bathrooms and back. The place is a total warren. And then:)

Supervisor: *shouts over the music* “[My Name]! Go to [Bar #7]! They need a barmaid!”

Me: *shouts over the music* “Where’s [Bar #7]?”

Supervisor: *shouts over the music* “Downstairs! Ask someone on the way!”

(So off I trot, trying to find my way to [Bar #7], asking various customers and staff along the way. Whenever I ask for directions, however, I get comments like, “You don’t want to be going there, love,” or, “Why the h*** are they putting YOU there?” or, “Who the bloody h*** told YOU to go to [Bar #7]?” and so on. But nobody will tell me why I shouldn’t go there, so I get stubborn and carry on. When I finally find [Bar #7], 20 minutes later, I drag the door open, only to be blasted with deafening music – much louder than upstairs. I walk to the bar, and look at the shocked face of the barman there.)

Me: *angry now* “What on earth is the matter with everyone? Why shouldn’t I be here?”

(My new colleague just spluttered and pointed at the stage, going beetroot red in the face. I turned around just as a woman on stage was removing her last piece of clothing with a “TA-DAAA!” gesture. She posed there, stark naked, to rapturous applause from the 200 men watching her. The lights went down, she dashed off the stage, and all 200 men turned to face naive little me at the bar, who was standing there with her bottom jaw resting on the top of her prim little lace-up shoes. I was the only female in the room after a full-on strip show. Gulp. It actually didn’t turn out too badly. I think most of them saw me as a substitute daughter, while the rest were so embarrassed to be caught watching a stripper by a very shocked young woman that they left [Bar #7] in quite a hurry and bought drinks elsewhere.)

Underwear Underperforming

, , , , , , | Friendly | October 30, 2017

(While we’re saving up money to pay off debts and buy a home, my husband and I rent a house with a good friend of his, who I also work with. In retrospect, this wasn’t a great idea. The friend and I work similar day shifts, while my husband often works long or overnight shifts. We have very thin walls, so I hear everything every time the friend has “company” over. We recently had a discussion about this, which lead to him assuming that I never get any action, and his lady friends have since become more vocal. I have given up and begun keeping headphones nearby. I should also note that while we typically do our laundry separately, some recently became mixed when the friend was attempting to be helpful. The following occurs while we are taking a break at work with another coworker, after we’ve shared the house for a few months.)

Coworker: “So, what’s it like living together?”

Me: “Not bad.”

Friend: “Yeah, but I’m a little disappointed.”

Coworker: “Why?”

Friend: “Well, I thought you would wear better stuff.”

Me: “What are you talking about? My clothes are fine. Why does that matter?”

Friend: “Not your clothes, exactly. I just mean I was disappointed when I found out that you don’t wear anything lacy. It’s probably why you don’t get laid. If you wore sexier underwear, your husband would want you more.”

Me: “Excuse me? That’s really inappropriate.”

Friend: “I just know he isn’t giving you anything. You really should wear something nicer for him.”

(I started to tear into him about minding his own business, but fortunately my coworker stepped in and redirected the conversation to something else. A lengthy conversation with him is planned, since moving isn’t an option yet. The good news is that at least I know he isn’t going through my closet, or he would really know that underwear is not an issue!)

Got That Whey Wrong

, , , , , | Romantic | October 30, 2017

(I am living with my mom, who is renting space from another woman who lives with her son. There has been some fooling around between her son and me periodically, but we’re not a couple. I’ve just run my first marathon and am resting on the couch watching movies, and he’s been texting his friends to hang out. Both of our moms are gone for the night and I’ve just gotten off the phone with my mom, talking about my marathon. This entire conversation takes place while my roommate looks at his phone.)

Roommate: *still texting* “So, how’s your mom?”

Me: “She’s fine. We just talked about my marathon and how sore I currently am. She says I need some protein and they’ll be less painful.”

Roommate: “Yeah, you need some protein. It’ll help you recover faster.”

(He’s currently standing next to the couch and his crotch is right about the same level as my face.)

Roommate: “I’ve got some protein I can give you.”

Me: *confused look* “What?”

Roommate: “Yeah, it won’t take long, and I can make it right here.”

Me: “Uh… I don’t really feel like doing that right now. I’m just really tired and sore.”

Roommate: “Seriously, it won’t take long, and it’s not that much of an inconvenience for me.”

(He finally looks away from his phone and sees my utterly confused face and notices his stance and location.)


Me: *dies laughing as he makes me a shake*

Don’t Swallow It

, , , , | Working | October 25, 2017

(Some colleagues who like scuba diving are explaining it to the rest of us:)

Colleague #1: “You just have to remember that you can breathe underwater; don’t spit out your regulator no matter what, and then you are fine.”

Colleague #2: *non-diver* “What happens if you drop it?”

Colleague #1: “You have a spare clipped to your waist.”

Colleague #2: “So, when you put the spare back in your mouth do you just have to swallow the water?”

Colleague #3: “No, there’s a button that ejaculates the water.”

(The rest of us completely lose it.)

Colleague #3: “I think the word I was looking for was ‘evacuates.’”

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