His Hopes Of Getting Away With It Went Up In Smoke

, , , | Right | CREDIT: mstarrbrannigan | August 2, 2021

The head housekeeper texts me a picture from a nonsmoking room as evidence that the guest smoked in there. There’s an empty blunt package in the trash along with cigarette ash and burnt and unburnt bits of weed all over the desk. It also smells of smoke, though that’s complicated to document in a visual medium.

I go to charge the card, but no one is surprised it doesn’t go through for the full $250. I’m petty, so I go ahead and try a few increments down until the card goes through for a lousy $25. Oh, well, it’s our $25 now. If nothing else, it will inconvenience the a**hole.

Twenty minutes later, the guest calls, asking why I charged $25 to his card.

Me: “There was evidence of smoking in the room, so we had to charge you the smoking fee.”

Guest: “Smoking fee?”

Me: “Yes, when you checked in you signed a registration card and one of the things you agreed to was a $250 fee if you smoked in a nonsmoking room.”

Guest: “But the charge was $25.”

Me: “Yes, that’s all your card went through for.”

Guest: “But you said the fee for smoking in the room was $250?”

Me: “I guess you can come pay the rest in person if you want.”

He hangs up and honestly, I don’t think he is coming to pay the rest. I am right; he tries a different tactic. He calls and says he was supposed to be in a smoking room. I check and confirm that was not the case; he booked a nonsmoking room.

Guest: “But the girl at the front desk was supposed to have switched it to a smoking room.”

Me: “Regardless of what she was supposed to do, it was a clearly marked nonsmoking room and you agreed when he signed the registration card not to smoke in it.”

Guest: “That doesn’t count, because I didn’t read it!”

You may be aware that’s not how that works.

I basically repeatedly tell him that it doesn’t matter that he thought it was a smoking room, and the fact that he was so blatant about smoking in the room is not evidence that he thought it was a smoking room because plenty of people do that in nonsmoking rooms. He asks for managers’ names and my coworker’s name.

Me: “Tell you what, sir. Let me check the cameras from that time and see where the breakdown in communication happened. Depending on what exactly happened, I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Guest: “Well, I was outside, so…”

Me: “Oh, don’t worry. We have full audio on all our security cameras; I’ll be able to hear both sides of the conversation with no problem.”

I could hear his confidence just plummeting as he asked me how long that would take. I said maybe ten minutes tops; he said he’d call back in twenty.

As I went to have a look-see at the cameras and I texted the coworker who checked him in to see if she remembered the interaction at all. While he was perfectly friendly and all during check-in, there was no mention of a request to switch rooms. My coworker called me back and confirmed the same thing.

I wonder if he’s going to call back, or if he knows the game is over.

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King Of Bad Behavior

, , , , , | Legal | August 1, 2021

It’s my first week working as a dealer at a casino, and I am placed in the back because during that first week, everyone makes mistakes constantly and it’s easier for the “floor” to watch us. But some players know this and willingly seek out the weaker dealers, because if your dealer makes a mistake and there’s a dispute, it usually goes in the player’s favor.

A player sits down at the blackjack table next to mine, and starts betting heavily, $400 to 500 per hand. At one point, he has a twelve and the dealer has a six, in which case anyone will tell you to stay and hope the dealer busts. He stays, the dealer has a two under, then pulls a six, and then a four, for a total of eighteen. The guy starts cheering and says, “Sixteen!”, trying to convince the dealer she has to pull another card.

It works; the dealer pulls a king, and then she looks down and counts twenty-eight. She immediately turns to the floor, who explains that the dealer had eighteen and the player has lost, and as the king was exposed, it has to be “burned” or discarded. The player begins screaming and cursing, but she takes the money and there’s nothing he can really do.

Now the player has a meltdown. He realizes that he can’t win but that in trying to confuse the dealer, that king would’ve been his next round. No guarantee it’d actually be a good hand, of course, but it has a better chance of being something good. He’s yelling and screaming, and the floor calls over the pit boss, who also has to call over the shift supervisor, who all explained that an exposed card has to be burned.

At this point, in front of everyone and on I don’t know how many cameras, the player screams that the money means nothing to him, throws his drink at the dealer, and then grabs about $3,000 of his chips and throws them against the ceiling. It’s raining chips everywhere. Security then grabs him. Some of the workers gather the chips they can and give them to him. He’s given his cash, escorted out, and then banned from the casino.

Sadly, though, he does not get a pair of shiny bracelets or a free car ride to the hotel with the orange jumpsuits.

The poor dealer held it together on the floor, but in the break room, she was sobbing. But since then, she has ended up becoming one of the better dealers.

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Ah, Men And Amen

, , , , , , , | Working | August 1, 2021

About a year ago, I would regularly go out for coffee with some of my coworkers. I stopped doing so after a while. These two stories are why.

Story #1:

Male Coworker #1: “Hey, [My Name], how’s it going?”

Me: “Ehh, been better. My daughter’s boyfriend just broke up with her, so she’s really down.”

Male Coworker #1: “Don’t worry; she’ll find someone else.”

Me: *Touched* “Yeah, I suppose you’re right—”

Male Coworker #1: “Women have a knack for finding their next meal ticket. She’ll have another boyfriend by the end of the week, guaranteed.”

Me: “…”

On another occasion, a different male coworker made some really disgusting, racist comments about a political figure I admire, and when I called him out on it, he insisted that he was “entitled to his opinion.” I got up and walked away.

And I haven’t been back.

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Line-Jumpers Get Their Ride To The Back

, , , , | Right | July 30, 2021

My friend and I are standing in a long queue for a popular ride at a British theme park when a couple of teenage girls cut in front of us.

Friend: “Excuse me. But you need to return to the back of the line.”

Girl #1: “Whatever. I am not going to wait twenty minutes just to go on a stupid ride.”

Friend: “I am sorry, but we have all been waiting; you can wait, too.”

Girl #2: “Oh, piss off, b****!”

My friend is about to retort to that, but I grab her by the arm and whisper in her ear that I have an idea and that she should just let it go. As we get closer to the front of the line, I wait for my opportunity to get my revenge.

The girls stop at the front of the line, and as we are just about to get on the ride, I flag down the operator.

Me: “Excuse me. Those two girls in front of us cut the line further back, and when we tried to tell them to go to the back of the line, they call my friend a b****.”


At that moment, the people in the queue behind us confirmed my story, and the two girls got sent to the back of the queue, shouting obscenities as they went.

The queue had now stretched to a forty-five-minute wait time.

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Some People Shouldn’t Be Nurses

, , , , | Healthy | July 30, 2021

I am newly eighteen, so at my doctor’s office, I have to fill out new paperwork — confidentiality and whatever they make you do. I’m a short, very light-skinned girl with bright blonde hair which is naturally dark brown but I dye it. My mother is from Cuba and her father is from Spain, so I am 50% Latina and Hispanic. I definitely don’t look it, which isn’t normally a problem. It’s more like a fun trivia tidbit about me.

On one of the papers I am filling out, it asks if I am Hispanic/Latina. I check yes, because I am. I give the nurse the paperwork and wait in the room for a doctor. I can hear some nurses outside the door in the office area talking rather loudly.

Nurse #1: “She’s got blonde hair and blue eyes — perfect Aryan. I think she checked the wrong box.”

Nurse #2: “Change it for her. Obviously, she got it wrong.”

Nurse #1: “Maybe she’s trying to scam us. One of those people begging to be oppressed.”

For the record, I have deep brown eyes, not blue. But I’m very upset about the conversation I’m hearing. My ethnicity is not for them to decide or discuss, and my patient records are supposed to be confidential, not talked about in front of or to anyone.

The nurse comes back in and hands me the clipboard.

Nurse #1: “I think you marked that wrong — the Hispanic/Latina question.”

Me: “Uh, I am both Hispanic and Latina. I’m Cuban and Spanish.”

Nurse #1: “Are you sure?”

Me: “Are you sure you should be gossiping about your patients’ medical files to other nurses and whoever else can hear right in front of the door?”

She left without another word. I’ve considered switching from that office for a while, but I don’t go enough for it to be a huge problem. I’m still bothered by this incident, though.

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