I used to work in this hillbilly dinner theatre, so the atmosphere in the lobby is fake combativeness as the setting is a Hatfield & McCoy style feud. One of my coworkers was an “in-your-face” gay guy.

A lady spotted my friend and approached him with playful aggressiveness:

Customer: “I’m gonna beat you up if you’re from the opposing side!”

Coworker: “Lady, I will pull those high heels off of you and show you how to walk in ’em.”

I don’t know how he got away with it. Maybe because the customer was drunk?

When I was younger, I knew a boy who was the perfect example of that friend everyone considered a bad influence. He drank at a young age, got in trouble in school, and had a few minor brushes with the law — the sort of things you can kind of get away with when still young enough for police to drag you back to your parents for a stern scolding but would result in a fine or a jail time if done when older.

None of my family liked him, my father being the most vocal of them. He made it no secret that he wished I’d end that particular friendship — though, to his credit, as vocal as he was about disapproving, he respected my decisions enough that he never tried to force me to end our friendship.

I admit that [Friend] managed to drag me into a few minor forms of teenage rebellion — things my father might not have approved of but were relatively benign — but I had the good sense to say no to any of the more dangerous things.

Eventually, [Friend] pushed his boundaries too far and faced two, somewhat related, major problems in a row as a result, which seemed to scare him into straightening up. I did my best to support him through it all when he didn’t have anyone else to support him.

Around the time when I graduated from high school, I distinctly remember my father telling me that he had been wrong to tell me I should end my friendship with [Friend] since I’d been such a positive influence in helping him straighten out. It was a short conversation at the time, and I doubt my father even remembers it, but it was one that really resonated with me and meant a lot at the time.

I convinced [Friend] to join the military with me to help cover college costs, and eventually, we both signed up to essentially be contracted out by the military as security guards for a local prison. It’s a mind-numbingly boring job, but it pays for college, so I can’t really complain.

Of course, I discussed these plans with my family.

Father: “You know, I always said that if you stayed friends with [Friend], he’d eventually do something that would land you both in prison. I’ve been vindicated at last!”

I have been out of the dating scene for quite a while; after someone went almost Hannibal Lecter on me, I noped out of that scene with a vengeance.

I recently paid off my car, which is a huge thing to me because I have struggled with debt for a while. None of my family lives close, and most of my friends are out of town, so I decide that I’m going to go celebrate at a local pub that has the best local beers.

When I get there, it’s about a five-minute wait, but then I get to sit right away. After the waiter greets me and comes back to bring me my drinks, this is where it starts to get weird.

A random guy about my age plops into the seat across from me. I give him a look, and he starts babbling about traffic and some other excuse and I should have called him if I knew I was going to be early.

I stop him — or try to — and tell him quite calmly that he has the wrong table, I don’t know him, and I’m not comfortable with him sitting down in my space.

He starts telling me that that is the whole point of a blind date and that he is now going to show me a good time.

By this time, the waiter has come back with my drinks and is looking back and forth at us. I stop the random guy again and let him know I didn’t make a blind date with him, I don’t know him, and I want him out of here.

The waiter immediately tells me to get my stuff and he will reseat me somewhere else. He sits me a bit closer to the bar, but the guy follows. As the waiter sets down the drinks, he tells me to hang on he’s going to go grab the manager.

What happens next is priceless.

The random guy sits across from me again and begins another monologue about how he can’t get a date and people think that he’s too pushy. (Gee, I wonder why?) Then, this absolute behemoth of a man who with a shaved head and tattoos over both bare arms and neck, holding a baseball bat, steps by my side and asks in a booming Russian accent:

Big Man: “This is man who likes to not understand no?”

I nod. The random guy goes greenish white but still tries to bluster about it being a blind date. The Big Man holds up a hand. 

Big Man: “Miss, this man is a date of yours?”

I disagree and let him know I didn’t have any plans to be on a date; I am out celebrating something by myself.

The Big Man nods and looks to the guy:

Big Man: “You have one minute to leave the way you arrived, or I will make new skylight with your body. Your choice.”

The guy tries to say that he wasn’t bothering anyone, and the Big Man stops him again.

Big Man: “You are wasting precious time to leave, and if we have to do my way, my friend, you will not be able to talk for long time.”

The guy decides that he is done with that and runs out of the bar so fast. The Russian turns to me and laughs a big belly laugh. Then, he asks me in the deepest Southern drawl I have ever heard if everything is all right.

When I laugh and ask about the accent, he shrugs.

Big Man: “People respect the Russian accent more than the Southern one, and I’m okay with it.”

He ended up getting me a dessert on the house to celebrate, and I’ll definitely be back!

Related:
In Soviet Russia, Accent Speaks You
Doris, Archenemy Of Boris, Orders A Footlong
Anatoli, Cousin To Ivan And Boris, Is The Hero We All Need
Larry: Friend Of Boris

I work at a chain retailer. Every few weeks, we get a call like this. 

Me: “Hello?”

Automated Message: “Hello. This is [Elementary School] reaching out regarding [Boy]. Your child was absent from school today. If you believe this was a mistake, please contact [Elementary School] at [phone number].”

I go around asking my coworkers — it’s always a skeleton crew, so it doesn’t take long — but no one has a child by that name, and no one knows of a coworker having a child by that name. After several of these calls, I write the number down and call the school back.

Secretary: “[Elementary School], this is [Secretary].”

Me: “Hi. I think there’s an error in your automated system. It keeps dialing [Store] to say that [Boy] isn’t in school.”

Secretary: “What’s the number?”

Me: “[Phone number].”

Secretary: “Yes, that’s the number we have for [Boy]’s mother, [Woman]. Is this his mother calling?”

Me: “No, I’m calling from [Store] at [phone number] to tell you that you have the wrong number in the system.”

Secretary: “No, that’s her home phone, sweetheart.”

Me: “No… it’s our business line. You can Google [Store] and see it.”

Secretary: “Well, that’s the only contact number we have for her.”

Me: “Why not ask [Boy] to verify the number? Or send a letter home or something?”

Secretary: “Ma’am. I do not have time for these games. If you do not have a child at this school, it really is none of your business.”

Me: “Except that you’re basically saying you don’t care to verify if his mom knows where he is.”

She hangs up on me.

I do a search on Facebook for the woman’s name. There are only two with that name in the area, and only one has an elementary-age boy in their profile picture, so I take a shot. 

Me: “Hi. I know this is random, but [Elementary School] keeps calling [Store] to say that [Boy] is absent from school. I just want to reach out and let you know they don’t have your number on file for your son. I spoke with the secretary, and she didn’t seem to care. Anyway, sorry for the intrusion.”

Woman: “I thought something was off. I haven’t had a call all year, and he’s been sick a lot. What’s the store number?”

Me: “[Phone number].”

Woman: “Oh, well, that would be it. My number is the same, but two digits are reversed. Thank you for telling me!”

The calls stopped, so I assume they got the number sorted out. I do hope someone talked to the secretary about her flippant attitude with regard to the children at that school.

I read this story and was already dreading the ending because I am a person with a uterus.

I was recently diagnosed with Lupus because of a work injury, so I currently have three doctors: a specialist, my primary doctor, and my worker’s comp doctor.

I had to get my arm X-rayed.

Nurse: “When did you have your last period?”

Me: “[Date about three weeks prior]. My next one is due in five days.”

The app on my phone is a lifesaver.

Nurse: “Any chance you got a baby going on in there?”

She’s always funny; I love it when she does my intake.

Me: “None. Yes, I am sexually active, but our birth control is one hundred percent effective. I’m addicted to lesbianism.”

Not a bad outcome. [Specialist] wanted full-body X-rays to see the deterioration of my joints — fun times. 

X-Ray Tech: “Any chance you may be pregnant?”

Me: “My girlfriend loves to try, but we have found that we can’t make one.”

Yes, I know, don’t be rude to medical staff, but I have heard that question fifty million times. Mentioning [Girlfriend] usually shuts down the follow-up, and I’ve gotten sarcastic over the years.

X-Ray Tech: “Right on. Let’s get these pictures and get you home to the girlfriend. Is she pretty?”

Me: “Very, and my best friend.”

And then comes the bad one — the one that every uterus owner dreads. I needed antibiotics because of an infection unrelated to everything else. 

Doctor: “When was the first date of your last period?”

Me: “[Second week of December].”

Doctor: “It’s January.”

Me: “I know. My app says I can start any day now.”

Doctor: “It’s been twenty-five days. You’re probably pregnant.”

Me: “There are a couple of issues I take with your statement. It’s been twenty-three days; these little numbers tell me that. Since I started at eleven years old, my cycle has been twenty-five days. My girlfriend’s is twenty-eight days, and I have a friend who has a regular medically checked-out forty-day cycle. Second, I’m not able to get pregnant because I live with, sleep with, raise a cat with, and have sex with another uterus owner.”

I’m non-binary; we use trans-inclusive language.

Doctor: “Do you use condoms?”

Me: “…On the toys, to make clean-up easier.”

Doctor: “And you’re not on hormonal birth control, so you’re probably pregnant. You should take a test before you start antibiotics.”

Me: “[Doctor], my partner is a girl. I don’t have a medical degree, but I do know how babies are made. You need, at the very least, sperm. I have not had sex with or even kissed someone who makes sperm since 2018. I have hugged a few, but all our clothes stayed on. I have not gone to a sperm bank or in any other way had sperm near me since 2013. I am not pregnant.”

She flat-out refused to give me the script. I flat-out refused to leave without a second opinion.

The second doctor took my no and the girlfriend thing as proof that I was not pregnant and gave me the script.

Reasonable Doctor: “Not like it matters much; we’re giving you low-grade antibiotics that are perfectly safe for pregnant people.”

The infection is gone, and my period started the day after that whole interaction. Turns out I am not pregnant. Who knew?

Related:
Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 18
Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 17
Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 16
Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 15
They Don’t Always C When They’re Sticking To The Script