Generally, we tell our kids to call 911 if they ever need help. But one child took the lesson to a completely new level!
The child was experiencing problems with his homework, so he made the decision to call for help. Since 911 was the only number he knew, he took up the phone and dialed it. Is it true that the people listed on this number are ones that need help? Indeed. I think he was right someplace, too.
The operator who was answering began asking the standard questions. Following a lengthy period of miscommunication, the operator discovered that the child truly had difficulty with math problems.
The entire phone call they had is available below. We were really amused by this and laughed a lot. The YouTube video is also available at the conclusion of the article.
Operator: emergency 911
Boy: I do require assistance.
Operator: What’s wrong?
Boy: Using my arithmetic.
Operator: Using your lips?
Boy: Not using my math. I must complete it. Are you going to assist me?
Operator: Alright. What city do you reside in?
Boy: I can’t do the math.
Operator: You’re right, I understand. But where do you live?
Boy: No, I’d rather have a phone conversation with you.
Operator: I’m not able to do it. I can dispatch another person to assist you.
Boy: Alright.
Operator: What type of math problems are you having trouble with?
Boy: These are my takeaways.
Operator: You must complete the takeaways, I see.
Boy: Certainly
Operator: Okay, so what’s the issue?
Boy: I need your assistance with my math.
Operator: Alright, explain the arithmetic to me.
Boy: Alright. What is 8 minus 16?
Operator: You inform me. How much do you estimate it to be?
Boy: I have no idea, 1.
Operator: Not at all. What is your age?
Boy: I’m just four years old.
Operator: Four!
Boy: Certainly.
Operator: What’s the next issue? That was a difficult one.
Boy: Well, this one’s here. Five things to take away.
Operator: Five minus five, what do you think that is worth?
Boy: five
Female: Johnny What are you doing, exactly?
Boy: I’m getting help with my math from the policeman.
Woman: Did I mention that I was going to call you?
Operator: The mother is here.
Boy: You told me to call someone if I needed assistance.
Woman: The police aren’t who I meant!
She inquired, “What’s the price for the eggs?” The elderly seller responded, “0.25 cents per egg
The old egg seller, his eyes weary and hands trembIing, continued to sell his eggs at a loss. Each day, he watched the sun rise over the same cracked pavement, hoping for a miracle. But the world was indifferent. His small shop, once bustling with life, now echoed emptiness.
The townspeople hurried past him, their footsteps muffled by their own worries. They no longer stopped to chat or inquire about the weather. The old man’s heart sank as he counted the remaining eggs in his baskets. Six left. Just six. The same number that the woman had purchased weeks ago.
He remembered her vividly—the woman with the determined eyes and the crisp dollar bill. She had bargained with him, driving a hard bargain for those six eggs. “$1.25 or I will leave,” she had said, her voice firm. He had agreed, even though it was less than his asking price. Desperation had cIouded his judgment.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The old seller kept his promise, selling those six eggs for $1.25 each time. He watched the seasons change—the leaves turning from green to gold, then falling to the ground like forgotten dreams. His fingers traced the grooves on the wooden crate, worn smooth by years of use.
One bitter morning, he woke to find frost cIinging to the windowpane. The chill seeped through the cracks, settling in his bones. He brewed a weak cup of tea, the steam rising like memories. As he sat on the same wooden crate, he realized that he could no longer afford to keep his small shop open.
The townspeople had moved on, their lives intertwined with busier streets and brighter lights. The old man packed up his remaining eggs, their fragile shells cradled in his weathered hands. He whispered a silent farewell to the empty shop, its walls bearing witness to countless stories—the laughter of children, the haggling of customers, and the quiet moments when he had counted his blessings.
Outside, the world was gray—a canvas waiting for a final stroke. He walked the familiar path, the weight of those six eggs heavier than ever. The sun peeked through the clouds, casting long shadows on the pavement. He reached the edge of town, where the road met the horizon.
And there, under the vast expanse of sky, he made his decision. With tears in his eyes, he gently placed the eggs on the ground. One by one, he cracked them open, releasing their golden yoIks. The wind carried their essence away, a bittersweet offering to the universe.
The old egg seller stood there, his heart as fragile as the shells he had broken. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. And in that quiet moment, he whispered a prayer—for the woman who had bargained with him, for the townspeople who had forgotten, and for himself.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, he turned away from the empty road. His footsteps faded, leaving behind a trail of memories. And somewhere, in the vastness of the universe, six golden yolks danced—a silent requiem for a forgotten dream.
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