Unfiltered Story #114604

, , | Unfiltered | June 15, 2018

I work at for a cheesesteak chain where shall the branches are independently owned and operated, so our menu and hours are different from all the others. 5 minutes after closing, a couple walks in. Our frier is turned off, but we can still make cheesesteaks on our grill

Me: Hi, there, folks.

Man: Can I get the pepper cheesesteak?

Me: you bet.

Woman: Can I have 20 buffalo wings?
(We can’t cook anything that needs the frier)
Me: I’m sorry, ma’am, but we just turned our drier off for the night. If you’d like, I could–

Woman: What? You turned off your frier already? But it’s so early! You guys don’t close for another hour!

Me: Actually, ma’am, we closed five minutes ago.

Man: But your website says you close at 8.

Me: Yes, but because all our branches are independent, the owner has us close at 7. If you’d like, I can still get you your cheesesteak?

Man: Alright.

The woman moves back towards the door muttering about how we robbed her of her dinner while the man reaches for his wallet. He pulls a folded piece of paper out and hands it to me. It’s a coupon that our branch hasn’t supported for years now.

Me: I’m so sorry, sir, but we no longer support this coupon.

Man: You know what, you’re all just a bunch of F***ING A**HOLES and you just lost our business!

They storm out.

Cook: Did they leave?

Me: Yeah.

Cook: Thank god.

They Just Got Themselves Trucked Up

, , , , , | Right | June 14, 2018

(When our fast food restaurant closes for business for the night, we lock the outer vestibule doors. The dining room, surrounded by large window panes, remains lit so that we can complete cleaning.)

Would-Be Customer: *knocking on outer door* “Hey! I want to get a double cheese!”

Me: *pointing at window lettering* “I’m sorry; we close at 11 on weeknights.”

Would-Be Customer: *pounding window* “Get me a g**d*** double cheese!”

Me: “Our grills are off; we’re closed!”

(The would-be customer gets back in his pickup truck, peels out, and goes to our drive-thru speaker.)

Would-Be Customer: *through speaker* “Hey, manager! The little d**k wouldn’t let us in. I wanna double cheese.”

Coworker: “I’m sorry, both dining room and drive-thru close at 11.”

(The guy peels out again, drives up to the drive-thru window, and begins pounding on it. Our manager comes out to speak to him.)

Manager: “I’m sorry, but we close at 11 pm on weeknights. All our cook surfaces are shut down and cleaned. We can’t sell you anything now.”

Would-Be Customer: *reaching drunkenly through window* “B****! Give me a double cheese!”

(My manager manages to avoid his grasp, grab the window, and slide it closed on his arm. After the guy gets his arm out, he guns his engine and speeds away. After we’ve finished cleaning, the four closing employees typically wait outside the back door for our manager to finish the books, and make sure she gets to her car. We all are sitting atop the power transformer for the building, a 10′ x 4′ x 4′ block of metal housing. The same would-be customer returns, driving his truck up onto the curb and within three feet of the transformer.)

Would-Be Customer: “Since y’all are still here, why can’t you make me a double cheese?!”

Coworker: “We’re closed, idiot! Geez!”

(The would-be customer guns his truck, inching it towards the transformer. We scoot away, but we are still sitting on it. Then he punches it and rams the transformer, knocking it off its mounting, and causing the power to go out for our building. [Would-Be Customer] then backs up and peels away.)

Manager: *coming out the back door* “What the hell just happened!?”

Me: “Our persistent customer came back and rammed our transformer, using his Ford truck, license [plate number].”

Manager: “Well, that’s one consolation. I’ll call the sheriff.”

(Without power, our store couldn’t operate until later the next day once we got an industrial electrician to get the transformer fixed and remount it. And [Would-Be Customer] got a nice stay in jail for destruction of property.)

Won’t Be Long Before You (Lunch) Break

, , , , , | Working | June 13, 2018

(I’m the assistant manager in a discount clothing and housewares store in Colorado. We get trucks every day except Sunday. We have a girl in our stock team who only works once a month, as she has a full-time desk job. She is very lazy, unprofessional, and sometimes downright insubordinate. She also tries to sit down or lean as much as she can, and she cusses quite often. I get called to the stock room on this morning.)

Stock Lead: “[Coworker] says she needs to leave at noon today.”

(This coworker has been scheduled from 8:45 am to 1:00 pm.)

Me: “[Coworker], you’re scheduled until 1:00 pm. We need you to fulfill your shift,”

Coworker: “No one told me that I had to be here until one. [Store Manager] only told me the time to come in.”

Me: “It is not our job to tell you what time you work. It is your responsibility to know when you need to come in and when you need to leave.”

Coworker: “Well, I have my other job to go to at 12:30.”

Me: *not wanting to argue* “Okay, just this once, you can leave early. But please do be more careful and considerate of your schedule next time.”

(She rolls her eyes and says nothing. An hour later, I ask her to cover a break in the fitting room, to which she agrees. Towards the end of said break, she calls me back there.)

Coworker: “My mom is here, and she wants me to go to lunch with her and my sister.”

Me: “Okay?”

Coworker: “Can I go?”

Me: “I’m sorry, but you have to work more than five hours in order to get a thirty-minute lunch break. You’re only working three hours and fifteen minutes today, so all you would get is a fifteen-minute break.”

Coworker: “You have to work five hours to get thirty minutes off? That’s a bunch of bulls***.”

(Keep in mind, we are standing in the fitting room, and there are plenty of customers around, although no one reacts.)

Me: “[Coworker], please watch your language on the sales floor.”

Coworker: “Why do I have to work five hours?”

Me: “It’s Colorado law. You must work at least five hours before you can get a lunch break.”

Coworker: “Well… What if I went to lunch and come back right after?”

Me: “I thought you had to leave at noon to go to your other job?”

Coworker: “But I would come back.”

(This goes on for a few rounds. I am not understanding what she means when she says she’ll come back right after lunch, considering earlier she made a big deal about leaving to go to her other job. Finally, we come to a conclusion.)

Coworker: “F*** it! Just f***ing forget it!”

(She clocked out at 12:45 and told me it would be her last day working. I told her I wished her well in life, and that she needed to contact the store manager. A month or so later, I was making the schedule with my manager and noticed this employee was still on the roster. I reminded my manager that she quit, and she called the employee just to be safe. The coworker said that I had fired her on that day, and she was just waiting for a call from the store manager so she could get her final paycheck.)

If You Treat The Cows Like Crap…

, , , , , , | Right | June 11, 2018

(I’m 18 in this story, working on a 200,000-acre grazing allotment, basically babysitting 1,200 beef cows for a ranch. The allotment is broken up into sections and we have to move the cattle from one section to the next within a given time frame to avoid fines, and while the area is really remote, there are some hiking trails, a fairly well-known lake, and other places that attract outdoorsy tourists. At this time, the other cowhand and I are moving about 300 head from one allotment to another on the dirt road. The other hand is up front, “pointing” the cows and trying to keep them from heading the wrong way, which isn’t too hard since the road is fairly narrow with a steep hill on one side and a drop-off on the other. I’m at the back on a young horse, pushing the stragglers to keep up. Note that livestock have the right of way and if you hit someone’s cow, you’re responsible. A guy in a shiny sports car comes roaring up on us, honking his horn. Once I get my colt under control I give him a crusty look. He rolls down his window.)

Tourist: “You need to move them off the road. I have places to be!”

Me: “You’re just going to have to wait. As you can see, there are 300 head and the road is narrow. When it’s wide enough up ahead, the cows will spread out and I’ll help you through.”

Tourist: “That won’t work! I need to get through. You need to get them out of the way.”

Me: “Dude, they have the right of way.”

Tourist: “I don’t care. Get them off the road.”

(I look pointedly at the steep hillside and drop-off on the sides of the road.)

Me: “Where?”

Tourist: “That’s not my problem.” *starts honking again*

(The cows ignore him, but my horse shies. While I’m settling him down, the guy revs his car and bumps into the hind legs of one of the cows. I make note of his license plate.)

Me: “If you injure a cow, you’ll be paying for it. State law.”

Tourist: “Where I come from, the cowboys will move the cows out of the way and be polite about it.”

Me: “Go back where you came from, then.”

Tourist: “B****.” *gets to close to cow and acts as if he’ll bump her again*

Cow: *takes massive crap on his hood*

Tourist: “Oh. My. GOD!”

(He finally slowed down and backed off. When the road widened out and the cattle drifted apart, he went blasting through them. The cow was fine, my horse had a good lesson, and two days later the ranch owner stopped in to tell us that the guy had complained to the rangers about us. Luckily, I’d spoken to a forest ranger first chance I got and gave him the guy’s description and plate number, so they had an idea of what happened and they advised him as to our free-range laws.)

This Hotel Is For You And Me (But Mostly Me)

, , , , | Right | June 7, 2018

(I work in web design and development for an international hotel company. My actual location of employment is at one of the company’s administrative offices located in the midwestern US. My work assignments are given out to me by the IT department at our east coast headquarters. I’ve never actually worked directly at a hotel. When I go on vacation, I usually stay at our own hotels, since I get nice discount. I take care not to advertise my “corporate-level” employee status; other customers tend to assume that I outrank the hotel’s general managers, or that I have the authority to resolve whatever complaints they might have about their room or their service. I don’t; it’s outside of my particular job description. My particular employer is very frequently — and very incorrectly — associated with the Mormon Church. It’s true we were founded by a Mormon family, and up until about three years ago we were still led by a Mormon CEO, but that’s the extent of our connection. We’ve never been owned directly by the Mormons, and we don’t get our marching orders from Salt Lake City. We are taking a family vacation to another state. On checking in, I have a brief conversation with the front desk clerk about where I work, and what my role in the company is — the normal check that’s required to make sure I actually do qualify for the discount they’re giving me. Unknown to me, that check-in conversation is overheard by a customer reading a newspaper, who noted my appearance and apparently makes plans to track me down later and give me some advice about the company, or the hotel specifically — whatever it is in particular that is concerning him. Later that night he finds me eating dinner in the hotel restaurant, and approaches my table.)

Customer: “Hi. Did I hear correctly earlier that you work for [Company] Headquarters?”

Me: “Yes.”

Customer: “I’ve got to let you know, sir, that I have a prob…”

(Then he notices my table, where I have a glass of beer right next to my plate. Mormons, I’m told, are not allowed to drink alcohol. This gentleman is a Mormon, and he is one of those who assumes I’m Mormon, too, since I work for HQ, and he thinks only “his people” would be allowed that high up in the company.)

Customer: *eyes go big* “Is that a beer you’re drinking? You’re violating the Words of Wisdom.”

(His voice continues to escalate in volume and anger level.)

Customer: “Your behavior is shameful! You’re a pox upon this company; you bring shame to the Prophet! What stake do you belong to? I’m going to make sure you lose your Temple Recommend, you… you…”

(He finally takes a breath and I clarify.)

Me: “Sir, I’m not a Mormon. I understand a lot of people believe we’re a Mormon company, but that’s not the case. I do work for our headquarters, but we have no religious requirement.”

Customer: “You liar!”

(The waitress comes up to try to intervene.)

Customer: *to the waitress* “You! Get the manager of this hotel! This man—” *shoving a finger into my chest* “—needs to be put into his place!”

(As it happens, the restaurant entrance is within line-of-sight to the front desk, and the General Manager had already been informed of an altercation in the restaurant. He walks in right next to us, introduces himself, and offers to take the conversation to a more private area. Judging by the GM’s darker complexion, accented English, and Arabic name on his nametag, he is apparently not Mormon, either.)

Customer: “You’re a Muslim! This is supposed to be a Mormon company! Mormon, you get it? You’ve all been taken over by the heathens! I’m never staying here again!”

(And with that, the angry Mormon stormed off to the elevator, presumably to pack up his stuff and go to another hotel that met his standards better.)

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