John Megna writes:
GIVING
PEOPLE
I recently was driving West on Highway 380 (35 mi North of
Dallas,TX). 380 is a two lane road. I was driving my company van
to work and I noticed a truck approaching from behind at a
pretty high speed. They quickly came up and tailgated me (more
like squash tailgating). I made three attempts to let them get
by, pulling my van halfway off the road. They had time and room
to pass but didn't.
They continued to tailgate about 3 more miles. I looked in the
rearview mirror and noticed two men in the vehicle. I then said,
"Back Off". They proceeded to pass me on the right and stop in
the middle of the highway in front of me (Speed limit =70 MPH).
Before I could get off the road a car had to pass us on the
right.
They finally calmed down and started moving and I slowly
followed long enough to read the following sign painted on the
truck, "Thank You For Giving".
Even after living in LA, I could not have dreamed this one up!
Lea MacDonald writes:
CALLED ON THE CARPET
It was a Friday evening and my friend and I had completed the
installation
of flooring throughout an entire home save for the stairway
requiring carpet
to the basement. We decided to leave that for Saturday morning – a
job that
would take an hour or so.
I was awakened by a phone call Saturday from the owner of the
business I was
subcontracting for. "Lea, can you do another job today? The other
installer
didn't show up!" I said I'd do the job, but had to return to
complete the
staircase of the previous job, that we'd left it thinking we'd have
time
that morning. The owner agreed to stall the customer, cut my
material, and
have it waiting upon my return to the store.
We completed the stairs at the previous home and picked up
our material,
ready to sacrifice our Saturday to the needs of a customer. After
several
minutes of trying to find a relatively close parking spot, we
gathered our
tools and headed down the sidewalk toward the customer who, as it
turned
out, had been waiting in the doorway of her real-estate, multiple
listing
service.
She was tall with short, red hair that framed glasses set atop a
bulbous
nose. She blocked our entrance as she leaned against the doorframe
chomping
incessantly on an apple.
"Hello," I said politely, "we are here to install your . . ."
She stared at her apple, her mouth still chomping, "What did you do?
Walk?"
She interrupted.
"Well, no, ma-am, we had to finish . . ."
She interrupted again, "What did you do? Carry the carpet here?"
I felt my blood pressure start to pique as my cohort said in
an ominous
voice, "Oh ma-am, don't." He set his toolbox on the sidewalk as it
had
become apparent to him we were not going to enter immediately and,
knowing
me, he knew this conversation was not going to go in the direction
she'd
planned.
I pressed on with the patience of a monk, "No ma-am, you see, we had
to
finish . . ."
"What did you do? Make the carpet?" She asked in an indignant manner
as she
continued to chomp her apple avoiding all eye contact.
It was at this point I abandoned all social decorum and niceties,
not to
mention the old axiom: the customer is always right, and set about
explaining the situation in terms she could not, would not be able
to
interrupt, misunderstand or ignore . . .
"F—k you! You insignificant streak of sh-t! I don't give a f—k if
your
carpet EVER f—king gets installed!"
I turned and headed back toward my truck, toolbox in hand. My
cohort, a
little late in following me, was given immediate instruction by me
to pick
up his f---king toolbox!
The woman was left agog, apple falling from her open mouth as I
briskly
left.
"Look," I heard her say in a bewildered voice, "will you please lay
my
carpet?" There was a sincere note of regret in her voice.
Still reeling from anger brought about by her attempt to reprimand
me
publicly for something I had no control over, I spun around, pointed
my
finger and screamed, "That's more f—king like it!"
Bewildered, my helper had set his toolbox down once again only to
receive
immediate instruction to "pick the damn thing up and follow me!"
Once in the building I again attempted to explain why we arrived
late. I was
not interrupted this time.
"Ma-am, we are not the crew that was slated to install your
job. We
completed our work and only had an hour's work this morning before
having
the weekend to our selves. We were contacted by the owner of the
carpet
company and informed that the other crew, your crew, had not shown
up. He
asked if we'd be kind enough to do your job. We agreed."
A look of shame swept across her face. "Oh my God," she said, "I
can't
believe I spoke that way to you. I'm so very sorry."
"No, Ma-am, I'm sorry. I should not have lost control like that.
Please
accept my apologies."
"I deserved what I got, I was a bitch! I'll be right back."
We started our work. Twenty minutes or so passed when the
woman appeared
with coffee and donuts' explaining it was a heartfelt peace
offering. We
graciously accepted her gift while promising we'd do an exceptional
job for
her.
As for the hapless souls who'd been unfortunate enough to be within
earshot
of the initial exchange, they had a front row seat to a LTSEWH.
Kelly Permenter writes:
JURY DOODY
Not more that an hour ago I had a very LTSEWH at the San Diego
Superior Court. To understand just how agitating the situation was I
should first provide a bit of background. Having just graduated from
UC San Diego I have had, perhaps, a total of three weeks off in the
past year. The university is demanding enough that I quit my job a
year ago in order to focus my entire attention on school. Relieved
that I have finally graduated (with and A- average I may add) I have
decided to travel for the next few months, prepare for graduate
school, and simply relax a bit.
Well this is apparently unacceptable to the civil servants
working for the jury services in the Vista courthouse here in San
Diego. Having just introduced us (the jury pool) to the jury
process, staff proceeded to tell us that anyone needing a
postponement could request one at the back desk. Since I have a
flight this Saturday I thought I should probably try to arrange for
a new date. This would have been my third postponement due to
school, however it was specifically explained to us that this was
common, that they understand everyone has unique circumstances, and
that they indeed do grant third postponements but simply require one
to do so in person. Sounds reasonable, does it not?
The conversation with the she-devil employee was thus: I
explained that I had a flight in five days and would be willing to
serve on a jury for that duration. When are you coming back, she
said in a tone as if I had committed some grievous error. I told her
I wasn t sure. Who s your employer, again in the same manner. I
replied that I had just graduated and that I didn t yet have an
employer. We only grant short durations to employed individuals.
Since you are not employed you do not have any bills, since you do
not have any bills serving in a jury will not cause you any
hardship, since serving will not be a hardship you have no reason
for postponement. I paraphrase, but this amazing assumption was
nearly exactly what I was told. I replied that I did indeed have
bills, yet she cut me off to say Do you have your summons? I did,
and she took it like it was her property that I had stolen from her.
She typed my badge number into a computer then let out a big sigh
when she discovered my two earlier postponements. You ve already
postponed twice, you don t have a job, and you won t give a date of
return for your vacation. She then jotted down a date and the number
for her supervisor. If you do not arrange something you will have to
explain yourself in front of a judge and probably held in contempt.
Without saying anything further, she then turned her back and walked
over to her printer.
Apparently our business had been concluded. Essentially I was
treated as though I was amongst the scum that would be defending
themselves in front of a jury and not a member of the jury itself. I
was considered guilty before being proved innocent, and I wasn t
even on trial for anything! All I had done was attempt to fulfill my
civic obligation to participate in our government, and I was berated
for it.
Alison927@aol.com writes:
MEET JOHN DOE
Lately it seems, more and more clerks have been demanding my phone
number
when I try to purchase something. I usually get away with "it's
unlisted" and
can just leave it at that. Recently, however, I encounted a clerk at
a hardware
store where I was purchasing jumper cables. She asked for my phone
number.
"Unlisted" I answered. She was flustered, and it took what seemed
like a few
minutes to say, "I need your phone number to give you a warranty on
your
purchase." (A warranty for jumper cables????) I answered, "It's OK.
I don't need
a warranty. If the cables don't work, I'll return them right away
with the
receipt."
This sent her over the edge. She punched some keys helplessly, and
said, "it
won't let me do it without a phone number." I waited a bit while she
punched
more keys, hoping that she would have enough sense to put in a bogus
telephone number, just to make the cash register happy. Since she
did not have any
sense, I finally said, "OK, my number is 772-555-1212." Obviously I
wasn't the
first person with this idea, because when she entered this number a
name came
up. "OK, great! John Doe. You're already in the system."
"Yes" I answered, "I am John Doe." I was finally able to shell out
my
$9.99 and leave the store with a pair of jumper cables.
Linda Wilson writes:
CHEER DOWN
Now that you've got me thinking about less than satisfying
encounters.....have you ever noticed how exceedingly nice grocery
(Von's, Ralphs) store staff are to everyone now, to the point of
nausea? At my local Vons, customer service has elevated itself
almost to the level of harassment between "Do you need help out with
this today, Ms. Wilson?" as they hand me my single bottle of
wine...to "Thank you, Ms. Wilson, you saved $6.86 today" (when I
know that little Vons card didn't save me squat) ....to just walking
through produce and having to chat with the impossibly cheery guy
stacking oranges as to how I am today. There was one really
obnoxious checker who I think was trolling for some action because
some of the questions he would ask as he was scanning my tequila and
lime juice bordered on the personal and were kind of creepy. He's
not there anymore. I bet they got rid of him. Since I have to have
so many conversations with strangers in my work, I really don't
enjoy having to chat people up in my off hours.....Does that make
sense?
Where I can use that kind (of service) is Home Depot, where you can
never find anyone to help. Those orange-vested guys are always
walking fast somewhere but are really hard to flag down...That's my rant for today. It happens whenever I buy a new
book.......
Gabe
writes:
CIGARETTE NAZI
Not sure if it's a new store "law" or just stupidity. Our local IGA
started to ask everyone for ID before they would sell you
cigarettes.I'm 61, bald on top with a silver half crown, a little
wrinkled with glasses, but in good physical health. I'm told I don't
look my age, but I certainly don't look under 19, the legal age for
cigs and alcohol. The girl behind the counter knows me by name, yet,
I have to produce my driver's license every time before she hands me
the cigarettes. No other store anywhere within 10 hours' driving
distance does this. This includes any other IGA store in the
vicinity.
Carl Desserich writes:
LTSEWH in Paradise
My sweetheart and partner in life and I were on an incredible
two-week
camping odyssey through the Pacific Northwest this past summer, and
were
having a great time away from the usual jerks and a-holes of both
sexes one
encounters in and around the seething hornet's nest of ignorance,
indifference and competitive aggression which has become the norm
anywhere
the public gathers in Southern California, especially the last 25
years. We
were at a very special, beautiful and fragile place in Washington's
Olympic
National Park called Hoh Rain Forest, where the cool August
raindrops were
shimmering in the intermittent sunshine trying its best to fill the
empty
spaces between the huge, lush ferns, rhododendron and giant
moss-covered
pines.
We were traveling with our two dogs and best pals Halee and
Athena,
and as the middle-aged experienced outdoorsman/woman that we are and
as
environmentally-sensitive individuals, we know written park rules
and the
unwritten rules of the wilderness areas ahead of time, before we
take to the
trails. We are both the types of people who go out of our way to
accommodate
others with consideration and kindness, so we're always disappointed
and
sensitive to the unthinking and downright insulting things that come
out of
people's mouths, especially when you haven't done anything to
deserve
assaults on your now-vacation-healed psyche.
As we approached the
large
signboards with information on the park's features, a couple I'd say
were in
their mid-60s, physically fit and very clean cut and rigid in pace
and gait
emerged from one of the park's groomed rain forest trails. We had
Halee and
Athena on their government-mandated no-longer-than-six-foot leashes,
and
were in perfect compliance with the rules, standing reading the
myriad
pieces of posted literature next to the parking lot. Never mind that
we were
relaxed and happy to be in this magical place with the light
raindrops now
dotting my eyeglasses as I faced the wind.
Then the silence was
broken."DOGS ARE NOT ALLOWED ANYWHERE ON THE TRAILS" came the mechanical
and almost-caustic bark from the male part of the
purposefully-striding couple.We knew this days ago and it was posted everywhere. "They're not"
came the abbreviated and calm reply from sweet and petit Deb, who's almost
too
patient with rude people compared to me, large-boned 6-foot-one and
210
pounds, and I responded, almost in shock, with a simple "nope" to
his rude
delivery of information regarding the obvious. "Goddamnit!" I later
told
Deb, I should have said "no s--t you mother---king c-----ing genius,
did
you figure that one out all on your own?!" or some other crude,
out-of-bounds and shockingly caustic comeback, as I could feel my
Southern
California-bred sidewalk rage and blood pressure rise. "You didn't
need to
do that, hon" she said, reassuring me that my non-lethal comeback
was
sufficient for jerks like him.
The magical place I had achieved in
my peaceof mind, in this quiet magical rain forest place far from home and
most of
humanity, was now shattered and I hadn't returned fire with an
adequately
self-satisfying response. Just like how I avoid road rage nowadays
at all
costs, you're still left with the adrenaline rush. I look at it this
way:
I'm glad I didn't add further to the daily human noise pollution in
this
wonderful place.
Lee Altmar writes:
BIKE WRATH
I know what you mean about others owning the places everything. I
constantly find myself thanking people for allowing me to drive on
their freeways, park in their parking lots, and walk on their
sidewalks.
I'm sure I'll have more, but here's one that has bothered me for
years. I ride my bicycle on a lot of bike paths. Technically, these
are vehicle right aways (a bicycle is a vehicle) with the same rules
as a road, such as pedestrians should walk facing traffic. I'll be
riding along and there will be someone ahead of me, walking in the
same lane, not only with their back to me, but also with headphones
or earbuds on, so they don't know that I am approaching. Usually
what happens is that as I move into the other lane to pass them,
they suddenly become aware of me and react in a startling manner,
sometimes actually jumping right in front of me so I have to swerve
drastically. It's even worse with there are two or more people - the
spread across the path and expect me to ride on the shoulder.
As stated earlier, the rules dictate that they should be walking
facing traffic. Even without the rule, you would think that after
one or two of these incidents, they would realize that they are
safer walking so they can see the silent, speeding bicycle come at
them instead of sneak up behind them. But no, they continue putting
themselves and others in danger. Of course, since it's their bike
path, I should just be happy they let me ride on it.
Floyd Kucharski writes:
CUTTING REMARK
Last week I went for a haircut. My usual barber was on vacation, so
I tried someplace new, a tidy little shop located on the corner.
I looked around as I entered the shop and noticed that the barber
was a fat little guy with a complexion that looked like warm vanilla
ice cream.
He had a customer so I sat down to read a magazine.
"Do you have a 1:15 appointment?" I heard somebody ask. I looked up
at the little barber, who again asked, "Do you have a 1:15?"
I glanced at the wall clock and it read precisely 1:15. "Huh? An
appointment? No, I don't have one. But I can wait," I replied, and
went back to my magazine.
"Well actually, we all full, booked all day," said Mr. Vanilla. So I
rose from my chair, replaced the magazine, and quietly left.
On my way out the little man added "I HATE TO THROW YA OUT, BUT THIS
IS A BARBER SHOP (!), YA KNOW!"
Rip, I don't know what I could possibly have done to make him so
damn angry, and I can't imagine a little vanilla pud like him
throwing me out of anywhere.''
Guess I'll have to chalk this one up to LTSEWH.
GOT AN LTSEWH?
PUT IT IN THE MAILBOX AND WE'LL PRINT IT:
|