They Remind You Of The Babe

, , , , | Friendly | October 6, 2017

(I’m working with two coworkers who are several years older than I. Both start singing and quoting a movie back and forth.)

Me: “I have absolutely no idea what you two are on about.”

Coworker #1: “You aren’t that young, are you?”

Coworker #2: “Yeah, it’s from Labyrinth.”

Me: “Oh, yeah. I watched that years ago. That’s the one where David Bowie is a—”

(All three of us simultaneously:)

Me: “Paedophile.”

Coworker #1: “Hot guy!”

Coworker #2: “Goblin king!”

Me: “Hmmm, guess we all took something different away from that film.”

A Textbook Case Of Crazy

, , , | Learning | October 6, 2017

(I work at an IT help desk at a university. We process requests for usernames and passwords to access the IT systems by hand, for which a current student ID is necessary, as well as a completed form with their details. A woman approaches me with a form.)

Woman: “Here’s my application for a username and password.”

Me: “Right. Can I please see your student ID?”

Woman: “All the information you need is on that form.”

Me: “Actually, you’ve missed out the section that asks for the student ID number. If you show me yours, I’ll fill it in for you.”

Woman: “Gah! All the information you need is there! I just want a username and password!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but we need proof that you’re a student here before we can give you access to the IT systems.”

Woman: “I am a student!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but the rules are very clear; I can’t process these applications without a current student ID.”

Woman: “This is ridiculous. Honestly, is this the University of Fascism? I’m a student, and I’m taking a degree in Scientology. Look, here’s my textbook!”

(She holds out an old copy of the Dianetics book. My head is beginning to spin a little; obviously there’s no such thing as a degree in Scientology, unless we were in fact the Hubbard College of Administration International. Even they would still require ID! At this point my manager, who has been hovering, decides to intervene.)

Manager: “I’m [Manager], the help desk supervisor. Please try not to get too upset, but this university doesn’t offer a degree in Scientology, and that is not a textbook. You’re obviously not a student here. Is there something else we can do to help you? Someone we could call to come and help you?”

Woman: “Hah! You’re the one who needs help! You don’t know anything about the place you work! I feel sorry for you. I really do, but I’m still going to report you to the Vice Chancellor, and you’ll lose your job because you’re crap at your job and you’re stupid!”

(She storms off. My manager and I look at each other for a few stunned moments and then she says:)

Manager: “I think I’ll just give the VC’s office a call. They might need a heads-up.”

Everything He Says Is True

, , , | Friendly | October 5, 2017

(I work at an upscale garden show and vendors’ market once a year, which is sponsored by an aristocratic family and takes place on the grounds of their manor. On one evening, the head of the house also holds a special VIP event, to which he invites politicians, CEOs, and other aristocrats. They receive a special invitation, which also counts as their ticket to the garden show before the event. Unfortunately, a lot of the VIPs forget their tickets and are the stereotypically arrogant, “Don’t you know who I am?! I don’t NEED a ticket!” kind of people. So far, we’ve had four small altercations with VIPs, and I fear another one coming when I see a quite posh-looking man approach my table from the side.)

Posh Man: “Hello! I have a bit of a problem. My wife and I forgot our invitations to the VIP event. We’re terribly sorry. Is there any way to let us in, or do we have to drive back home?”

Me: *somewhat taken back by his friendly politeness* “Oh, that should be no problem! All I need is your ID or anything else that shows your name, and I can ask the organisers to check the invite list.”

(The wife suddenly begins to giggle while the man is searching for his ID.)

Wife: “You’re not going to believe us, I think.”

Posh Man: “Oh, yes.” *smiling sheepishly* “You probably won’t. We get it a lot.”

(Confused, I take his ID – and see that his title is Baron von Munchausen. I can’t help but laugh. “The Baron von Munchhausen” is a fairly well-known old collection of stories about said Baron, who makes up grand tales and stories of impossible feats about himself, such as riding on a cannon ball, riding a horse that was cut in half, etc.)

Me: *joking* “Oh, lord! Are you sure you got an invite?”

Posh Man: *winks* “I assure you it is not a lie!”

Me: “To be honest, I’d be tempted to let you in even if it was, just for the story!”

(After a quick chat with the organisers, they confirmed that he and his wife were invited, so I let them in. He winked at his wife, saying, “It worked!” loud enough for me to laugh again. He later left a tiny box of chocolate from one of the vendors in the office for “the ticket girl with good humour.” One of the nicest VIP encounters I’ve had in the five years I worked that job.)

It’s All Saigon Crazy

, , , , | Working | October 5, 2017

(I’ve stopped by the store two blocks from work to pick up some groceries. On my way out, I notice the twenty-something door greeter has his arm in a sling. No stranger to incapacitated arms myself, after surgery a few years ago, I ask what happened.)

Greeter: “I got in a car accident.”

Me: “Oh, no!”

Cashier: *closest to us* “YOU TOLD ME YOU GOT HURT IN VIETNAM!”

Greeter: *nods solemnly*

Me: *bursts out laughing and plays along* “Oh, gosh! That’s terrible! What happened?”

Greeter: “Well, me and Forrest Gump, we got trapped in the bunker when they started bombing us…”

Cashier: *laughing* “YOU TOLD ME YOU WERE A FIGHTER PILOT!”

Greeter: “That, too!”

(I laughed so hard I almost dropped my groceries. They made my day! Best of luck for the greeter’s recovery after such noble service!)

One For Stall And Stall For One

, , , , , | Right | October 4, 2017

(I am a very pregnant customer at a fast food joint and I have to use the restroom. I walk into the restroom, which is empty, and go into and lock the biggest stall. As I begin to reach for some tissue, I hear the door open and someone try the handle to my stall, which is locked.)

Lady: “F***!”

Me: “Sorry, ma’am. I’m almost done, but there are other stalls.”

Lady: “I always use this one!”

(To my dismay, she then gets on the ground and tries crawling under the door. All I see is the head and torso of a seemingly normal-looking lady in her early 40s.)

Me: *yelling* “What are you doing!? Get out!”

Lady: *still crawling* “But I always use this stall!”

(At this point, thankfully, an employee walks in.)

Me: “You can use it when I’m done! GET OUT!”

Employee: “What is going on?”

(At the same time, the lady screams that I’m in her stall and I scream that the lady won’t get out.)

Employee: “Ma’am, get off the floor and get out of that stall! You can’t break into a stall like that! And there are two other stalls open and ready for you to use!”

Lady: “But I always use this one.”

Employee: “I don’t care! What were you planning on doing? Sitting on her?! Wait your turn or use a different stall.”

(At this point, the lady begins to wriggle herself back out of the stall, complaining about poor customer service and grumbling that she always, always uses that stall. I am rather shaken up, but I finish my business and rush out of the restroom as the lady rushes into the stall. The employee and a manager are waiting outside.)

Manager: “[Employee] told me what happened, but I’m not really understanding. Can you tell me?”

(I tell him.)

Manager: “I can’t believe this! That customer is a regular, and this has never happened, but let me comp your meal for you and give you some coupons. I can’t apologize enough!”

(The lady comes out of the bathroom while he’s talking to me, and he sends the employee and me to the register to give me a refund and some coupons. I hear him talking to the lady.)

Lady: “That fat girl stole my stall, and I always use that one!”

Manager: “She’s not fat; she’s clearly pregnant. And I don’t care if she weighs 300 pounds; you don’t walk into someone’s stall while they are in the middle of using it! Never, ever come back here!”

(From then on, I used the drive-thru and my own bathroom. Just in case.)

Page 5/38First...34567...Last
« Previous
Next »