Literally Scream For Ice Cream, Part 7

, , , , | Right | April 9, 2021

It is in the middle of summer when leaving your car for even just ten minutes can leave the inside feeling like an oven. A lady walks in carrying a grocery bag bearing our logo, with an ice cream carton inside. I’m working at the customer service desk when she approaches.

Customer: “Hello, um, I’m really embarrassed, but I bought this ice cream earlier, and I forgot it in my car, and now it’s all melted.”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Customer: “Yes. I was wondering, would it be possible for me to exchange it?”

Me: “Um, I’m not sure. I don’t think I can do that, but—”

I was going to say that I would check with my manager and see if he would allow it, but the woman cuts me off, her entire attitude flipping from apologetic to outraged.


She was screaming at the top of her lungs, and spittle was actually flying into my face even as I leaned back in shock. My manager hurried out of the back room at the sound of the commotion, but before he could speak up, the woman hurled the bag across the counter toward us. It missed me and the carton splattered open, spilling melted ice cream everywhere, while the lady kept screaming at us.

My manager ended up escorting her out, telling her not to come back, though I don’t think he officially processed anything to ban her, and I got to work cleaning up the melted ice cream.

Literally Scream For Ice Cream, Part 6
Literally Scream For Ice Cream, Part 5
Literally Scream For Ice Cream, Part 4
Literally Scream For Ice Cream, Part 3
Literally Scream For Ice Cream, Part 2

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And That’s How The Ninth Cookie Crumbles

, , , | Right | April 5, 2021

I work at a sandwich store which is connected to a gas station. There’s no wall separating the two, so both places can hear everything on both sides. My coworker and I have just rung up a couple’s order, and the man asks for eight cookies. As we take out the eight cookies he wants, he begins to yell at us.

Customer: “Where is my ninth cookie?!”

Me: “Sir, you ordered eight cookies.”

Customer: “Why would I have to pay more for a cookie I already bought?!”

Me: “You only bought eight cookies. If you want another, it’ll be $0.78.”

I continue to explain to him that he’ll have to buy another cookie for the ninth one. At this point, he’s not even arguing, just yelling.

Customer: “This is not my problem!”

Me: “I know, sir. I never said it was.”

I even take his receipt and show him that he was charged for eight cookies. As he continues to yell that it isn’t his problem, I am getting overwhelmed, so I have to step back so I won’t go off on him. Midway, he starts hacking and coughing himself blue.

A gas station employee has to ask what was happening. His wife, having said nothing this entire time, finally speaks.

Customer’s Wife: “Just shut up and go!”

She pushed her husband to leave and apologized.

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Failing The Name Game: Spanish Edition

, , , , , | Right | March 24, 2021

I have an unusual name that many people mispronounce but usually can get right with some correction. My workplace also sees a lot of native Spanish speakers.

I have just finished ringing a customer up.

Customer: “Your name is [Incorrect Name]?”

Me: “It’s [Correct Name].”

Customer: “[Incorrect Name].”

One of my regular customers has queued up behind the customer. He speaks both English and Spanish.

Me: “[Correct Name]. I know, it’s a weird name.”

Customer: “Are you sure? Because in Spanish it would be [Incorrect Name].”

Me: “I’m sure. It’s [Correct Name]. Have a nice day.”

The customer starts to leave slowly, letting my regular come up. My regular smirks and speaks very loudly.

Regular: “Hola, [Correct Name]. ¿Cómo estás?”

Me: “Bien. ¿Y tú?”

This is about the limit of my Spanish and most of my regulars know this, but this regular still looked back and grinned at the other customer, who had suddenly picked up his pace!

Failed The Name Game, Part 9
Failed The Name Game, Part 8
Failed The Name Game, Part 7
Failed The Name Game, Part 6
Failed The Name Game, Part 5

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Unmasking The Excuses, Part 2

, , , , | Right | March 19, 2021

It is February 2021. A customer comes up to my desk for me to take her details. She keeps fussing with her mask and actually pulls it away from her face to speak. 

Me: “Ma’am, could you please keep your mask tight to your face? When you pull it away to speak, anything that might be in your breath just goes around the sides while you’re speaking.”

She lets go of her mask and squishes the nosepiece down onto her nose.

Customer: “Oh, okay. Is this better?”

Me: “Yes, thank you.”

Customer: “It’s just so hard to talk and breathe with the mask on, you know?”

No, lady, it really isn’t. I’m an essential worker and have been wearing a mask all day, every day, since last March, without whining about it. If your lungs are literally so delicate that you can’t breathe while wearing a mask, you should absolutely not be going out.

Unmasking The Excuses

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Dinner And The Worst Kind Of Show

, , , | Right | March 19, 2021

My husband and I went on our weekly date night to a teppanyaki — a restaurant where the chefs cook and perform in front of a shared table. We decided on a new location, but it was a chain so we knew the food would be good. We had a reservation at seven pm and barely made it since I work forty-five minutes from home and traffic was bad. As we were only two people, we knew we would be seated fairly quickly when seats came available.

While we waited, there was another party in the lobby. They were waiting on one more person, so they couldn’t be seated yet per policy. Soon after we got there, about ten minutes, we sat down, and we already knew what we were going to order. The other party was seated with us. They were still missing one person, but apparently, they’d told the staff their last member was parking. First major red flag from them.

After they sat, we ordered our food, but they only got appetizers. After we ordered, we both went back to our books we’d brought, hoping they would order soon since we were starving. Twenty minutes went by and their last member wasn’t there yet. The waitress, who was busting her a** with work — she literally had to climb around them all night long to get their dirty dishes and none of them were bothered to even move or acknowledge her existence — asked them to order.

They told her to do our order first and she informed them that we had been ready for twenty minutes already. One of them said, “Oh, s***,” and they were all forced to order. After this, their last member finally arrived. Apparently, he had gone home to change and then come to the restaurant. No one before this was even looking out for their party member. Next red flag.

After five minutes, the chef arrived and my husband and I noticed he was having an off day. He was just focused more on the cooking than on entertaining, which is a big draw with these places. He did the catching of the vegetables so quickly that barely anyone had time to react. We didn’t blame him, though, since he looked down in the dumps. My husband and I were watching the whole time, mesmerized by his cooking and literally drooling over the food. Meanwhile, the other party was not even paying attention to him or anything, all on their phones in their own worlds.

Once the food was served and we were all good, we tipped the chef well since he did a wonderful job. Usually, when we go to places like this, all parties tip the chef. This time? Nothing. Not even a thank-you to him except from us. That’s when it really clicked for us what kind of people our tablemates were.

Later, we found out the table next to us was delayed because of how long our table took. They had long finished their appetizers, and were waiting since our table was barely making an effort for efficiency. They did not look pleased, but they were nice about it when the waitress said the chef would be there in a few and apologized for the wait. When our chef finally arrived at the table next to us, he was friendly to us and said hi, to which we replied, “Oh, hello again!” with huge smiles. He didn’t even say anything to the other party members at the table. I liked that little motion and wished we would have tipped him more.

We paid for our check and left a good tip for the waitress, since she had busted her a** and we really appreciated it. We left, said a reluctant goodbye to the other party — we usually say goodbye to the parties we share tables with — and got in our car. We both immediately agreed that they were “those” kinds of people — here in Arizona we call it having a “Scottsdale vibe.”

I hope that the chef gets huge tips for the rest of the week and that everything gets better for him. To the chef and the waitress, y’all are doing amazing jobs! Keep it up!

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