My Job, My Hell...

[TheLastRifleMan]

Fuck both of ya post something! Teasing is not nice.
Sorry my job is boring in this sense, nothing to add.

Okay, I will post those when I have about half a pint of Guiness in me. Or half a glass of absinthe.

Which probably means in the next 48 hours.

[Samurai Penguin]

OK. This isn't my actual job, but it's a story I heard while on the job, and y'all might like it.

I was stuck on a hill during a blizzard last week and had to call a wrecker. While they were yanking me to dry ground, one of the wrecker guys related this:

Last time this happened, we were running up and down the I-17, hauling people out of the ditches and snowbanks and all. We come up on this big truck, and there was about six DPS cops shovelling him out and not havin' much luck. So we pull up in front of him and start figuring out how to pull him.

The guy rolls down his window and hollers, "WTF are you doing?" We tell him we're trying to figure how to pull him out.

"Oh, hell no!" the guy says. "I ain't payin' for that! I'll put my chains on before I'll pay that bill!!"



One of the DPS cops heard that, and I thought he was going to taze hell out of the guy. He's all "we've been trying to dig you out for over an hour and you've had chains all this time?? Put 'em on NOW."

So then the guy starts arguing. The cop says, "You're blocking an Interstate highway. Chain up or I'll let these guys tow you to the impound yard and you can figure out the bill from there!!"

I'm no fan of police brutality, having been subjected to it. But if I were there, I wouldn't have said a word if those six DPS cops had beaten the guy down. There ought to be some sort of penalty for Felony Stupid.

[Cnidaria]

I want more pet shop stories.

Just, please, no maggots.

Unfortunately, the next story in the queue is called Maggots in the Face.

[brer]

I wish I could post stories like some of you have. My problem is that I'm more of a techie in an industrial complex and my job doesn't require me interact with people much.

That being said, I have done some impressively gross repairs and cleanups. Usually it runs tothings like a sewer lift station being broke and not repaired until stuff starts backing up into offices and stuff. Things like that. Truly gross stuff, but without the human element of a truly great story, just gross stuff.

Thus we come to Ricky raccoon and the freeflood of doom.

It all started on a pleasant fall evening in Groton, Ct, Submarine capitol of the world. Seriously, it's on a sign coming into town. Anyways, we were getting ready to get underway the next morning on coincidentally enough, a submarine.

The waterfront in Groton is located on a river that runs between Groton and the neighboring town of New London. It's a relatively slow moving river that can't make up it's mind which way it want's to run. It will slow, stop, even run backwards depending on the tides.

Well, the river at this time was at a stop. Evening was starting to fall, and a raccoon over in New London, perhaps seeking greener pastures, perhaps irked at the city counsels drive by property tax reassessment on local homes, decided to travel to Groton the most direct route possible, by swimming.

The Petty Officer of the Deck was the first one that noticed the raccoon, somewhere around the middle of the channel. Members of the duty section, coming up for smoke breaks and coffee in the last open air they would see for a while, started a cheering section for the critter.

I don't know if it was the applause the animal was getting or if we were just the closest thing for the animal to climb up on. But the raccoon climbed up the back part of the boat, and started sauntering towards the front part of the boat.

I mentioned we were getting underway the next morning, right? Because of this, all of the free floods were were open for inspection, and for stowing lines after we broke loose from the tug that would get us underway the next morning.

Well our friendly raccoon, perhaps ignoring were he was putting his feet to pay attention to his cheering crowd, kept walking forwards on the boat and promptly flat out fell into one of the free floods.

People in the military always talk about how stuff rolls downhill. In many cases the opposite is true.

Noting the authority placed in him as the Petty Officer of the Deck, or POOD in sub speak, the POOD, promptly noted the fact in his log, and notified the Duty Chief.

The Duty Chief poked his head into the free flood to assess the situation, notified the Ship's Duty Officer, and the section leader.

The Duty Officer, poked his head into the free flood, shrugged, and went down to eat in the wardroom leaving the Duty Chief and the section leader to decide how to get the raccoon out of the free flood.

As they decided how to retrieve Ricky, he had already at that time been given a name at that point, a few of us that had more rural origins than others in the duty section pointed out that while he may be cute and fuzzy, it would be the height of folly to just grab hold of him. I believe the term chainsaw with fur was mentioned.

Finally a brave young sailor, in the best traditions of the submarine force, was volunteered to retrieve Ricky based on size and a general lack of dolphins.

He was quickly outfitted with a fire fighting ensemble, a cranial helmet, face shield, and a set of welding gloves. He bravely chased after the raccoon for the better part of an hour until he gave up. The raccoon had crawled into an area of the free floods too small to be followed.

The Ships Duty Officer notified the CO of the event, and contacted the sub base security looking for a snatcher to hopefully get the animal. After a few rounds of phone calls, one was found and delivered to the sub base, who then delivered it to the boat.

By this time it was getting dark and tired out, so the SDO called off Ricky's rescue till the next morning. Reveille came and it all started again with the addition of the snare and an even smaller sailor, also volunteered for the same reasons the first one was.

All to no avail. Ricky would not come out to greet his fans.

The CO was sweating the political correctedness of it even as the tugs came alongside. The squadron deputy basically glanced down at his watch and reminded the CO of his underway time. The needs of the navy were not going to be denied because of a raccoon.

So we deployed.

All the time we were in protected waters we kept the free floods open just on the off chance Ricky would abandon them. All for nothing. Ricky stayed hidden away in the line lockers even to the point we submerged.

I did mention that the free floods are called that because they are design to flood when the boat submerges, right? Poor Ricky,,,

Every odd noise that the ship made during that underway was attributed to him trying to get out of the free flood. Somehow his name ended up on the watch quarter and station bill. The sonar shack put up a shrine to his memory.

A few weeks passed, and we came back into port.

One of the things to understand about the ocean, especially the cold, dark, regions of it that those of us brave enough, manly enough, yea even true men of enough merit to call ourselves Submariners gladly roam, is that it is nothing like anything else that you can imagine, nor even want to imagine.

A submarine, when it surfaces for the first time after a period underway, stinks. Not just the inside, that's just diesel and farts, but the outside too. I'm going to make a guess that there is something that grows on the boat underway. It fades away in the open air relatively quickly, but can be mind blowingly nauseating, especially combined with a good sea state, if you have become used to the diesel and fart smell. Poor Ricky had become a growth medium for this stuff.

We made it to port, and Ricky's final retrieval began. Luckily enough he had washed up in an easily accessible portion of the free floods.

A young petty officer removed the poor animal from the free floods when we came into port. I was topside at the time and can attest to the inhuman, or in this case, inraccoon stench of that carcass. Think of kelp. Now roll it up with a fish inside. Now let it ferment in the sun for a few weeks. That is possibly an approximation of the smell itself, but does not even come close to the magnitude of the smell. Ricky reeked. If you could can Ricky, and open him up for special occassions, he could have ensured peace at the last few G8 summits. What a boon to riot control could that raccoon could have made.

The last I saw of poor ricky, he was being carted off to a dumpster by the chief of the boat, a man I hated for many reasons but respected for many more. He handled it because of personal pride. He would not have any of the younger guys do anything he would not do himself. Senior Chief ####### carried ricky down the pier by the nape of the neck, eyes tearing and chewing back his breakfast.

Next story : The machinist mates and the tampon of death.

[Oneswunk]

I want more pet shop stories.

Just, please, no maggots.

Unfortunately, the next story in the queue is called Maggots in the Face.

Maggots Michael your eating maggots. How do they taste?

[Organdonor]

Ok, no maggot stories. They're actually not that exciting.

There was the time(s) I was dancing with the 400 pound naked woman as she peed on me.

As I slid her out of the hyperbaric chamber she announced that she had to pee. Badly. I helped her into a sitting position, and then held her hands as she shimmied to the edge of the stretcher and then softly slipped off the stretcher into a standing position. She was one of those people who are really too obese to function. 5'2" and 400 pounds. Literally. The only exercise she got was moving from her power chair to the toilet and back again. Of course the power chair doesn't fit in her bathroom, so she uses a toilet chair in her bedroom. Dunno how that can support her, but I guess it's made of titanium reinforced space-age polymers or something.

Anyhoo... I digress.

Her bare feet hitting the floor must have been too much for her to handle, and gravity took over. Now, this was no trickle. Hells no. Anyone who has seen a pipe burst from freezing knows what this was like. Urine sprayed forth from the folds. I guess the gods were smiling upon me (between gales of laughter), because it all sprayed downwards. And not a little. No. The whole bladder was emptied.

This is why I wear boots to work.

All the patient was wearing was a XXXXXXXXL johnnie, open and untied behind her. Now, these aren't too plentiful. We live on the coast of New England, so there's competition from the sailmakers for this amount of material. The patient is well aware of this, so her desire to preserve her favorite johnnie kicked in. She shrieked "oh no! I don't want it to get wet." Ripping her left hand from mine, she deftly pulled her johnnie away from her sweaty she-flesh. It was magical... reminiscent of Chris Pontious on Jackass ripping off his stripper's running suit to dance around in his Chippendale outfit.

Since she was dependent upon me to keep her balanced (and therefore upright,) I couldn't let go of her hands. The flood was a great one, but luckily my aforementioned boots kept me sanitary.

That's when the doctor walked in.

I don't know how he didn't lose it... but he was a trooper. I'm 6'2", and look like a stereotypical Harley dude, minus the visibal tats. I'm holding hands and facing a 400 ppund vertically challenged 50 year old woman, who is buck naked. Lake Mead surrounds us.

The best part? The very next day, she did it again. Seriously. But this time I had prophylactically placed three bath-blankets on the floor to catch her recycled apple juice.

Yay me.

[Oneswunk]

Nothing like a little golden discipline at the workplace.

[EECHAY]

OMG. I'm sorry bro, but your writing is so amazing that I'm laughing my effin ass off over here reading the horror stories.

I may post more when I've read after page 3, but,..yeah

So, I kinda know where you're coming from. My birth mother took my to a trailer in the middle of go-F-your-sister-ville and the conditions were as you described except the windows were crocked open and it was in summer. The loud resident of this abode was a heavy chain smoker and she must have lived only by being some sort of human-oldsmobile hybrid that could survive off of straight cooking crease with a little bit of burnt chicken thrown in the mix. To say she wasn't in good fit health is a gross (gross) understatement.

To add to this were the flies....the Effin FLIES....

She was covered in them. Her face, her grotesque sore covered legs,..everything,..covered in flies,...
The walls were also covered in flies,..
I will never forget and that was the first such thing that has made me think "What has been seen, cannot be unseen".

Hats off to you for your courage.

[TheLastRifleMan]

Next story : The machinist mates and the tampon of death.

That raccoon story was great. I want to hear this one!

Eechay, yikes! I think the place I went to was so bad that the flies couldn't take it.

[JCgoose]

Ok, here goes.

Once, a long time ago in another life, I was a private investigator. For the most part, I used to work for insurance firms on injury related matters, but every once in a while someone would pick my business out of a phone book and request that I do the usual 'I think my husband/wife is cheating on me' bit.

So over I go to this one ladies house, who was convinced that her husband was cheating on her. I ask her the usual battery of questions - Why do you think he's cheating on you, where do you think he is going when he does, is it someone you know - and the other routine questions about what car he drives and where he works, so that I can pick him up out of the parking lot and see where he goes.

She tells me that he is a second hand car dealer - which should have been a pretty big clue that the guy was dodgy, in my view - and that he works at a dealership in a pretty nice part of town. She said that she was convinced he was cheating, because there were long blond hairs in the car when he drives home. He was also coming home later than usual and being evasive about where he was. Usually, if you think your long-term partner is cheating on you, chances are you're correct. I forget the exact statistic but it's in the high 80's that people who are suspicious enough to hire an investigator are usually on the money.

So she hires me and pays me a retainer to follow this guy after work. He usually finishes around 6 or so, the client tells me, and heads straight home - recently he has been getting back about 8 or so.

Ok, I think and get all my kit together and go to a pretty good spot near his work. I pick him up pretty quickly as he wanders about the yard, talking to customers and selling cars. I also have a pretty good idea where his car is parked, and I think I know the route that he will take home, should he go straight home.

Now the thing with private investigation is that it's boring. Really dull. I'm not bad at keeping myself motivated, but after a bunch of hours you are going to get over it and your attention will wander. I must've just missed the guy getting into his car, but I saw a flash of long blond hair and the passenger side door close and the car come to life. Following at a discrete distance, I realised that the wife's initial thoughts that there were long blond hairs in the car were correct - the passenger had a pretty big mane of it.

They don't head towards the guys home at all, and instead head towards a local park area that's pretty well shaded. 'Ah hah' I think, as this part of town is the usual lover's lane type area - it's starting to look pretty likely that this guy is indeed doing the dirty on his wife.

So they park and both get out of the car. Again, I don't get a great look at the passenger or the guy as I am busy parking my car and getting my gear set up - I intended to only get them making out, as anything further is a bit icky. Occasionally some heavy petting or something will be in shot, to really seal the deal but full on sex is definitely a no-no, due to privacy laws. As a rule of thumb, if it's something you can get away with in full view of the public then generally it's ok.

The pair of them get out and sit on the grass, with their backs to me. They lean in and start kissing, then hands start to move a bit - then a fly is undone. As blondie moves over and starts to initiate an act that I am pretty quick to not film, I see their faces for the first time - great for me, as it fully confirms who the two are. Not so great for my client, because not only is she being cheated on - but blondie is actually a guy.

Yep. Really long blond hair, pretty slender build - but definitely, certainly a guy.

Gay porn not really being my thing, I get enough video to confirm that they are indeed 2 dudes making out, then shut off the camera and go back to the client the next day. I insist that she pay me before I hand over the video tape - which she does, her suspicions mounting - then I give her the tape, wish her good luck and then head off - I reckon I got down the end of the driveway before I heard her screech of horror at what she saw....

Goddamn boss...Still you Bryan agrees you'd be an awesome private investigator

[TheLastRifleMan]

Organdonor, yikes! I have kind of been there...

[JCgoose]

Got anymore for us Rifleman?

[TheLastRifleMan]

For you guys, hell yes!

I will be gracious and let you guys pick from the titles of three tales beyond sanity I have in mind:

#1. Close Encounters of the Ugly Naked Kind

#2. "No, those tires will never...!"

#3 Like a Big Fat Transvestite Virgin

[Oneswunk]

Definitely #3 then 1&2

[JCgoose]

Definitely #3 then 1&2

\
yeah got to roll with #3 first I've got work mates waiting to hear this awesomeness

[TheLastRifleMan]

Ok, #3 it shall be.

This happened about 2 years ago with my current place of employment.

We get a call for repairs on a power chair from a city in the next county south of the shop. Looking on Mapquest and Google Earth, etc, I find it that the address is located in one my least favorite dwelling places and the inspiration of many of these tales.

A mobile home park.

My supervisor has been to this place before. As a matter of fact, he delivered the power chair to the guy who called. On the phone, the owner sounds like a 55 year old Brooklyn, NY hot dog vendor who has been smoking Hav-A-Tampa cigars since he was six. Two track roads to my favorite hunting spots were smoother then this guy's voice. He says the back of the seat on his chair has "flopped" over backwards and won't stay up. My supervisor tells me after I hang up the phone that it's a BIG chair with a large, high weight capacity seat. These seats look like they are the fabled "bucket" seats you would find in a custom van from 1977. Wider then they are tall and covered in "naugahide" (I have never heard of a "nauga" farmer and I am not sure how you would even skin one) of a neutral gray color and have at least six inches and multiple layers of foam attached to a 1" square steel tube frame. Even my "sveldt" form barely makes a dent in these things. The size of this seat and brand of the chair tells me two things at once:

a) The owner is big. A whale of a human and
b) I better take along a selection of hardened bolts, nuts, washers and a drill.

The drill, bolts, etc. are to replace any sheared bolts. Unlike most human beings, people this big do not just sit down. They get halfway into a chair, couch, tines of a forklift, etc, let their already atrophied muscles relax and then let gravity take over. The result is somewhat similar to what the dinosaurs felt when the meteor that killed them all struck the Earth. Consequently, it is also very hard on the hardware connecting the seat together. The back on this chair is hinged and has two bolts on each side to keep the back in one of four angles (90 degrees, 80, etc.). This allows the back to be adjusted for comfort. It is also the weakest part of the seat. When a large mass lets gravity pull it towards the center of the planet, even for a short distance, something has to give and it's usually the cheap bolts, nuts and screws that commit suicide.

This is something I have had to fix before and will probably do so again. Hopefully the owner has not squeezed and bent the metal plates and tubing into origami butterflies, resulting in a new seat having to be ordered and the owner calling every fifteen minutes for week wondering why we were not out the next day with a new seat. Yes, they do that.

In a way, I can't blame them since the chair is basically their legs. I have become jaded over the years, I know and it seems like I don't give a rat's ass about the suffering these people go through. But on the other hand a little common sense in using and caring for your "legs" goes a long way. Look at it this way: if your legs were electrical would you use them in the rain or snow, having been told they can't be used for that ? Or, being told they were not made for long distances, still use them to transport yourself through mud, snow, manure, etc. over 20 miles a day? That's how some people treat their scooters and chairs and then scream and holler to the seven heavens when they brake down and then ask me why it happens. There have been times when I had to spit the blood out of my mouth from having to bite my tongue so hard to keep myself from screaming at these people "It's because the Gods hate you and your stupid and lazy!". Called me jaded and cruel. I don't mind because if you don't develop this kind of mindset in my job, you will go insane. Trust me, I have seen it happen.

Enough background. Bolts, drill, tool box, van. All are ready. Off I go. It's a nice early fall day, not too hot, not too cold if your wearing a light jacket, sunshine everywhere. I thought I knew all of the mobile home parks in this but this one is a new one. It takes me a bit to find it and a bit more to find the trailer. It's not a very big park but it has been here a long, long time. The pavement on the streets is cracked and has sunk at least three inches into a quagmire of khaki colored mud, which thankfully was dry at this time. There are no lawns, only brownish patches of vegetation are evident. No trees. At all. The only ones are the conifers growing on the borders along the fence of this "hidden treasure. Some trailers look decent and somewhat cared for while others would make an African refugee look twice before going in. It was one of those kind of mobile homes that my customer was living in.

I go up to the door, noticing this trailer home has no ramp. How does he get out? How did my supervisor get the chair IN? This seems incredible to me as I knock on the door. The sandpaper tuned voice I spoke to on the phone bids me to enter, which I do.

It's dark. Damn dark. Why do these people like the dark? It's always dark in these peoples houses, garages, sheds. I have never heard of an alergy to light but I think 90% of my customers have it. It's 1 pm and it's like 2 am in the Northern woods during a new moon. I see something move on the couch to my left. Or was it the couch that moved? Hard to tell in this forgotten crypt, but I swear by all I hold holy THE FREAKING COUCH MOVED!

A lamp flicks on and there he was. Just enough light to temporarily dazzle my poor eyes then I could see him. A four hundred pound man. Wearing a see through black negligee nightgown, the biggest pair of black lace women's panties I have ever seen, pink bunny slippers and to top off the whole ansemble, the famous Madonna bra, the one with the gold cones and tassels. Only thing missing was the hot pink feather boa.

Yes. True. Dude looked like a fat lady. His faced looked funny and then I realized that he had only shaved two of his four chins, looking like he had parralell fuzzy strips on his face. He pulls a blanket over himself and I go in, thankful for two things: He had the blanket and that I was NOT that blanket. My eyes adjusted to the room and I find the chair and then noticed the walls are covered with framed photographs of young, nude girls. Not with nice bodies, either. All are chubby and look to be under 20. Each girl is different but have the same general body shape, hair style and color and face shape. After doing this job for a while, it takes a lot to give me the shivering creeps but this "guy" has succeeded! I do a once over on the seat and find that indeed he has sheared two of the four bolts that hold it up and he hasn't damaged it too bad. A couple of new hardened bolts, washers and nuts and I pack up, have him sign paperwork and before I even realize it I am halfway to my next stop.

I have not had to go back there, but I have a feeling my time is coming...

[Oneswunk]

Sorry that's my aunt he's a nice girl when ya get to know him.

[skarface]

Wow. Dang.

I think I may have some stories to share, but they're a lot different from all these. I'll have to think about it.


Also, I hope you don't mind that I sigged one of your stories. It was just too hilarious not to.


Oh! I know- do you all want to hear about the memorial service I once did? It was a little funny, and not terrible.

[TheGunslinger]

Goddamn boss...Still you Bryan agrees you'd be an awesome private investigator

Cheers for the vote of confidence, but I wasn't very good - not patient enough and after a while I get bored, so I miss things.

[Istvan56]

I started out in law enforcement as a deputy constable in Utah. For those of you lucky enough to live in United States that do not have constables they are the lowest form of peace officer. Constables are underpaid and under-trained (often untrained) and with limited equipment and authority. You see a constable serves the Justice of the Peace (JP) court, and, in Utah they could be appointed or elected depending on their assigned court. Municipal courts have appointed JP's and constables while the unincorporated precincts in counties have elected JP's and constables. I served in the latter, Precinct 2, Salt Lake County back in the early 1980's.

Now as I said I wasn't a full constable. No, I was one of several deputies working for a constable with big ideas. Most constables work alone or had a handful of deputies at best. Not my boss. She had a full department with her at the top, her daughter as chief deputy, two lieutenants, her niece as office manager plus sixteen deputies including her son-in-law. (Can you say nepotism?)

Later I was promoted to lieutenant of the criminal division (civil division being the other) which meant that I was head of the Goon Squad. The Goon Squad were the heavies of the department that were called out for the tough cases, the ones where a show of force was needed to keep the suspects in line while we executed whatever writ we had from the court. Typically it was a civil matter, which is funny that it was always the criminal division's business to deal with these. The other funny thing about the criminal division and my appointment as its lieutenant was that I was the smallest guy on the squad (at 5'10"), the youngest (at 25) and the newest (at 6 months). In other words I was the dumb rookie that got snookered into doing the job nobody else wanted.

Besides leading the Goon Squad, writing training manuals, sitting on boards of inquiry and such other administrative BS I served as the constable's chauffeur and back-up while she served the occasional bench warrant. The problem being that this was unpaid work when I needed to be out serving paper myself in order to get paid. That's the nasty secret of the job, the only way a deputy gets paid is when he or she serves a summons, subpeona, writ or warrant and even then we only got 45% of the fees, the rest going to the constable. So the pay sucked, it wasn't regular and we didn't have any benefits. If you got shot, tough. Maybe they would start a collection for you. Which is why I didn't stay on full time for long, I realized what risks I was taking for virtually pennies on the dollar.

Fortunately I wasn't ever shot (this was also before we had body armor) and my job was pretty mundane. Most of the time I just got as much civil paper as I could finagle out of the office and acted pretty much like a process server, driving my own car and working in plain clothes. I had the advantage of being able to carry a concealed weapon and had full arrest authority if things went south but the disadvantage of no back-up, no radio, and no cell phone (this was way before they were invented). Plus I had to ID myself as a peace officer when I served paper, unlike a process server who could drop the paper and run.

One day at the office I got handed a civil paper from the district court. When the sheriff is disqualified from serving a paper from that court it falls back on the lower constable to serve it. This was a notice of judgment and writ of attachment for a guy in West Jordan, Utah. It was returned to the office as unserviceable by another deputy so I said I would try it before it got returned to the court. It was, after all, a chance to make a little money. It was only after I had committed myself to serving it I got the full story. The man at the address lived in a small fortress guarded by a pair of mean dogs. Nobody got on his property without getting bit. There wasn't any "No Trespassing" or "Beware of Dogs" signs either, he wanted folks to try it as he was one ornery old cuss.

Well I had committed myself so I got ready. Since nobody was willing to go with me (what and get bit for free?) I "deputized" my 17 year old brother and gave him an old sawed off (legal length) Mossberg 500 shotgun loaded with what I had on hand at the time, No. 7 1/2 birdshot. It was for the dogs, remember, not for the old man, and only if I got in real trouble and needed saving. I told him to wait in my car out of sight and just listen for my cry of help before getting out with the blunderbuss. I could imagine the report I'd have to write up about my brother's involvement but I thought that better safe than sorry.

I was dressed in jeans with a Levi jacket over a blue work shirt. My concealed pistol was a .380 Bernadelli Model 80, basically a single action Walther PP clone. I hoped I didn't have to resort to that. What I carried in my left hand just in case was a large can of tear gas (CS), again this is back before pepperspray (OC) took over the LE market. In my right hand was the court documents. As we pulled up to the house I saw that it wasn't really a fortress but simply an older home not far from the old city hall and police station. There was an eight foot chain link fence but it wasn't locked nor were there any signs to keep out. So I parked my car out of sight and walked up to the pedestrian sized gate and went to open it.

Immediately two mixed breed dogs tear towards me growling and snapping. I closed the gate and pulled my hand back just in time as the larger one (a German Shepard mix) tried to bite it. Instead he got a mouthful of CS which set him aback. The other dog, a bit younger and less brave hung back and merely barked at me. So I tried again to open the gate and this time both dogs lunged at me. I sprayed them both in the eyes and nose which stopped their attacks. Reaching up to the gate handle again they growled and moved forward but as soon as I raised the can they moved six feet back. When I opened it the came at me but I sprayed them again and they realized my can had more reach than they thought. So I was able to enter the premises with the dogs circling me at about 9' away watching for an opening but wary of my CS can.

I made it across the lawn and up to the small cement porch to the front door. The door was open and just the screen door was shut. How anyone could've missed the fuss raised by the dogs was a wonder to me. Then I realized that the dogs going off was such a normal thing that the old guy probably just tuned it out. Or he was hard of hearing. Think the latter was the case I knocked on the wooden frame of the screen door loudly. I hear the scrape of a chair on linoleum floor and a heavily accented "Who's there?" (The name was Serbo-Croatian and this was back when it was still Yugoslavia.)

Naturally I have to identify myself so I pull out my badge wallet and make my declaration that I'm Lieutenant X, a deputy constable from Precinct 2, etc. and he Mr. so and so? That's when the profanities start. This little man, maybe 5'5" tall and in his late 60's (very old for me at the time ) comes walking up to me and asks "What the fxxx do you want?"

I get this now and then so I just tune it out. Most of the time I am able to deliver the paperwork by being polite and explaining that I am an officer of the court, a neutral party. That usually gets enough cooperation that I can get a signature of the person I served the paper to on my proof of service for the court. I could tell this wasn't going to be one of those times. I had to step back to the edge of the porch when the old man shoved open the screen door so I wouldn't be hit. I explain that I have a court order to serve on Mr. so and so and ask again if he is the subject. (This is one of those few documents that have to be served on the person named and not anyone over the age of 14 who resides at the address listed.)

What happened next caught me off guard. It shouldn't have but I was a rookie and back then constables and their deputies weren't allowed to go through the POST academy due to a funding issue with the state. It only got resolved after I resigned. Had I been better trained or more experienced no assault would've occurred and it would've remained at the level of a failed delivery.

Suddenly the little old guy lunges at me and shoves me back off of his porch. I didn't fall, I just had to step back and drop two steps to the walkway to catch myself. It was his willingness to make a fight over something so minor as a civil court order. (I'm writing this the day after a guy blew away a federal court security screener and shot it out with a US deputy marshal in Las Vegas after he lost a court case. I was so naive back then.)

Now I'm debating what level of force to use on the guy. I'm afraid of really hurting him and that getting on the news. He's really worked up and already winded just from pushing me off the porch. He yells, "Get off my property!" I have my can of CS but that could shut his airway down and I don't want to do rescue breathing or CPR on him. So I back away and try to get him to calm down. This just pisses him off more and he is still calling me every name in the book. Now he sics his dogs on me. Only they won't come near me. Foolishly I smile at this and he screams, "What did you do to my dogs?"

That's when I further infuriated him by shrugging innocently. He whirled around looking for a weapon and found a six foot length of two inch wide weather stripping. You know, tin siding that is very thin and bends easily. He pounces on it and whips it at me which I block with my left arm. It feels like he tried to hit me with a piece of paper it was so light of a strike. The man just can't develop enough force to even seriously make me fear for my life. So I can't reasonably justify escalating my force beyond that needed to take him down and handcuff him. But frankly, if I did that he'd be hurt and the dogs might just get over their fear of my CS can and defend him. So I gave ground and exited the gate.

Now while all this is going on my kid brother is getting very concerned. He's hearing the old guy yelling and the barking of the dogs but not me screaming for his help. So he cracks the door and stands up with the shotgun. I turn and wave him back just when the Hulk comes out of the house. I mean big and tough all covered with muscles. He is bigger than any of my Goon Squad members. He comes walking out calling out in a deep booming voice, "What the fxxx are you doing to my dad?"

I am so glad there is a fence and a gate between the Hulk and I but I'm afraid he could knock it down with a flick of his index finger. Still, I'm an officer of the law and have to do my duty. Out comes my badge and I ID myself all over again asking the Hulk if he is Mr. so and so. When he sees the badge and hears the name he simply wilts. He says, "That's my younger brother. What has he done now?" I explain that he lost a civil lawsuit and has a judgment against him. Meanwhile the Hulk's father is still going off. The Hulk turns to him and says, "Dad, knock it off. Okay?" Then he tells me that must be why his brother took off to California, to escape his creditors. I thank the Hulk and turn to head back to my car. There is my brother, again outside of the car with the shotgun looking all big eyed at the Hulk. I wave him back inside and continue on. As I get to my car the last thing I hear from the old man is his final curse in his heavily accented English, "You no good two-bit tin star!" My brother and I look at each other and burst out laughing.

That would've been the end of it but I wanted to touch base with the local cops to warn them about the cranky old cuss. The police station was only down the street three blocks and it took no time to get in there and report on the incident. I mentioned the name and address got me a laugh and smiles. They all knew the guy and his outrageous behavior. Neighbors complained regularly about his language and dogs but there wasn't much the cops could do. I wasn't going to press charges on the attempted assault, after all I wasn't hurt and except for when the Hulk came out wasn't afraid of the guy. We all felt sorry for his dogs as they didn't know any better. So that was that and I returned the writ to the court as unserviceable.

Three months later I got word from the West Jordan PD that the old man had suddenly died of a heart attack. He had worked himself up into a lather for the last time. It seemed like a bit of Cosmic Justice was served and we all were relieved to hear it.

[TheLastRifleMan]

Wow. Dang.

I think I may have some stories to share, but they're a lot different from all these. I'll have to think about it.


Also, I hope you don't mind that I sigged one of your stories. It was just too hilarious not to.


Oh! I know- do you all want to hear about the memorial service I once did? It was a little funny, and not terrible.

Hell yeah! Anything job related you have will work. Go for it.

Istvan, wow. Just read you last post and have to say that was a good one!

[skarface]

Ok, here goes: I was asked to say a couple of prayers for a guy who had recently passed away (2 days before), as I am a minister (don't tell nobody!). I said 'sure'. They said ok- come to 'x' place. There'll be food, as it's a restaurant and bar.

Ok...kind of weird, but ok- his body is going back to Chicago, and his friends want some prayers said. Fine.

So, I go there, it's a Friday night, and it's definitely a bar. The only food is that which was brought by the family (fried chicken!), and it was smoky, and they had bottles of beer for $1 (yes, of course I got one).

So, here I am in a bar, in my clerical clothes, saying prayers for a guy I don't know very well. I did so, and the people really seemed to like it- I guess they don't get a lot of preachers in their bar. I hung out a little, and talked to the people there (most were normal, some were weird). It was the best memorial service I've done so far- quick with beer included and low expectations. Woo!

[Subdiver]

Brer's line locker story has inspired me. Incidentally, those free floods are rank on their own, but after 6 months of 3 knots to nowhere, cracked open in Guam, in the summer... I can't even imagine post deployment raccoon.

Long, long ago, in a submarine far, far away...

On my second boat, we were out merrily punching holes in the ocean one day, and everybody's (least) favorite Machinist's Mate was on watch. We'll call him Butter-teeth, cause that's what we called him, was on watch. We called him Butter-teeth, 'cause he had a bit of a hygenic aversion (which is the absolute worst quality you can bring on a sub) in addition to being about as smart as a badly used diaper. If you have those qualities, your fellow submariners are not very nice to you. Ever. This guy was so incompetent, his Chief hated to put him on the watchbill as the roving watch, but the only other place for him was diving and driving the boat, and the CO said "Hell no!" So there he was. The A-gang Chief figured it would be alright, as he had a supervisor in the Machinery Room with whom he had to constantly check in with, and would only be on watch for 6 hours at a pop. Fat chance! Ole' Butter-teeth's duties in this case entailed a number of rather important functions, such as making sure we had enough high pressure air in the banks to blow to the top, checking hydraulic pressures, various gauges, and tank levels. Most notably the Sanitary tanks. The poop tanks. Well, our intrepid zero relieved the watch with an almost full tank one time, and rather than simply pumping the tank (this was one of those new-fangled L.A. boats, not like my first one, where the San tanks are blown overboard, which creates its own set of hi-fucking-larious stories, but I digress) he decides to simply log the tank at slightly higher levels each hour in hope of not having to pump it. Well, the San #2 overflow on this particular boat happens to be in a crew's berthing space in lower level forward. So, I get off watch, and head (no pun intended) down to the Machinery Room to have a smoke, and what do I find? The entire passageway, and the adjoining crews space about 3 inches deep in a wonderful soup of urine and sailor feces, and Ole' Butter-teeth (now dis-qualified from his watch) with a dustpan and a bucket, shoveling soup. By himself. For about 4 hours, until the new guys and part of B-T's division came to give him a hand bleaching the shit out of everything. At that time, I bunked in a middle-level bunk room. It was a good smoke.

They were still picking dried shit out of nooks and crannies two years later when I left.

[TheGunslinger]

Hot holy damn, that kicks ass.

Navy stories are always going to top Army ones, but here's another one for you.

I was duty officer at one of our military facilities during one of the annual field exercises for my battalion a number of years ago.

Now whilst there were frequently fun and interesting things to do for all ranks, such as patrolling through the bush very slowly, getting into fire fights with make believe enemies, pretending to bus and de-bus from helicopters whilst waiting to actually bus and de-bus from helicopters, running noobs on practice shoots for the upteenth time sometimes we actually got bored. Incredible, I know, but that's the Army for you.

Anyway, Digger number 1 decides to take a kip on his rack for a few hours before the next boring task we get allocated. Digger number 2 thinks that it's hilarious to put a tube of sweetened condensed milk in the microwave for a few seconds so that it is just about body temperature.

He then proceeds to pull out his dick and make himself stand to attention - all the while his 'mate' dozes. He unzips his fly, points his peter at the guy then proceeds to squirt the warm sweetened condensed milk all over the other guys face.

The guy wakes up, sees a purple headed junket thrower staring him literally in the eye and feels what has just spattered on his face and jumps to the not inconceivable notion that his friend has just finished masturbating all over him.

So he leaps up with a roar that shook the firmament and took off after his friend with the intent to literally kill him. We knew this because he was roaring at the top of his voice that he would do so whilst his friend sprinted away, laughing like a drain.

I only found out about this later - at the time I was walking across the parade ground, cursing my luck that I was going to be spending Boxing day sitting next to a phone praying that it didn't ring, because it was connected to the 4 RAR Commando duty room and it ringing would mean something serious actually had happened (it did ring, but that's another story entirely). So I was walking and muttering when I see a soldier with his penis hanging out in a flat sprint running across the parade ground, with another one also moving very fast behind him.

Just as the first soldier started to begin to tire and the second looked as if he was about to extract terminal vengeance, soldier number 2 stops and says 'ah, it was just condensed milk, you fucker!' and laughs it off - prompting number 1 to exclaim 'mate, you thought that was semen. How did you tell it wasn't - shit, you tasted it didn't you!? If you thought another man had come on your face, you'd eat it?!'

And that, ladies and gents is how soldier number 1 was nicknamed 'Cumlips' for the rest of eternity.