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Stories about people who clearly aim to misbehave.

The Sensitive White Male Will Go Off Before The Cheese Will

, , , , , , , | Right | August 6, 2019

(I’ve just opened a new package of white American cheese made by a company whose initials are LOL. I set a large plastic bag on the counter and write on it the date, the product code, and “LOL White” as a scowling old man walks up and sees what I’m doing. For reference, he’s white and so am I.)

Old Man: “What the h*** do you think you’re doing?!”

Me: “Huh?”

Old Man: “Laughing at the white man?!”

Me: “What are you talking about?”

(He slams his palm down on the bag I’m writing on.)

Old Man: “Right there! ‘Laughing out loud at the white man!’ F****** millennial [racial slur]-loving libtard feminist SJW socialist traitor!”

(I groan. Oh, joy, another one of those.)

Me: “That’s not what that means.”

Old Man: “Shut up! I know what all those stupid things your generation write on your liberal chat rooms mean! You millennials almost ruined this d*** country trying to destroy the white man! Well, you ain’t gettin’ away with it ever again now that Trump is in charge! Trump’s gonna send you all to Hell where you belong!”

(I grab the block of cheese and slam it on the counter right in the man’s face. Over the course of about three seconds, the look on his face goes from, “What the hell is he doing?” to, “Uh-oh, is that what I think it is?” to, “Oh, God, I’m an idiot,” to “NO, I CAN’T be the idiot!” to, “ENEMY! DESTROY! DESTROY!”. He slams both hands down on the counter and leans over it to scream in my face.)

Old Man: “TRUMP 2020! TRUMP 2020!”

(He turned around and stomped out of the store muttering about “f*****’ [racial slur]-lovers.”)

And People Wonder Why Millennials Are Becoming Entrepreneurs

, , , , , , , | Working | August 5, 2019

Starting out, let me explain why there wasn’t a mass walkout and I am the only one that quit despite us basically being terrorized and treated like slaves. The job market was in shambles in my city at that time with something like a 40% unemployment rate. I knew someone with a doctorate degree in theoretical physics working at a local fast food joint as it was literally the only place hiring. To quit any job, no matter how bad, was financial suicide and a guarantee that you would not find a new one.

I always worked customer service, food service, and hospitality. At 24, I decided it was time to find a job with benefits and potential for career advancement, and I took a job with a global monstrosity that started out as a mom and pop store. I felt right at home.

I worked hard and constantly took the worst jobs and the worst days off to make sure I would be there on the weakest staffing days to rub elbows with management. It worked, and ten months in I found myself with an offer to promote to low-level management starting January 1.

Starting the weekend before Thanksgiving, the overnight manager started to under-staff shifts — to preserve his end-of-year bonus — and acted surprised when people called out. He would then bully us into staying over with threats of write-ups for not finishing our “assigned tasks.” Upper management was notorious for just signing off on write-ups without looking into their validity, so each staff being assigned 13+ hours of labor to complete in 6 hours was no defense. Since an employee could only get two of those write-ups in a rolling 13-month period before termination, we all would stay over, as well as skip our breaks and lunches to finish.

But there was a catch: since any approved overtime would count against his $73,000 bonus — approximately $0.11 per approved hour — he would never file the approval forms for the OT. This meant that it was considered unapproved, meaning that we were required to get approval to cut hours off our regular shifts to equal out what we stayed over. He, of course, never approved us to cut those hours.

This was resulting in weekly write-ups, from the same manager, for unapproved overtime on those of us that made it to work every day despite the weather and missed holiday get-togethers with our families. Every week we would get our write-up and he would get praise for getting everything done with less staffing hours then typically allocated.

Thankfully, write-ups for unapproved OT didn’t carry a lot of weight, but for three months they counted against your points for promotion opportunities. This went on until the week before Christmas.

When I got my weekly write-up, I was told by the store manager — who offered me my promotion — I would be suspended for “overtime abuse” the next time my manager submitted a write-up for unapproved overtime hours. Determined to not lose my promotion, I started telling the manager no. The second time I refused to stay over without him signing an “overtime approval form” and giving me a physical signed copy, before I hit overtime, he wrote me up for “abusive actions towards a member of management” and “actions with intent to undermine the integrity of management and store policies.”

This instantly cost me my promotion, which greatly upset me, and then, like the idiot he is, he left me alone in his office to sign the write-ups and the acknowledgement that I was no longer promoting.

Initially, I was going to just accept it and resolve myself to spending the next 13 months working my tail off for minimum wage and go up for promotion as soon as they fell off. When I started reading the acknowledgement form, I found I was not eligible to promote to management until I was “write-up free” for five years. This meant six years and one month before I could even try to get promoted again. All because I followed policy.

So, rather than sign it, I wrote, “F*** OFF,” in sharpie on his brand-new desk — which he got for being such a great manager — walked out of his office, handed him my vest and name tag, shredded the write-ups and tossed them into the air like confetti, and told his no-longer-smug face that it was now my personal mission to get him fired.

He lost his cockiness when it sunk in I’d just quit. I could see little beads of panic sweat forming on his forehead, as he realized that the only person capable of performing certain highly-essential functions for his shift was walking out the door. He shouted after me, telling me that he could talk to the general manager and see if he could get the time frame cut down to three years. He offered to approve all of my overtime the rest of the season, offered me a cut of his bonus, and several other offers I can’t remember. Honestly, if he’d offered to withdraw the write-ups — which was still 100% an option but he never offered — I wouldn’t have accepted it, but I might not have followed through on my threat. I was too angry and too determined, and I didn’t care if I became homeless as long as I never had to work there again.

Now, how did I get him fired? Well, due to certain ADA requirements, I was permitted to carry a voice recorder with me at work so I could record important meetings, announcements, and reminders. When I got written up the first time for unapproved overtime, I started recording his “requests” to both me and coworkers. I never used them to dispute the write-ups, but I never deleted them, either. So, I uploaded all the recordings to my computer — nearly 18 hours of audio — and sent it to the home office, CCing every store manager and compliance officer in the district.

When I went in for my last paycheck, he was long gone. I was offered my promotion back, but I declined and said I wasn’t returning to retail.

After five months of being unemployed, living with my mom, and barely surviving, I moved to another state and got a job working with inmates and am very fulfilled.

Getting That Fry-Day Feeling

, , , | Right | August 4, 2019

(I’m working the late shift and, after two power outages in the space of an hour, some of the equipment still isn’t working quite right. I’ve already dealt with customers who were angry about not being able to order or not being able to get ice cream because the machine hasn’t finished cooling yet. I’m already aggravated at being treated so poorly for something I can’t control when this happens in the drive-thru. The customer pulls up to the service window.)

Me: “Hello! Sorry for such a long wait. Here’s your food and drinks, and I’m just waiting for one more bag to give you.”

Customer: “Okay, can I order something else since I’m here?”

Me: *looking at the already long line behind him* “Sure! What can I add for you?”

Customer: “Oh, just another three large drinks.”

(I take his money, and his food is ready before his drinks are, so I hand him his last bag full of fries.)

Me: “Here’s your last bag of food, and it’ll take me one moment to get your drinks.”

(As I’m making his drinks, I glance over and see him and his buddy take some fries out of one of the containers and eat them.)

Me: “Here are your drinks, sir!”

Customer: *holding the now slightly empty container of fries at me* “What? You guys don’t fill up the fries anymore? Why did you give me a half-empty fry?”

Me: “Sir, it was full. I saw you eat some of them.”

Customer: “I only had two! I bet you ate some of them since—“ *gesturing at me* “—you’re so big! Why did you eat some of my fries?!”

Keep That Kind Of Tip To Yourself

, , , | Friendly | August 2, 2019

(I go into the restaurant where I work to collect my paycheck. I have my three-year-old brother with me, and I see a regular paying for her order, who is usually very nice and a great tipper.)

Me: “Hi, [Regular]! How are you today?”

Regular: “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it!”

Me: “What’s wrong?”

Regular: “Aren’t you only eighteen?”

Me: “Yes, I–“

Regular: “That’s what’s wrong with the world these days. Stupid teenagers getting pregnant, having children, and dropping out of school to be deadbeat waitresses and live off welfare. Taking all my hard-earned money to support their drug habits while their kids are starving! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

Brother: “[My Name], I hungry.”

Regular: “I bet you didn’t even tell him you’re his mother. I bet that’s why he doesn’t call you ‘Mommy’!”

Me: “He doesn’t call me ‘Mommy’ because I’m his sister. And even if I was his mother, you know for a fact that I’m in school, and it wouldn’t really be any of your business if I wasn’t. Besides, if it wasn’t for us ‘deadbeat waitresses,’ you wouldn’t have anyone to serve you your meal when you come here.”

Regular: “Well, it’s still not right!” *stomps off*

Brother: “MEAN LADY!” *pause* “Can I have chocolate?”

(My boss overheard the whole thing and insisted on giving us some free desserts, and we never saw that customer again!)

Their Reaction Was Gold(fish)

, , , , , | Working | August 2, 2019

(I work in the office of a multinational company that has a pet goldfish. Whenever coworkers clean the tank, I just walk away, because I am honestly horrified by how they treat that poor fish. They are the kind of people that are convinced they know what they are doing but are horrible at it. Going to a manager is useless, because they think I am overreacting. Besides, it is “just a fish.”)

Coworker #1: “Hey, I’m tired of cleaning that tank.”

Coworker #2: “Yeah, it’s always such a hassle, grabbing that fish.”

(Yes, they grab him with their hands and then toss him in a bucket with water.)

Coworker #1: “Not to mention all that cleaning of the pebbles with dishwasher soap… How about we flush that thing?”

(I am terrible at reading people when it comes to joking. I can be fooled easily and believe whatever people tell me. Yes, I know I am pretty gullible; I do my best, but I’m in my mid-30s and still have this issue. I also often take things literally.)

Me: *thinking they are joking* “Ha! That fish is so big, he would clog up the sewer!”

Coworker #1: “You know, you’re right. Let’s toss him into the canal.”

Coworker #2: “How about the office garden? I saw a heron yesterday; I bet he’d love a goldfish for lunch!”

Me: *realizing they are not joking* “Oh, well, if you are serious about this, I could take him in?”

(I am not looking for a pet, but I don’t want this fish to die, especially not because of these two. I used to have an aquarium as a kid and I still have everything from back then.)

Coworker #2: “Oh, you can’t! It’s not our fish!”

Coworker #1: “Yeah, he was bought especially for [CEO]. We promised we would take care of him.”

Coworker #2: “But, if he says it’s okay…”

Coworker #1: “Yeah, you can always ask him!”

(They walk away, giggling. Adult women, giggling like teenagers. However, I don’t catch their actual motive: setting me up to fail and get upset about that “poor little fish” — which was huge, by the way. All I hear is that I just have to ask the CEO. The CEO is the one who has appeared on TV, has expensive clothes, cars, etc., and is spoken to with the utmost respect by everyone. You do not just barge into his office. You cannot reach him without an appointment through the secretary of his secretary — well, that last part is an exaggeration — unless you are me, apparently. I just open my business email, open the address book, look up his name, and send him an email.)

Me: “Hello, Mr. [CEO]. I work at [Department] and we are taking care of the fish that once belonged to you. My coworkers no longer wish to take care of him and I wonder if I could adopt him. I am awaiting your reply.”

(About half an hour later:)

CEO: “Hello, [My Name]. Sure, you can have him. To be honest, I thought he was already long gone. Take good care of him!”

(When I tell my coworkers, blissfully unaware of their scheme, their jaws drop and they can’t believe I actually emailed the CEO! Within the day, I am known as the girl who “just emailed the CEO about a fish.” They then joke that he will probably die very soon, as goldfish only live a few years and he is probably already three or four years old. However, when my mom picks me and my new pet up — I needed safe transportation last-minute — she says:)

Mom: “That’s the fish?! Sweetie, that type of goldfish can live up to 20! Those coworkers of yours have no idea what they were talking about!”

(So, that’s how I got my goldfish and now, about ten years later, I still have him. I even got him a bigger tank this year and my husband adores him!)