The country goes into lockdown and all schools are closed. My mom, being my mom, decides that I have better things to do than lounge around at home twenty-four-seven and forces me to work part-time as a receptionist in a clinic run by my family.

As a fourteen-year-old, I seem to be a trouble magnet in the clinic. Every bully seems to think that it’ll be easy to browbeat me into pushing them to the front of the swab test queue.

Patient: “Hey! What’s taking so long? Can’t you hurry up?”

Me: “We’re working as fast as we can. Please be patient.”

Patient: “Work faster! I’m already late for my next appointment.”

Me: “Of course.”

He walks off and comes back within a minute.

Patient: “You’re all taking too long! I’m in a rush. I want to go next!”

Me: “I can’t do that. Everyone has to wait their turn. Doctor’s orders.”

Patient: “That’s fine, then. Because I’m his brother, and he’ll understand that I’m more important.”

Me: *Blinks in surprise* “No, you’re not.”

Patient: *Snarls* “Yes. I. Am.”

Me: “No, you’re not. Because Doctor [Surname #1] is my brother. And you’re definitely not our brother.”

Patient: “Bulls***! You’re lying!”

Me: “It doesn’t matter if I am. I’m the receptionist. I’m the one with the power here.”

Patient: “Who the h*** is Doctor [Surname #1], anyway? I’m Doctor [Surname #2]’s brother.”

That doctor is my brother’s predecessor. He retired a year or so back, so some patients aren’t too familiar with my brother.

Me: “Uh, Doctor [Surname #2] is my uncle, so I know that you’re not his brother.”

Patient: “Yes, I am! I’m the brother of the first doctor here!”

Me: “Impossible. The first doctor here is my grandfather. He founded the clinic and retired forty years ago. Also, all his brothers died in World War Two. So you’re either a zombie or an imposter. Which means we have a problem.”

Patient: “Why the f*** are you related to every doctor here?”

Me: “Read the sign right behind me.”

Patient: “Uh, [Surname #2] Family Clinic.”

Me: “Yes, the [Surname #2] Family Clinic. This place is literally my family business. Everyone that has worked here is a relative of mine.”

Patient: “In that case, I’m the landlord! And I demand to go in!”

Me: *Rolls eyes* “You really need to come up with better lies. My uncle is the landlord here. And he charges no rent.”

Patient: “Well, I’m a paying customer, so you’d better do it for the sake of your pay!”

Me: “I don’t even get paid! My mom forced me to work here for free!”

Patient: “Oh, so that’s why you’re so useless at your job.”

He stomped off to try to bully the other receptionist, my aunt, who’s even meaner than I am. Needless to say, that failed. She didn’t even waste time talking to him; she just said that if he tried to coerce her, she’d throw him to the back of the queue, no questions asked. That got him to shut up and sit down.

Later that night, when we went home, my brother mentioned to me that that guy complained that I was a liar and lazy and that I should be fired. I agreed wholeheartedly. My brother ought to fire me on the spot.

Alas, our mother banned him from doing that, so I was forced to keep working for the clinic.

This is a story I heard from my senior about his boot camp sectionmate. One guy, having heard all sorts of horror stories about Potong Jalan, was desperate to avoid it. He somehow managed to get himself FIVE girlfriends, with the idea that, and I quote:

Sectionmate: “Even if one or two break up with me, I’ll still have three. No way after service I won’t have a girlfriend.”

I know, right? What a scumbag.

His plan flopped from the get-go, because all five girlfriends insisted on sending him off on his enlistment date, and when they all turned up, they realized he was five-timing them.

After the shouting match, [Sectionmate] went to his knees and begged.

Sectionmate: *Tearfully* “Please let me have all five of you.”

His harem wasn’t amused. Cue mass dumping.

Apparently, [Sectionmate] cried himself to sleep for his first week of boot camp. His platoon was all too busy laughing their guts out to console him. Even the officers were amused.

Related:
Time To Bite The Bullet, Part 3
Time To Bite The Bullet, Part 2
Time To Bite The Bullet

I’m the hiring manager for a new role in my company. As part of the hiring process, I give promising applicants a call to get more information. I reach out to a young fresh graduate by email and manage to set up a time for a call. At the agreed time, I call her up.

Me: “Hi! This is [My Name], calling from [Company].”

Applicant: “Oh… hi?”

Me: *Noticing the confusion* “We agreed on this time to discuss the role you applied for?”

Applicant: “Oh… Sorry, I can’t speak right now; I’m going to take a shower. Can you call back in half an hour?”

Me: *Annoyed* “I’m afraid I can’t. I’m sorry, but we did agree on this time, right? I got your confirmation by email.”

Applicant: “I’m sorry, who is this again?”

Me: “I’m [My Name], I’m calling from [Company] about the marketing role you applied for.”

Applicant: “Oh, right! Hi! Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m going to take a shower, so I can’t speak now. Can you call back tomorrow?”

Me: *Trying not to lose my temper* “I’m afraid I can’t.”

Applicant: “Oh, but I’ve already taken off all my clothes!”

Needless to say, she’s not getting the job.

There’s an eclipse today and my entire class wants to see it. My maths teacher, however, is unwilling to let us out of class. Eventually, we stop begging permission and just rush out of class and start peering at the rapidly darkening sky.

We’re not the only ones; pretty much the entire school has crowded into the hallways and parade square to look at the sky.

Math Teacher: “All of you, back into class! What would [Principal] say if he saw you all?!”

My classmate then points down, into the parade square, where the principal is setting up the largest camera I’ve ever seen and pointing it into the sky, cheerfully and excitedly talking with some students.

Our math teacher lets out a scandalised sound of disbelief.

Math Teacher: “Disgraceful! The education system is going to the dogs!”

She then stomped off, leaving us to watch the eclipse in peace. It was amazing, the first anyone in school had ever seen. 

The principal’s photos later wound up as part of the school song music video.

One of the most annoying things in the army is the inspections. You have to shine your boots, cut your hair, iron your clothes, wash your clothes — you do NOT want to know how many soldiers don’t wash their uniforms — mop the floors, sweep the floors, brush your teeth — again, you do NOT want to know — clip your fingernails…

Long story short, there’s a whole laundry list (literally) of things to do, and because we’re guys, we never do anything until the last twenty-four hours or so before inspection.

My platoon made it out okay. But then, after we were done, our commanding officer came in.

Commanding Officer: “I have good news for everyone. Our order for new dividers finally came in. I need Section 11 to go outside and bring it in. Section 9 will remove the old dividers. Section 13 will assemble the new ones.”

You know that old joke where the military always goes for the cheapest bidder? It’s true. Our computers are secondhand 2002 models. Our chairs are falling apart, and instead of getting replacements, we’re forced to cannibalise broken chairs for parts to repair the dwindling number of less broken chairs and dig up cheap plastic ones from storage. And instead of actual cubicles, we have styrofoam dividers between our desks, held over the gap between them by ice cream sticks stuck through them. We’re even so cheap that once we ran out of ice cream sticks, we used old pens instead.

Finally, after an eternity of putting up with disintegrating styrofoam, we have new dividers.

The new dividers that we got are plexiglass, which means that they have an adhesive paper covering stuck onto them for protection. Which means…

Commanding Officer: “Section 13, what’s the holdup with the dividers?”

Me: “Ma’am, none of us have fingernails right now. Did you really have to schedule the inspection today?”

Commanding Officer: “Uh, oops. Right, in hindsight that was not a good idea.”

Me: *Sarcastically* “You think?”

Commanding Officer: “Sorry.” *Sighs* “Pass me that. I’ll peel the paper off.”

We eventually got a system working. The people with fingernails, pretty much only our superior officers, would peel off a corner before passing it to one of us, where we would peel off the rest.

Commanding Officer: “Good work, everyone. Again, I apologise for the inspection this morning. As was pointed out to me, it was a very foolish timing. As an apology, I will give you all one hour to smash up the styrofoam boards.”

Platoonmate #1: “Really? We’re not recycling them or something?”

Platoonmate #2: “Who would want them? They’re all falling apart.”

Officer: “And a lot of them have classified information written on them, so we will be destroying them anyway.”

Commanding Officer: “So go destroy them, boys!”

Everyone shrugs and starts smashing stuff. Section 9 carved up the most intact boards into weapons and tried to murder each other. Section 11 balled up the adhesive paper into a ball and used the boards for target practise. Section 13 embraced our inner Kung-Fu and made a game of smashing them apart with the most absurd martial arts moves. Even the officers joined in on the fun and acted as “judges” for our impromptu events.

Commanding Officer: “Did everyone have fun?”

Us: “Yes, ma’am.”

Commanding Officer: “Was that sufficient apology?”

Us: “Yes, ma’am.”

Commanding Officer: “Good.” *Pauses* “Because you now all have to clean up the mess.”

She then walked off with the rest of the officers, leaving us behind, smirking as we all protested and complained about betrayal.