(I’m on a bus trip around parts of South Australia’s wine region with 22 other young adults from my church from around Australia, only six of whom I know from Western Australia. Others are from Sydney, Melbourne, Queensland, and South Australia. It’s our first night, and we jump on our tour bus to go to dinner. I sit next to a young woman from Melbourne and we start chatting.)

New Friend: “Hey, I’m [New Friend]. I’m from Melbourne; where are you from?”

Me: “I’m [My Name]. I’m from Perth. I love Melbourne, especially the Dandenong Ranges where my Aunty [Aunt] lives. My Uncle [Uncle] lives somewhere there, too.”

(She gives me a quizzical look.)

New Friend: “What’s your uncle’s last name?”

Me: “[Last Name], why?”

(She starts laughing.)

New Friend: “Hello, cousin.”

Me: “Wait, what? Are you serious?”

New Friend: “Yep, your uncle’s wife, [Aunt], is my aunt.”

Me: “Holy crap, that’s so cool!”

(We all had a great time on the trip, and thanks to Facebook, my cousin and I are able to keep in touch. Gotta love random family encounters.)

My uncle was an accountant with his own small office — just him and a secretary/PA. Sadly, he passed away very suddenly due to a heart attack. A few weeks later, the attorney handling the estate was notified that the PA was suing for “insufficient notice of termination.”

Apparently, my uncle should have known he was going to have a heart attack and die, several weeks in advance, so that he could tell her that she would no longer have a job!

(I’m sitting in a doctor’s office waiting room with my five-year-old son for a routine checkup. In Australia, legally, you do not have to have your parents’ consent for doctor visits once you turn 16, at which point you can apply for your own medicare card, as well. A young girl around 16 or 17 marches through the door and walks up to the receptionist, followed by an older woman who turns out to be her mother. Her mother is WAILING at the top of her lungs, begging her daughter to stop, asking how she could do this to her, etc., in amongst just screaming randomly. Every kid in the practice bolts to their parents and the adults are left to just watch it all unfold.)

Teenage Girl: “Hello. I’m [Teenage Girl] and I’m seventeen and here for my own appointment.”

(Her mother increases her screeching, now sitting firmly in harpy territory.)

Mum: “I AM HER MOTHER AND I DO NOT CONSENT TO THIS.”

(The receptionist, to her credit, simply checks the young girl in, and she goes to sit down and wait. Her mother, still crying and shrieking, follows her and sits between her and another mum with a toddler who looks horrified.)

Mum: *through hiccups and tears* “Make sure you raise him right, but even if you raise him right, he’ll let some big corporation turn him against youuuu!”

(The other mum gets called in for her appointment and makes a hasty getaway, leaving us to listen to the crazy banshee beg and plead and scream at her daughter not to do this. Honestly, at this point, I think the only thing that could cause this reaction would be an abortion, but ohhh, I was wrong. A very perplexed doctor calls the young girl’s name out, and she bolts into the room. Her mother tries to follow but is stopped by the doctor.)

Doctor: “Do you want your mother with you?”

Teenage Girl: “No.”

(This apparently kicks the crazy into overdrive. The mother starts yelling angrily now.)

Mum: “Well, after you get that poison injected into you, you are not coming home and shedding it all over your sisters! You can find somewhere else to live!”

(The mum made an exit and we all realised she was talking about VACCINES. When her daughter emerged from the room she apologised to all of us, and it looked like she’d been crying. A few people offered her tissues and told her she was a brave kid for standing her ground. She had a quiet talk with the receptionist, who called someone, and when I was leaving the receptionist said she’d called the girl’s father for her. Wherever you are, brave girl, I hope you had somewhere to live, and good on you for making the smart choice!)

(I work as a supervisor in a kiosk at a sporting complex. This happens during our rush when I am at the other end of the kiosk. I have had type 1 diabetes since I was two, for eighteen years now.)

Customer: “I would like to talk to the supervisor.”

(I turn and see [Coworker #1] waving me down.)

Me: “Sir, I am the supervisor here; what seems to be the problem?”

Customer: “Do you have any drinks that are sugar-free? I’m diabetic and I can’t have sugary drinks.”

Me: “We have Coke Zero, Diet Coke, and water, sir.”

Customer: “Nothing else?”

Me: “I’m afraid not, sir.”

Customer: “You should have other sugar-free drinks! This is discrimination against me; you’re discriminating against diabetics.”

Me: “Sir, I can assu—”

Customer: *cutting me off* “Do you know what it’s like to have diabetes?”

(He launches into a rant of rhetorical questions about having diabetes. It lasts a couple of minutes, drawing the attention of everyone in line. I haven’t been able to get a word in since he started, but I can’t serve the queue until he is finished. So, I wait for him to take a breath.)

Customer: “And you don’t know what it’s like to have diabetes. I’ve had it for five years; I deserve some respect for that, but no, there are no sugar-free drinks because you don’t know.”

Me: *with a slightly raised voice* “I’ve had it for eighteen years.”

(He freezes, and it’s like the entire queue holds its breath as I smile and continue.)

Me: “Now, is there anything I can help you with today, sir?”

(He shakes his head, looking meek.)

Me: “Very well. The register is right behind you, and I hope you enjoy the game.”

Related:
What A Diabeetus, Part 6
What A Diabeetus, Part 5
What A Diabeetus, Part 4

(I work in a clearance home improvement store. The bed linen we stock is a mix of current catalogue stock and dribs and drabs of discontinued linen at heavily reduced prices. The older stock tends to end up looking a little battered, because customers often rip open the packaging carelessly to look at the bed linen inside. On this occasion a woman approaches the counter with a quilt cover reduced to from $150 down to $20. The plastic packaging is quite shabby, and torn in a couple of places, but the bed linen inside is undamaged.)

Customer: “What’s wrong with this quilt cover?”

Me: “Nothing, ma’am, it’s just discontinued stock.”

Customer: “But why is it so cheap?”

Me: “This quilt cover isn’t being made anymore, so any stock we have left is the very last stock available ever in this design. In order to sell the last of it, we’ve marked it down. Lucky for you, hey?”

Customer: “The packaging is torn.”

Me: “Yeah, that happens sometimes. Nothing to worry about, though; let me just tape it up for you.”

(I go about taping up the otherwise useless plastic packaging so that it’s now completely sealed.)

Customer: “Can I get a discount?”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Customer: “Because the packaging is so torn. Can I get a discount?”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t discount an item that isn’t faulty.”

Customer: “But the packaging is torn.”

Me: “I understand, but you’re not buying the packaging. You’re buying the quilt cover, which is undamaged.”

Customer: “But the packaging is torn! Can’t you give me a discount?”

Me: “This quilt cover was $150 at full price. I really can’t discount it any further. But I tell you what: if you get it home and the cover is faulty, just bring it back in with your receipt and we can give you a full refund. You’re still getting a pretty good deal!”

Customer: *huffs* “Fine. But I don’t understand why you can’t give me a discount for the packaging.”