Unfiltered Story #90382

, , , | Unfiltered | June 28, 2017

(I work at an after school program with kids, and we work with kids from Kinder-5th grade. I have 3rd grade, and let’s just say that I have a few kids that are something else. The kids and I are outside for recess and this happens.)

Kid #1: “Mr. [My Name], [Kid #2’s name] is eating bugs over by the playground.”

Me: *looking confused by it* “What?!” *I call the bug eating child over* “[Kid #2’s Name], get over here!”

(Kid #2 runs to me after hearing their name called.)

Me: “Is it true that you are over there eating bugs?”

Kid #2: “I’m not trying to impress you!”

(I have no words for this y’all.)

Needs An Express Delivery Of Compassion (non-dialogue)

, , , , , | Right | June 25, 2017

I was injured on my postal job, and have a broken foot. I’m on crutches, an important point. Since I can’t do my regular job, the postmaster puts me on the customer service window where people pick up their hold mail and things like that.

It’s late, things are slow, like they usually are at that time, and a guy hands me two slips to pick up certified mail. Our station covers six ZIP codes, so we have a LOT of mail. And I mean a LOT.

I take the slips and go look for them. He has one letter that came in the previous day, and another that came in a couple of days before that. We have one area where the previous day’s mail (usually) goes, and then another place where we keep the older mail. They’re in a rough order, by a number in the street address. I find the first one quickly. The other, I have to go through over 400 letters to find, and then I have to go through them again, because his letter has a forwarded mail sticker that got stuck to the letter ahead of it while leaving the old address exposed. I finally see the sticker and realized what had happened.

I go to the window, and the guy sneers, “You took four minutes to get my mail. That’s unacceptable. I want to talk to your postmaster.”

I don’t get mad. I don’t even drop my jaw at a guy getting upset about someone ON CRUTCHES being a little slow. I smile. Because I STILL HAVE HIS MAIL IN MY HAND. I tell him I’ll be glad to get the postmaster, shut the dutch door, and hobble away. Our station is pretty big, as a station with six zip codes would be. It takes me a while to find the postmaster.

I find him on the dock, and he says, almost in one breath, you look tired, what’s up, are you okay, you shouldn’t have come back to work the day after an injury like that, and I know you’re dying for a cigarette (this was back when I smoked), so have one and tell me what’s up.

So I tell him while I smoke the cigarette. Then we go back.

The postmaster opens the dutch door while I handle scanning the mail and getting the signature, off to the side, not saying anything. The guy is FUMING by this point. The postmaster lets him have it for timing someone who had broken her foot only the day before — I could have taken time off, but I am there, serving petty jerks like him, while I am in pain.

And then the guy makes the fatal mistake. He tells the postmaster that he has a bad attitude for a taxpayer paying his salary.

Hint to all of you Americans out there: NEVER — EVER — throw the scum taxpayer argument in a postal worker’s face. Don’t even hint at it, because your tax dollars DO NOT PAY for one fricking cent of a postal worker’s salary. That stamp or postage on the front pays our salaries. NOTHING ELSE. Bring it up, and you deserve to get your head torn off.

When that jerk resorted to the taxpayer argument, that’s when the postmaster went after the guy with both guns, informing him that he was all wrong, why, and finally that he had his mail. He could leave now.

The guy couldn’t believe the postmaster wasn’t firing me on the spot. “You’re not doing anything about how slow she is?”

“Why would I? I’m proud of her for needing so little time to find your mail, when she has a broken foot.” Then my boss turned to me with a grin, and said, “He’s all yours.”

This is his code: You can get your dig in; just don’t swear at him. I am kinda notorious for not taking crap off customers, and he wants to see what I’ll say. That’s probably why he stands in a place where the customers can’t see him. The window clerks take a few seconds from doing their end of day wrapping up to listen in, too.

I finally hand the guy his mail, smile, and say, “Isn’t it great that we live in America where we’re civilized and expect all workers to be treated with dignity and respect? Have a nice day!”

And I shut the door.

The Competition Is Soft

, , , , | Related | June 24, 2017

(I’m playing a competitive multi-player online game on my laptop. My nephew, eight to nine years old, shows up and decides to watch me. He’s at the age where he’s earnestly trying to play well, but doesn’t.)

Nephew: “Can I play?”

Me: “No. This game is too hard for you.” *as in too difficult for someone his age*

Nephew: “Oh. Do you have a soft game?”

Me: “…”

The Ring-Bearer Of Bad News

, , | Romantic | June 20, 2017

(My husband and I have been married for about six months and he is great at losing things, including his wedding ring a few times. Yesterday evening he was smoking chicken and ribs and decided to take his ring off and set it by the sink. Worried that it would be lost down the drain, I moved it to the pocket of my pajamas.  At one point I was seated on the couch and he decided to tickle me. After wrestling around I got up and walked away, only to put my hand in my pocket and find it empty.)

Me: “Honey? Um… I might have sort of lost something.”

Husband: “What did you lose?”

Me: “I may possibly have lost your wedding ring.”

Husband: “No you didn’t. I put it by the sink while I was cooking.”

Me: “Right… And I picked it up and put it in my pocket so that it wouldn’t get pushed down the drain.”

Husband: “It wouldn’t get pushed down the drain anyway. It was by the sink, not in it.”

Me: “On the edge. And with our luck, yes, it would have fallen down and I didn’t want you to lose it again.”

Husband: “So you put it in your pocket, and then lost it?”

Me: “That sounds accurate.”

(Since he had been tickling me, we immediately began pulling the cushions off of the couch. I was beginning to panic and became frustrated with myself when we couldn’t locate it. We went through every single cushion, with my husband holding it up and reaching his hand back while I shined a flashlight and checked underneath. Finally, he sat back laughing as I was on the verge of tears.)

Husband: “Honey… Stop. It’s okay.”

Me: “No! It’s not! I lost your ring.”

Husband: “No, you didn’t.”

Me: “It’s missing, and I last had it, so yes, I did.”

Husband: “No, love. Look.”

(He then held his hand up, with a huge grin on his face. He was wearing his wedding ring. Apparently he had found it halfway through our search, slipped it on while I was checking under the couch, and then had me shine the light where he was feeling around in hopes that I would see he was wearing it. I was completely oblivious because I was so focused on checking the couch!)

Only Pill They Need Is A Chill Pill

, , , , , | Right | June 16, 2017

(My store usually opens at 10 every morning, except for Sunday on which we open at 1. In order to open the store I have to be there by 12, which sometimes leads to people trying to open the door before realizing we’re closed. Today I show up early and happen to watch someone make their way to the door and try to open it, before heading back to his car. Once his car is running I get out and make my way to the door to open it, but notice the man has gotten out of the car and is following me. Not wanting him to try to follow me inside I turn and smile.)

Me: *smiling brightly* “Hi.”

Customer: “Hi, are you opening?

Me: “Not for another hour, sir.”

Customer: “Oh. Well, can I just run in and grab something real quick?”

Me: “Um… sorry, but we can’t let anyone in the store before we’re open.”

Customer: “But you’re right here! I just need some pills.”

(This is pretty common. As an ‘adult novelty’ store, we sell ‘Herbal Supplements.’)

Me: *still smiling* “Like I said, I can’t let anyone in the store, but if you come back in an hour—”

Customer: *interrupting and starting to yell* “BUT YOU’RE RIGHT F***ING HERE! I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU CAN’T LET ME GET MY F***ING PILLS!”

Me: *taken back by the sudden flip* “W-well, we’re not—”

Customer: *interrupting again* “LISTEN HERE, YOU LITTLE B****, JUST OPEN THE F***ING DOOR!”

(Just as the customer starts walking towards me, the cop car that tends to patrol the area since we’ve had a few break-ins in the shopping center pulls up.)

Cop: “Is there a problem here?”

Customer: *calming down just a bit* “Yeah, this person’s not letting me in her store!”

Cop: *turning to me* “Are you guys even open yet?”

Me: “No! We don’t open for another hour!”

Customer: “But you’re here, and I just want my pills!”

Me: *fed up, and more confident thanks to the cop* “Well, the credit card machine’s not booted up, I’m not logged into the system, there’s no cash in the till, and it’ll take an hour to even get ready to even take your payment!”

Customer: “But… but… UGH, FINE! But I’m calling your corporate to complain!” *storms off as the cop and I share a look*

(I later learned he did actually complain, but were met with not only laughter, but a ban from our stores for aggressive actions towards a sales rep!)

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