Not At The Top(ping) Of The Hiring Pile

, , , , , | | Right | May 26, 2018

(A customer has just asked to mix two sundae flavors together. She picks the two flavors that have the most toppings in them. They’re hell to top on their own; together is going to be miserable. My manager clarifies with her in case she doesn’t realize exactly what comes with each.)

Manager: “Ma’am, that is a lot of toppings to put in. That’s going to be two different kinds of cookie pieces, chocolate chips, peanut butter, strawberries, and cheesecake pieces; are you sure that’s what you want?”

Customer: “Jesus f****** Christ! Can you do it or not?”

Manager: *gritting his teeth* “I’ll have that right out.”

Customer: “Hey, wait, can I have an application? Are you hiring?”

(Later, after she’s finished her application, she waves me over impatiently from where I’m busy taking an order so she can ask me to get my manager back to her.)

Manager: “I really won’t be hiring for another month, just so you know.”

Customer: “Well, can’t you just hire sooner?”

(I asked my manager if he would consider her, because she seemed like a bundle of sunshine to work with, but he said no.)

Not Even Remotely Possible

, , , , , | | Related | May 26, 2018

(Growing up, my father had real temper issues. Often when faced with a simple problem he would become unstuck. When this happened, rather than just solving the problem, he would inevitably throw a temper tantrum and start blaming people. One Christmas, we get a PlayStation and we are absolutely thrilled. Our dad, on the other hand, seems to object to it and is constantly moaning about it’s “wasting electricity” and how playing it will “make us stupid!” Over the holidays, we decide to have a party, and we invite most of the neighbours. To keep the kids entertained, we set up the PlayStation in the living room and we all take turns playing on it. Afterwards, we are clearing up, and suddenly I hear my dad making angry noises from the living room.)

Dad: “[MY NAME], GET IN HERE NOW!”

(Nervously, I make my to the living room. I’m not sure how I could be in trouble since we cleaned up and tidied away the console and all the games, and hoovered the room. When I get there, my dad looks really frustrated and is holding the TV remote in his hand.)

Dad: “YOUR BLOODY PLAYSTATION HAS BROKEN THE REMOTE!”

Me: “Sorry… What?”

Dad: “YOU HEARD ME! NOW FIX IT!”

Me: “Dad, that’s not even possible; the remote is not connected to it!”

Dad: “No, you left that stupid thing on for too long, and it’s obviously broken it. Look!”

(My dad tries to turn on the TV, but nothing happens. I’ve had this issue before and I know how to solve it.)

Me: “Dad, there must be a problem with the batteries. Have you tried moving them around or replacing them?”

Dad: “Stop making excuses. Now, turn this thing on and fix it!”

Me: “The PlayStation won’t fix it, Dad! It’s not linked to the remote.”

(Then my dad starts raising his voice again and demanding I repair the remote. I turn the TV on at the base and fire up the console. Reluctantly. I go through the menu options, which are few at the time. All the while my dad is just yelling at me for not immediately making the remote work. Again, I recommend that he just try playing with the batteries as the remote may just be idle. As before, he refuses to listen to any logic and instead tries the same tack again.)

Dad: “I KNEW THIS STUPID THING WAS A WASTE OF MONEY! I’M SICK OF THE BLOODY TOYS BREAKING THINGS.”

(My sister walks into the room looking very annoyed.)

Sister: “Dad, why the hell are you screaming?”

Dad: “Because this thing broke the remote!”

Sister: “Dad, that is literally impossible. Here, let me try!”

Dad: “DON’T MAKE EXCUSE FOR HIM! THIS IS HIS FAULT AND HE NEEDS TO FIX IT!”

Sister: “Oh, for goodness’ sake!”

(She snatched the remote out of my dad’s hand, moved the batteries around, and hey presto… the channel changed! My dad went bright red and sat down without a word. After that day, he learned to be a little more objective about solving issues, and he never bugged about the PlayStation ever again!)

I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 33

, , , , | | Right | May 25, 2018

(I work at a sports shop, and have gone straight from there to an electronics shop, so I can help my dad find the cable he needs. My uniform is very distinct, a bright red polo — with the shop’s name in very big letters on the back — and navy joggers, so as to look sporty. The uniform in the electronics shop is a black dress shirt and dress trousers, so as to look professional. I am currently facing a wall, so I have my back to everyone in the shop. I’m quite irritable due to having a bad shift and having no sleep, and it must be noted I am weird with people touching me depending on how much I know them — strangers often get shouted at and hurt. My dad very rarely intervenes because he know I can handle myself, but will do something if he sees it’s getting out of control. We’re both big swearers.)

Me: “Hey, Dad, pass me that—”

Customer #1: “Excuse me. Can you help me?”

Me: *ignoring them, as I don’t think they’re talking to me* “Pass us that one; I can’t see it from here.”

Customer #1: *taps my shoulder* “EXCUSE ME!”

Me: *CLEARLY irritated by being touched* “What? I don’t work here.”

Customer #1: “I want that TV.”

Me: “Good for you.”

(I turn back around to help my dad, but the customer grabs my shoulder, so I push away from him a little.)

Me: “What the f*** are you playing at? Touch me again and—”

Customer #1: “I want that TV; it’s your job to get it for me. I want to speak to your manager.”

Me: “Well, go into f****** town and talk to her, then.”

Customer #1: “GO GET HER FOR ME!”

Dad: “Listen, mate, she doesn’t work here; she’s helping me because she’s my f****** daughter. Don’t talk to her like that.”

Customer #1: “I’m a paying customer. I demand to speak to your manager.”

Me: “Then go into town and speak to her. I don’t work here; she doesn’t work here. Nobody I work with works here, because I work at [Shop]. Leave me alone before I call the police for harassment and assault.”

Customer #1: “FINE! I’ll find your manager.”

(We don’t see him again. Three minutes later, my back is still facing the shop.)

Customer #2: “Excuse me, miss.”

Me: “Not again.” *turns around*

Customer #2: “Oh! You don’t work here; I’m so sorry.”

Me: “Oh, thank f***.”

Related:
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 32
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 31
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 30

You’re In Trouble, No Ifs Or Slapped Butts

, , , , | | Related | May 25, 2018

(I’m at a very popular local event known for its obnoxious drunk patrons. I’ve already dealt with a few uncomfortable situations, so I’ve decided to keep my phone out to record any altercations. I’m standing in line for some food and I feel someone slap my butt, and I hear some very crude remarks and laughter.)

Me: *turning around* “I’m letting you know right now that this is being recorded and… Uncle [Uncle]?”

Uncle: *going pale* “Oh, my God, [My Name]? You, uh, think you could just do me a favor and delete that video?”

Me: “No, I don’t think I will. In fact, I think my father would be very interested in this. See you at Thanksgiving.”

(I did show my family. My uncle and his wife were furious and won’t speak to me now. They didn’t show up for Thanksgiving.)

Peppered With Assumptions

, , , | | Working | May 24, 2018

(I am out to eat with my friend. He eats a lot of chili and black pepper on pasta. He is also a vegetarian. He brought his own chili, but uses the restaurant’s pepper. The restaurant is crowded and busy, and our pepper-shaker has enough that would normally be plenty for an entire table. This happens before pasta is brought out:)

Friend: “Refill the pepper, please?”

Waiter: “Uh, we’re kind of busy. Use that up first?”

(My friend’s pasta comes first, and he uses up the pepper. Then, he realizes there are tiny slivers of meat.)

Friend: “Sorry, could you redo this? I wanted to remove the meat. I’m a vegetarian.”

Waiter: “Very sorry! That won’t happen again.”

Friend: “The pepper, too, please? I didn’t see the meat until I put it all on.”

Waiter: “Wow… Here, just borrow the full one from the next table.”

(It was forgotten until we paid. The place was half empty by then. We saw two notes on his order: “Vegetarian, remove meat from pasta,” as well as, “Probably autistic, too.” No, my friend is not autistic, just a bit odd. While I can understand warning staff in case of strange reactions, is it really appropriate to just guess someone’s condition?)

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