I am working as a waitress.
Me: “Good evening. What can I get for you?”
Customer: “I am not sure; I am allergic to vegetables. Actually, I will take the medium pizza.”
Me: “Oh, I am sorry. The base is tomato puree and it is topped with a number of different veggies.”
Customer: “Oh, I am not allergic when they are on pizza.”
I am working as a waitress.
Me: “Good evening. What can I get for you?”
Customer: “Well, you tell me. I am allergic to sugar.”
The guy at the same table, presumably on a date, speaks up.
Other Customer: “Is that even possible? Like, wouldn’t you die without sugar?”
Customer: “Oh, I mean I’m on a diet. It is just what I tell people so I don’t they don’t add any to my meal. I think I will take the ice cream.”
I had to go to the kitchen to laugh. The guy left halfway through their dinner.
This took place about eight years ago. My younger brother and I join a group of guys for a game of indoor football — soccer — at our local sports centre every weekend. Everyone else is college age, seventeen or eighteen, while I am the eldest at twenty.
Things go by smoothly. One of the guys is a friend of ours, and there is a clear mix of ability so there is little in the way of unbalanced teams. Nonetheless, one of the guys is super competitive and continually body-checks others into the walls in order to tackle them. As the eldest in the group, I have de facto responsibility to ensure everyone’s health and safety, so I gently ask him at the end of the session to tone down his tackling, since he could seriously injure or be injured in doing so. As I feared, he simply brushes it off and says everything will be fine.
Cut to a few weeks later. My brother is unable to come with so it is just me this time. Everything goes fine until a harsh tackle from me on another guy causes me to roll my ankle, causing me to fall hard on my lower back. As play stops, the idiot I mentioned has the brilliant idea of grabbing me by the arms and ankles and carrying me away from the playing area!
While they carry on their game without a care in the world, I am lying there in agony. Between the now worsened ankle injury, they also jarred my lower back by unceremoniously dumping me on the floor. My friend stops playing and comes over to see if I’m okay. I immediately order him to get a member of staff, which he does. When the on-duty first aider — also the manager — arrives, the guys laugh and tell me to “stop acting like a p****,” to which my friend replies that this is serious.
An ambulance is called and my mother arrives after my friend used my phone to call her. About six hours later, I leave the local hospital on crutches with a severe high ankle sprain and strained lower lumbar muscles, and a metric crapload of various prescription painkillers. The following morning, my ankle has swelled to twice the size and looks the colour of a ripe blackberry. I take a photo for my university as proof — I commute to the uni and will be in no shape to get there for at least a week, maybe even two — and settle in to working out how to use my crutches effectively.
Six months later, I start training again to get my fitness back, and my brother and I go back to the football group. Naturally, they laugh that I took half a year off for “diving”…
…until I wordlessly walk up to the idiot in charge and show him the photo of my blackberry-coloured, inflated ankle. I stress my warning back to him from way before, and I swear I have never seen the colour fade so fast from someone seeing consequences of their actions.
Nowadays, my ankle is fully functional, if slightly more tender, while my lower back has developed into full-on sciatica. Still enjoy football, though!
The manager of our local community centre is moving on to pastures new after seven years of sterling service, so naturally, the centre has been advertising for a new manager. The criteria for the job are pretty standard: applicants must have experience of managing a community centre or similar, must have a proven track record of fundraising, etc.
There have been a few… shall we say, interesting… applications, but a recent one was an absolute stand-out. The applicant, for some unfathomable reason, believed she was applying for a job as an Avon representative; Avon sells cosmetics door-to-door in the UK. The icing on the cake came under her list of qualifications, where she listed “Mother of a Musician and Singer” as being a suitable qualification for the position.
Those of us on the selection panel are still frantically scratching our heads trying to figure out on what planet “Mother of a Musician and Singer” has any bearing on the suitability of a candidate applying for a top management position at a community centre.
This story is part of the singing silliness roundup!
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Read the singing silliness roundup!
Customer: “I want to look at the diary in the window.”
Me: “Certainly, which one?”
Customer: “There’s only one there; let me see it.”
I spot a diary in the window display and reach it out for her.
Customer: “No, no, no! How can you get that wrong?! There’s only one diary in the window and you take out the wrong book!”
Me: “Ma’am, this is a diary!”
Customer: “No, it isn’t! There was only one diary and that’s not it!”
