At Least You’re Alive To Watch The Real Life

, , , , , , | Friendly | December 6, 2017

(I’m outside at my college on the morning of September 12, 2001, before class. We are in the United States.)

Girl: *to a friend* “Look, like, I get, like, it’s a big deal, or whatever, but I don’t know why even MTV has to talk about it. Why do I have to miss TRL because of some stupid planes?”

Not Painting The Prettiest Picture

, , , , , | Right | October 30, 2017

(I am the opening cashier in the store one morning. It has been kind of quiet and I am in a good mood. A customer approaches my register with three cans of paint and visible frustration. We go through the usual schtick and he says:)

Customer: “I just want you to know I’m going to [Paint Store] after this.”

Me: “Oh? Was there something you couldn’t find?”

Customer: “I wanted ten cans of this paint and you only had nine. So, I wanted to tell you that you’ve missed out and I’m taking my business elsewhere.”

(A head cashier has been listening. She gives him an apology as I finish the transaction. The customer leaves. Once he’s gone:)

Me: “I came in here looking for ten cans of paint and you had nine. So, I’ll take three, and then buy the other seven at a more expensive place. It doesn’t make sense, but I’m frustrated and therefore someone has to suffer. Joke’s on me, though, cause it’ll be me who suffers.”

(The head cashier and I shared a quick laugh. I get being upset that you couldn’t get everything you wanted, but why screw yourself over like that?)

A Sign Of A Good Friend

, , , , , , | Learning | October 6, 2017

(I have injured my right wrist. It’s wrapped, and my arm is in a sling to avoid any further strain. Due to previous sports injuries, I have already taught myself to write with my left hand, but it’s much slower than with my right. Today, we not only have a written test in my ASL class, but a substitute administering it. I am struggling to complete the test in time.)

Classmate: *finishes and goes to turn in his test, whispers* “Mrs. [Substitute Teacher]?”

Substitute Teacher: “Yes?”

Classmate: “[My Name]—” *points at me* “—hurt her arm and can’t write well. Could we step out in the hall, so I can help her write?”

Substitute Teacher: “Absolutely not! You’re just going to cheat.”

Classmate: “Even if I wanted to, she doesn’t need my help.” *taps the gradebook on the teacher’s desk* “Check for yourself. She has the highest grade in the class.”

Substitute Teacher: *looks up to see the whole class nodding, while I blush a million shades of red* “Go sit down.”

(A few minutes pass, during which time she actually does open the gradebook. She calls us both up.)

Substitute Teacher: “Fine. You two can go out in the hall. But I WILL be checking on you, and I will leave a note for your teacher. She could fail you if she thinks this is cheating.”

Me: *knowing the teacher and her views, I’m not worried* “Thank you.”

Classmate: *takes my test paper and leads the way outside* “Question 12?”

Me: “Thanks, [Classmate]. I really appreciate this.”

Classmate: “No problem. When I was on crutches, you were always the first to help. And besides, now I don’t have to wait to find out what I got wrong. Now, number 12?”

(Thanks to him, I finished the test in plenty of time, and aced it. He had only missed one, about the history of Gallaudet University, but the teacher gave him extra credit for helping me, so it evened out.)

Unfiltered Story #96643

, , | Unfiltered | October 4, 2017

It was very close to 11 p.m. (closing time) and business at the golden arches had slowed considerably. No one in the dining room. Most things were cleaned that weren’t needed. Then a single car came through the drive through. My manager had the headset and greeted the customer. We could hear the man over the intercom in the grill area and he very aggressively ordered his food.

I was cleaning the front line when I saw the man drive up to the window–he was middle-aged and looked dangerously angry. She greeted him normally. I heard him say something to her as she took his money; she got unusually quiet and rigid, gave him his change, then quickly got to putting his order together with a sense of urgency. While she was doing that I was cleaning the front counter and he was staring death right through me the whole time he waited; I was honestly fearful to go anywhere near him. She handed the bag to him but didn’t drive away immediately–he said something else I couldn’t hear and then sped off. She dashed to the office bawling her eyes out. I and my coworkers went back to see what the problem was. She was trying to pull herself together but told us through her tears: “He called me a bitch when I gave him his change, and when I gave him his food he said, ‘If there better not be anything wrong with my fucking food, you fucking cunt.'”

She said she’d never seen him before, either. We locked the doors a few minutes early and to my knowledge no one saw him again. All I can remember about him is that cold, beady stare. It’s one of the few times in my life that I can say that someone struck me as not a jerk, not mean, not rude, but *evil*.

Condimentally Challenged

, , , , , | Right | September 19, 2017

(A young male customer in baggy clothes shuffles into the drugstore where I work and walks up to me.)

Customer: “Uh, yeah, uh… do you guys have any condiments?”

(I lead him to the condiment aisle and gesture to the ketchup and mustard.)

Customer: “Uh, no, uh… that’s not what I wanted… you got any, you know, rubber gloves?”

(By this point, I have a fairly good idea of what he’s looking for, but I diligently lead him to the cleaning supply aisle and point out the rubber gloves with a smile.)

Customer: “Uh, nah, I’m looking for… you know…”

Me: “Sir, do you mean CONDOMS?”

Customer: “YEAH!”

(I hope he used them properly; he wasn’t ready to reproduce.)

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