My brother and I had the same biology teacher at different times. [Biology Teacher] was… a character. He was a short, balding, seventy-ish-year-old biology teacher and football coach who would only show PowerPoints (which caused me to have a seizure in class). He would play classic rock and force any students he saw or heard singing along to sing the full song in front of the class (because he refused to believe the students would know Queen or Elvis). He would scream “BOO!” every time he turned on or off the lights (which sent a few of the more traumatized kids into hysterics a few times). He would tell stories about his time “at war” (he wasn’t military), he would yell when he talked (his hearing was fine, he just liked being loud), he encouraged cheating (if you were discreet and didn’t bother others, even if he saw you, you got a good grade), hated technology (yet would only use PowerPoint, which is a bit odd), stuff like that. 

Well, my aunt is a science teacher at the same high school. My aunt, my brother, my brother’s girlfriend, and I were reminiscing about high school. [Brother’s Girlfriend] asked [Aunt] what kind of student [Brother] was. [Aunt] told her that she never had [Brother] as a student. [Brother] told them what teachers he had.

Brother: “[My Name] and I both had [Biology Teacher], though.”

[Aunt] let out a loud groan, and we all looked at her.

Aunt: *With her head down, still groaning* “We don’t talk about him.”

Brother’s Girlfriend: “Why not? Was he a bad teacher?”

[Aunt], [Brother], and I spent the next few minutes explaining what kind of person, teacher, and coach [Biology Teacher] was.

Aunt: “He is, thankfully, no longer employed there.”

Both [Brother] and I had already graduated and didn’t know this.

Me: “Quit or fired?”

Aunt: “Fired.” *Starts to rant* “You know, while cleaning out his classroom, we found graded papers, worksheets, and old homework. From the 1970s. And he really hates technology, to the point that during [global health crisis], he just passed everyone with a 95% because he didn’t feel like doing online work or inputting grades into the computer properly. He would regularly interrupt my classes with his yelling; my department was a disaster. After he left, his replacement was amazing and completely changed the dynamic of the science department. He even tried to get his job back.”

So, all in all? He was probably senile, a terrible teacher to have, and needed to have retired decades ago. Students loved him, while they had him, because his class was easy. Students hated him afterward because they learned absolutely nothing. Teachers hated him regardless because he didn’t teach worth a f*** and gave teachers a bad name.

CONTENT WARNING: Blood

Twice a year, I donate blood with a special procedure called double red blood cell (DRBC) donating. Instead of just hooking my arm vein to a collection bag and letting pressure fill it, a machine withdraws a pint, centrifuges the red cells out, and then pumps the plasma portion back in. It does this twice per donation session, hence the “double” in the procedure. This is favored for blood donors of type O-negative.

I go in for my most recent donation. The phlebologist has a little trouble getting the needle into a vein on my right arm, so she has a supervisor come over and get the needle in correctly. She starts the DRBC machine, directing me to grip a rubber ball every few seconds to keep the blood flowing well.

After about four minutes, the machine starts making a gentle alarm beep. Since the procedure usually takes a half-hour, this is unusual. The phlebologist and her supervisor come over and try to clear the error that the machine has. He tries adjusting the needle in my arm, but that doesn’t stop the error beeps.

They then open the cabinet of the machine and recoil. Apparently, one of the centrifuge tubes has a leak, and for the last few minutes, my blood has just been spraying all over the interior of their machine. They quickly shut down the machine, apologizing that they have to stop the donation and that they can’t restart me elsewhere, because they’re not sure how much has been taken from me.

As I’m prepping to leave, other staff come over and look in the machine and recoil. I guess they’re squeamish if the blood isn’t in the nice clean collection bags.

I am working ticketing for an event on New Year’s Eve. Crowds are gathering to see the fireworks display at midnight, and to keep them occupied there is an outdoor fairground. A mother with her three young children are presenting their tickets around 7 PM.

Customer: “The fireworks aren’t until midnight! That’s like, six hours from now!”

Me: *Ignoring the incorrect math.* “Yes, ma’am. It’s the New Year’s fireworks.”

Customer: “But what about my kids? They’ll be exhausted and crabby by then!”

Me: “There are plenty of rest spots where you can—”

Customer: “Can’t you do the fireworks earlier? My kids are usually in bed by ten.”

Me: “You want us to set off the New Year’s fireworks before midnight?”

Customer: “No! Before ten! Listen!”

Me: “No, ma’am. The fireworks have been advertized for months for midnight. It’s a New Year’s celebration that is designed to take place at midnight.”

Customer: “Well that’s very inconsiderate for parents with young children! I’m going to complain to your manager!”

Me: “So, just to get this clear, you want to complain that the fireworks designed to bring in the new year, are happening when we bring in the new year?”

Customer: “Well when you put it that way you make it sound ridiculous!”

In the pre-health-crisis days, my office used to decorate inside for Christmas. Post-crisis, we mostly work from home with a rotation of people coming in to deal with mail and training new people.

My contribution to making the place colorful was to do door decorations for the supervisors. Basically, I would get construction paper and then cut and assemble it into Christmasy scenes. I was especially proud of the year I made a Snoopy, ready to fly off and fight the Red Baron. I also have a personal decoration I made that I stick up on the wall by my desk every year.

This year, my office is encouraging us to come in for a Christmas party, and my immediate supervisor is pretty excited. She notices I have put up my decorations.

Supervisor: “Oh! I remember when you would do those! You should do one for our boss! We can sneak it onto his door before the party.”

Me: “Well, I can make one and get it on his door before the party, since I’m usually here before him, but I’m not sure how effective sneaking will be.”

Supervisor: “It will be a surprise! We’ll tell him we don’t know where it came from!”

I look pointedly at my decoration and at my desk… which is three feet from his door.

Me: “You really think he won’t figure it out?”

Supervisor: *Pauses* “I probably shouldn’t encourage you to lie, huh?”

Customer: “You’re built like my wife!”

Me: “Okay?”

Customer: “What’s your bra size!”

Me: “Sir, we don’t sell bras at this store.”

Customer: “So?”