My husband and I order pizza for delivery using a deal code, plus some extra sides. When the delivery guy shows up, he gives me everything except the drink I ordered.

Me: “What about the drink?”

Driver: “Drink? What did you order?”

Me: “A 1.25-litre Coke.”

Driver: *Looks at the receipt* “There’s no drink on here.”

Me: “In the deal?”

The driver rolls his eyes, starts getting grumpy, and admits there is a drink on my order. He checks his car but confirms he forgot it. 

Driver: “I’ll have to go back and get it for you.”

He lingers for a moment like he’s hoping I’ll tell him not to worry about it, but I just nod and thank him.

Husband: “He’s not coming back. Hear how he was talking? Let’s keep an eye on the time so we can call the shop if he doesn’t show again.”

But to my husband’s surprise, there is a knock at the door twenty minutes later, and the grumpy driver slams a bottle of soda into my husband’s hands and storms off.

My husband begins to say the driver must not be too bad after all, but then he opens the Coke and it begins to spray foam all over the bench, obviously shaken up just before delivery.

Thankfully, we opened it in the kitchen, so it is quick to move to the sink, and the benches and floors are easy to clean.

Husband: “I wish he hadn’t come back.”

My mum and I are in the queue in a hardware store, and the lady serving has a sign on the till that says that she is deaf.

A customer behind us in the queue is trying to get the cashier’s attention, huffing and puffing, and talking s*** at her for being slow. (The person she is serving has a cart full of items.)

All of a sudden, he really loses his temper.

Customer: *Screaming* “What the f*** is wrong with you?! Are you f****** deaf?!”

I have never, ever seen so many people turn round in unison and give one person the death stare! My mum, pipes up, pointing to the sign on the till.

Mum: “What the f*** is wrong with you?! Are you f****** blind?!”

The guy went redder than I have ever seen anyone go and skulked out, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

We have a new guy who was an hour and a half late the first day. He was brought in by his mum, which I thought was kinda odd for a grown man (he’s twenty-six). I let that slide but then things just got worse.

We work in a small roadside cafe/eatery, so I thought I’d get him started on small duties to ease him into the way of the place.

Me: “Can you put new toilet paper in the toilets?”

A minute or so later I hear him yelling:

New Starter: “[My Naaaaaame!], it won’t fit on the toilet roll holder!”

I tell him to bring it to me so I can show him; he’s carrying a roll of paper towel; it’s almost three times the length of the toilet roll holder.

Me: “Clive, that is a paper towel.”

New Starter: “No, it’s not.”

Me: “Yes, it is! Have you ever seen toilet paper that big in your life?”

New Starter: “Uh… no.”

Me: “Right, furthermore, and probably more perplexing – can you not see that this massive roll couldn’t possibly fit on this small bar?”

New Starter: “Yeah, I thought that was odd.”

Oh boy…

The day goes on and after the kitchen is pretty much closed except for pre-cooked baked goods, I get him to give it a general clean and ask to make sure he wipes down all the benches. I leave him to it as I assume he’s doing fine.

One of the other staff comes out.

Other Staff: “We’ve run out of toilet paper.”

Me: “What? That’s not possible.”

Sure enough, all the packs are torn open and empty except for the rolls on the holders. At this stage, I realize there can only be one culprit, and call Clive over.

Me: “Did you do something with the toilet paper?”

What is with this guy and toilet paper?

New Starter: “Yes, I used it to wipe down the benches in the kitchen.”

Me: “You used eight rolls of toilet paper to wipe down the benches in the kitchen?! Why are you using toilet paper to wipe down benches?”

New Starter: “I don’t like using the dishcloth.”

Me: “Who taught you to wipe down benches with toilet paper? Have you ever seen anyone wipe down benches with toilet paper?”

New Starter: “The cloth was dirty, and I didn’t want to clean it out.”

By this stage I’m thinking, the day is nearly over, just let it go and I’m sure it will work out fine…

I get him on serving customers pastries and the like because all you have to do is take it out of the glass bay, put it on a plate, and give it to them – he doesn’t even have to ring it up – just pop on the plate and give it out.

One of the customers orders three scones with jam and cream. He’s behind the counter doing his thing and I have a little peek and see, yes, he’s cut them in half and managed to put jam and cream on them. About a minute later the customer brings the scones back up to the counter:

Customer: “There’s something really hard in these scones, I bit down and it was like crunching on a rock or something.”

Me: *Puzzled.* “Oh, I’m really sorry about that—”

New Starter: *Cutting in.* “It’s probably just the seeds in the jam.”

Now there’s something about the way he says this that makes my alarm bells ring.

Me: “Show me what you put on these scones.”

I start marching toward the prep bench. Sitting on the bench is the bowl of whipped cream, and next to it, in a plastic bag, is a broken glass jar which contains the jam – this guy is FEEDING THE CUSTOMER BROKEN GLASS.

New Starter: “I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”

Me: “Are you f****** insane?!”

I grab the plate of mostly uneaten glass-infused scones.

Me: “How is anyone supposed to eat this?!”

To my utter… UTTER amazement he proceeds to EAT THEM, in front of me, all the while crunching on glass and flinching every time he does. I’m paralyzed dumbfounded. When he finishes eating them, he says:

New Starter: “Do you think I should go to the hospital?”

Me: “You’re fired.”

Related:
Clive Strikes Again!
Some Problems Tend To Stick Around

I’m in my late twenties and am currently the assistant manager of my entire store. I have a bit of a baby face at the best of times and got this job when I was twenty-five, so I’m pretty used to people scoffing when they hear I’m the manager.

I took six months off last year to deal with my divorce from my controlling, horrible ex-husband. (I would not recommend getting married at eighteen, kids!) As soon as I was free of him, I checked what was and wasn’t allowed in our dress code and finally started expressing myself the way I had desperately always wanted to.

It is the day I get back from my leave of absence. A regular problem customer is barking orders at one of my team and demands to speak to the manager, and she pages me down.

Customer: *Still yelling at my poor cashier* “…and I don’t want to talk to that mousy little thing who looks like she should still be in high school! Get me a real manager!”

Me: “That would be me, mate.”

The customer turned around and found me standing behind him. Gone was the shy person with the cross necklace, thick glasses, and light brown hair. My hair was now in an electric green pixie cut, I had tattoos covering both forearms and a nose ring, and I was wearing contact lenses.

We don’t wear uniforms in my store, so he was used to seeing me in the “modest” dresses my husband allowed me to wear. I’ve gotten REALLY into suits, so I was wearing dress pants, a black button-up shirt with some cool little chain details on the pocket, and combat boots that also had chains on the sides.

I really did expect more pushback, but the customer meekly apologized to my giggling cashier and scurried off into the night. I’ve never felt more confident or powerful.

I’m a foster home for dogs attached to the local pound. Sadly, that means a lot of dogs that make their way to my house have frankly seen some s*** and are not the friendliest of animals when they first arrive. I am known in our community for taking on the worst cases and mostly getting really good outcomes. I work from home at my part-time job, so people usually attribute it to the extra time I have to help the dogs adjust. I’ll tell anyone who will listen that it’s not me; it’s my three permanent dogs.

My first dog is a massive Doberman/cane corso mix named Silly. I got him when he was a year old — his name was Brutus back then — after his owner was arrested for dealing drugs. He came to me emaciated, constantly growling and snapping, with an untreated broken tail that had healed crooked and looked like an absurd flag sticking out of his butt. After a lot of hard work, he is now living his best life as a part-time scarf. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a 60-kg (132-lb) dog try and drape himself across your shoulders for a cuddle, but it’s an experience.

I think Silly does ambassador work for me; he’s always the first one to try to befriend the new dogs, showing them the best napping spots and refusing a treat unless I give all the other dogs a treat, too. If a scuffle breaks out, he shambles into the middle of it all and breaks it up. You don’t have much option but to move out of his way when he lumbers towards you. I haven’t heard him growl in years, but he is a big fan of lifting his head when the others are acting up and letting out a deafening bark, at which point the others all settle down. He is truly King Silly at my house.

My second dog is a golden retriever/lab mix named Butters. He is our playtime rehabilitation specialist. He failed out of being a service dog for being too dang friendly, and I wound up with him instead. I have seen numerous dogs come into my care who either never knew what a ball was or have forgotten. Worry not; Butters will show them! Every time I get a new dog come through, after meeting said dog, Butters digs and snuffles through the multiple toy baskets and produces what he believes is this dog’s ultimate toy. I have no idea what his criteria for choosing is. All I know is that every time he’s done it, that dog has figured out how to play within a week and that is, in fact, their favourite toy.

Butters is a big fan of chasey and loves a game of fetch, but he will also turn into a giant cat over a laser pointer. It’s hard to ignore his excitement and gentle good nature, so the others almost always join in. It’s lovely to watch a stray who was terrified of their own shadow turn into a giant overgrown puppy playing with Butters, who will play tug of war with anything but treats the new dogs so gently and always lets them win.

My third dog is a German Shepherd mixed with something round— either a pitbull, a staffy, or a boxer. He’s got long fur and stumpy little legs and a wee bit of bobblehead syndrome; despite being built like a barrel, his head is still too big for his body, and he looks a tiny bit like a child’s drawing of a dog. I only have him because an elderly man’s children bought him for their dad for companionship and he couldn’t keep up with caring for him, so instead, we go visit the man once a week so he can see his old owner.

He is the group therapist and I affectionately call him Doctor Timber, though he’ll answer to Doc or Timber. More than once, I have found him sitting quietly with a new recruit who is watching Butters act like a fool with the other dogs but is too scared to join in. He doesn’t mind if you want to sit down and not participate; he’ll sit right down with you so you aren’t alone. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him sleep alone when we have a new dog in the mix; he’s always snuggled up either next to or in their bed with them so they won’t be lonely in the night. His favourite thing is when we get puppies in. They firmly become Doc’s little shadows within a day as he teaches them how to dog.

I once had a dog come in who had been beaten severely by his previous owners and was snarling at everyone and everything who came near. This was the closest call I have ever had with a dog biting me. I have been bitten a bunch of times — it comes with the territory — but this one was simply so scared that he couldn’t calm down enough to stop. I’d climbed onto my kitchen counter to create some distance. Doc came charging in, and I tried to scramble down to separate them — I didn’t want Doc getting hurt — but whatever Doc said in “Dog” was enough. By the time I got onto the floor, the barky, snarly mess had stopped, and I was looking at a very scared but very contrite bull terrier who wouldn’t look at me but came shuffling forward to lay next to my feet and look ashamed of himself. Doc never touched the dog, and the dog never touched him, but he certainly made him chill out. 

Any time anyone says I do the best work with difficult dogs, I laugh. I don’t do the work; I just have the thumbs to open the food, the credit card to pay the vet, and the car to go to the dog park. I am, at best, the office manager of my trio, who are healing dogs one intake at a time!

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