Time To Liquor Your Wounds

, , , | Healthy | March 25, 2018

(I just got into a pretty bad car crash. I refuse medical assistance because, well, that’s expensive. I call my boyfriend to help me, and he brings his buddy who always brags about being an ex-Marine medic. In my shock, I keep insisting we go to the home of a friend whose cats I am taking care of, saying that we can’t let them starve. We get there. I’m bleeding everywhere, my face is swelling, and my hand is turning blue for some reason.)

Boyfriend: “I’ll feed the cats. You just sit down. Wait. You need ice. I’ll get ice!”

Buddy: “You need to clean out these cuts. Does your friend have rubbing alcohol?”

Me: “I don’t know. She’s got three bathrooms in this place. Look around.”

(They run around like headless chickens for a minute.)

Buddy: “I don’t see any.”

Me: “There is a store up the road.”

(He disappears and comes back five minutes later, holding a vodka bottle.)

Buddy: “They didn’t have rubbing alcohol. I got this!”

Me: “Where did you go?”

Buddy: “The gas station.”

Me: “And you didn’t notice the drug store on the other corner?! Give me that.” *I take a big swig straight from the bottle* “It will do, but I’m never calling you for rescue again.”

Boyfriend: “What about me?”

Me: “Are the cats fed?”

Boyfriend: “Yes.”

Me: “I’ll call you; just don’t bring him with.”

(And yes, I did clean out my wounds with vodka, because the buddy didn’t want to go out again, and my boyfriend was afraid I would get up the in-shock energy to kill said buddy if we were left alone together. Good times.)

GPS: Great Practitioners Of Stupidity, Part 5

, , , | Working | March 25, 2018

(Once a year, representatives come to speak with the head of our company about ad renewals in an attempt to get him to purchase a larger ad package. Most of them have worked with our company long enough to know to use the front door — the front door sticks and you have to pull hard at it — because the side door is for any clients who need to use the ramp. We have a new representative call one day and request a meeting, which I set up. The day of the meeting, he is running late and calls to explain that he’s had complications, but he is on the way. I confirm with him that our address is [address] and we’re on the left side of the street. Over an hour later, he calls back to say he’s at the office.)

Rep: “I’m here, but do I use the front door or the side door?”

Me: “The front door. Just to warn you, it does stick, so be sure to give it a hard tug.”

Rep: “The one with the mailbox?”

Me: *assuming he means the hanging mailbox beside the door* “Yes, that’s the one.”

Rep: “Okay, because I knocked three times and no one answered.”

(I would have heard him knock, since my desk is in the office right near the front door. I stand up to look out the window and see the new representative across the street, knocking on the closed office of 210, which has the address number posted right above the door. I have a good laugh, then open the door to call out to him and point to the large numbers on our wall that mark us as 209.)

Rep: *crossing the street* “I wondered why my GPS said the office was on the right side of the street.”

Related:
GPS: Great Practitioners Of Stupidity, Part 4
GPS: Great Practitioners Of Stupidity, Part 3
GPS: Great Practitioners Of Stupidity, Part 2

Friendship Is The Best Kind Of ‘Ship

, , , , , | Romantic | March 25, 2018

I had a tough time keeping friends as a kid because of my temper and my dark sense of humor. By middle school I was pretty much a loner. By pure chance, that ended up being the year I met the girl that would be my best friend. She was (and still is) a quirky, innocent type, sweet, kind, and really funny, but she also didn’t always get why her jokes were funny. She also wasn’t an aggressive person, always choosing to let something go rather than risk starting a fight over it. Even though we were really different, we got along great and I feel like I really grew as a person with her by my side.

In sophomore year, I started dating a guy I really liked. He seemed really nice and we had a lot of fun together. After we’d been dating a year, I stupidly agreed to sleep with him, since I was sure that we were in love and had a real chance for a future together someday.

Something changed afterwards. We still hung out like normal, but he didn’t seem as into our relationship as he was before. He would show more interest if sex was involved, but it was always a temporary solution. My friend suggested that my boyfriend and I go to an upcoming school dance together, along with her and a few people we knew. It was going to be a fun night of fancy outfits and partying. When I brought up the idea to my boyfriend, he seemed okay with the idea, and plans were made to meet up there.

When I got to the dance, I was doing great. I looked good, I felt good, and I was pumped to have a good time with people I cared about. And that’s when I walked into the dance hall and saw my boyfriend dancing and kissing his new girlfriend. I yelled at him for a bit before I had to run away in tears.

I made it to the entrance hall before I collapsed into a corner. I just wanted to die, I was so upset. My friend arrived, saw me huddled over in tears and ran to me, asking what was wrong. She gave me a blank stare as I explained. When I finished, she pulled me in for a hug before she stood back up, told me to stay put, and began walking away. Confused, I decided to follow, anyway.

In a fantastic moment I wish I had recorded, she walked right through the gym doors, straight up to my now ex-boyfriend, and slapped him. As he stood there in shock, she stared him dead in the eyes and said, “You are a bad person, and you should be ashamed of yourself.” She then turned around and walked back toward where I was standing, grabbing a cup of punch and a cookie from the snack table for me on her way. That was 15 years ago, and we are still best friends to this day.

Not Putting The P Into Privacy

, , , , | Related | March 25, 2018

(My four-year-old son and I are home alone. I go to use the bathroom while he’s playing with his toys. As soon as I have closed the door and sat down, he comes barreling down the hall and barges in.)

Son: “What’s that sound?”

Me: “That’s the sound of me peeing.”

Son: “I don’t like it.”

Me: “Then don’t come in here.”

Getting A Piece Meal By Piecemeal

, , , , | Working | March 25, 2018

(I decide to pick up fried chicken for dinner. I go to a fast food chain that serves fried chicken and walk inside to place my order.)

Me: “I’d like to get the ten-piece, dark-meat-only bucket.”

Cashier: “Okay.”

Me: “I’d like to get that as a meal.”

Cashier: “Okay.” *presses buttons and a ridiculously high price comes up*

Me: “That’s very high. The dark-meat-only bucket costs a little less than the eight-piece bucket, but your total is a lot higher than the eight-piece meal.”

Cashier: “That’s because I rang you up for the twelve-piece meal with substitutions.”

Me: “That’s not what I wanted. The dark-meat-only bucket has thighs and drumsticks only, which is why the bucket cost is less than the eight-piece bucket. I want the dark-meat-only bucket, not the twelve-piece, as a meal.”

Cashier: “That can’t be made a meal. If you want a meal, you need to get either the eight-piece bucket or the twelve-piece bucket and request substitutions.”

Me: “What? Why can’t it be made a meal?”

Cashier: “Because it doesn’t come as a meal. You have to get either the eight-piece or twelve-piece bucket to get a meal.”

Me: “I’ve gotten it as a meal before.”

Cashier: “Well, they must have rung you up for one of the other buckets and did substitutions.”

Me: “That makes no sense. The price for the dark-meat-only bucket is a little less than the eight-piece bucket even though it has more pieces, and I’ve gotten all ten pieces in the past with a meal.”

Cashier: “You can order two additional pieces to go with your meal.”

Me: “That’s even more money, boosting the price of the actual bucket even higher. Why can’t that particular bucket be a meal? I’d like to talk to the manager.”

Cashier: “Okay, but he’s not going to tell you anything different.”

Me: “That’s fine, but I want to talk to him.”

(The cashier gets the manager.)

Manager: “Hello, how can I help you?”

Me: “Hi. Is it possible to get the ten-piece, dark-meat-only bucket as a meal?”

Manager: “Of course!”

(The manager pressed two buttons on the register, a more reasonable total came up, and he walked away. The cashier glared at me the rest of the time I was in the restaurant waiting for my order.)

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