A Sickening Amount Of Fraud

, , , , , | Right | December 26, 2017

(An obviously drunk woman comes up with a paper bag, swaying.)

Woman: “I have… a reservation. [Woman].”

Me: “Okay, can I see the credit card that will be used?”

(She brings the bag up to her nose and THROWS UP in it. My stomach churns and I back off a bit.)

Woman: “My daddy called and said that he was going to pay for it!”

Me: “Ma’am, I can’t give you a room unless I swipe the card.”

Woman: “Why?” *throws up some more*

Me: “It’s the rules.”

Woman: “Can’t you just make an exception for once? I’m sick and everything! Don’t you people have a heart?!”

Me: “No, sorry. It’s to prevent credit card fraud.”

Woman: “Fine!”

(She turned and stumbled away, hopped in her car, and drove off… straight into a street lamp! The cops were called and she was arrested. I wonder if her daddy bailed her out?)

You Have To Have A Lot Of Bottle To Act Like That

, , , , | Working | November 15, 2017

(I’m the bride in this story. For our reception we have purchased and provided all of the alcohol, in order to have an open bar, and hired a bartender to serve it. Because we purchased it, the alcohol is ours to do with as we please, and that means taking home any left over at the end of the night. Partway through the reception, I decide to change out of my wedding dress into something simpler — still a fancy white dress, just shorter and easier to dance in. My hair is still all done up, etc. Near the end of the night I approach the bar and order a drink, and I decide to see how our stock is doing since we were unsure how much to buy to accommodate the length of the event and our large guest list.)

Me: “So, how are things going? How much rum and vodka are left? Did we go through all the wine?”

Bartender: *giving me a once-over with a look of disdain on her face* “You do not need to know how much alcohol there is. It’s not your concern.”

(I am stunned but don’t want to have any drama on my wedding night, so I just shrug and go back to the party. At the end of the night there are just a few of us cleaning up, and one of my cousins comments on how much he loves one of the wines we were serving.)

Me: *handing my cousin an unopened bottle of the wine* “Here, take this bottle, then; there’s some left over and we don’t need it all!”

Cousin: “Thanks!”

(He takes it, only for the bartender to snatch it back and tell him he can’t just take leftover alcohol. I am a bit annoyed at this point.)

Me: “Actually, all of the alcohol was paid for and supplied by us, so if I want to give him this bottle to take home, I will.”

(The bartender sort of froze and stared at me before one of her coworkers pulled her away. She ended up apologizing profusely to me; apparently she didn’t recognize me out of my wedding dress. She thought I was a guest fishing around for alcohol to take home, despite the fact that she met with us more than once prior to the wedding and I was still in a fancy white dress!)

That’s A Foreign Concept To Me

, , , , | Working | November 8, 2017

(I am part of a group of Belgian university students on a weekend trip to Dublin. We are aged between 18 and 25. One evening we’re on our way back to our hostel when we stop at a nearby supermarket to buy some snacks and drinks. The store only has self check-out computers and no regular registers. In Belgium, it’s quite unusual to get asked to show an ID when buying alcohol, so we don’t realise that our drinks don’t scan properly. An employee notices and comes up to us.)

Employee: “Can you show me an ID, please? The computer won’t allow you to scan alcohol without your age being checked first.”

(All of us start searching our wallets for ID cards. One of us hands over hers and the employee takes it to his computer. A minute later he returns.)

Employee: “I’m afraid I can’t accept your ID. You won’t be able to buy any alcohol here.”

Student: “But I’m twenty-five!”

Employee: “I know, but our computer only recognises Irish and British IDs. We are not allowed to accept any others.”

Student: “So, you can’t sell alcohol to tourists?”

Employee: “Not unless they hold an Irish or British ID.”

(We pay for the snacks and go searching for a store that will sell us alcohol, which we find quite easily. The employee in this story was very correct, and I understand that policies are in place to prevent under-aged people from buying alcohol. To me, a policy banning foreigners from buying as well seems to go a bit far, though.)

73 Reasons To Get Your ID

, , , , | Right | November 7, 2017

(My grandma worked as a convenience store clerk from her early 60s until she was well into her 70s. I am visiting, and she has to work one of the days of my visit, so I take her to work so I can borrow her car for the day. I get there just before the end of her shift to pick her up, and I am hanging around when a customer brings a 12-pack of beer up to the counter.)

Grandma: “Good afternoon! Can I see your ID?”

Customer: “Aw, man, what? I’m 32!”

Grandma: “I saw you drive up, and you know you’re required to have your license with you when you drive, so let’s see it.”

Customer: “Yeah, it’s in the glovebox. You’re going to make me go out and get it? I really am 32!”

Grandma: “Well, sir, I’m not that good at judging ages. I’m an old lady; you all look like babies to me!”

Customer: “Aw, c’mon, you’re not that old.”

Grandma: “Tell you what. You guess how old I am, and if you get within five years, then I’ll take your word for how old you are.”

Customer: “Okay! I’d say you’re… mid-fifties. If I have to be specific… 54.”

(Grandma reaches in the pocket of her uniform shirt and pulls out her own license.)

Grandma: “I’m 73!”

Customer: *pauses* “I guess I’ll go get my license, then.”

(He actually did go get it, and he really was 32! Grandma told me later that she did that all the time to cut off the argument, and nobody had ever guessed over 60. Today, she’s 94 and could pass for a spry 75, with less than half of her hair gone to gray.)

Arkansas That Coming

, , , , , , | Right | November 6, 2017

(In Arkansas there are “dry counties” where no alcohol is sold. While returning home from a long drive along I-40, I stop at a gas station in one of these “dry counties.” The cashier is ringing up my order when a man cuts in line to ask a question. He is clearly from out of state.)

Customer: “Where is the beer?”

Cashier: “I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t sell alcohol in this county.”

Customer: “You’re kidding me. Are you all a bunch of redneck hicks or something in Arkansas? It’s just beer! That’s crazy!”

Cashier: “I’m sorry, sir; it’s the law. We’re a dry county. In about 15 miles, Pulaski County is a wet county.”

Customer: “You’re all a bunch of idiots! I shouldn’t have to drive that far. It’s just beer!”

Cashier: “I’m sorry I can’t help you. You will have to drive about 15 miles.”

Customer: “Fine, a**hole!” *storms out the door*

Cashier: *to me* “I’m sorry about that. Will that be all?”

Me: “You realize it’s Sunday, right?”

(No alcohol can be sold in all of Arkansas on Sunday in any county.)

Cashier: “Oh, crap! That’s right!”

(To this day, I’m not sure if he was being sarcastic or not.)

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