Can’t “Wipe” That From Your Memory

, , , , , , | Friendly | August 9, 2018

I’m working retail in a department store in high school. While putting clothes away I notice a woman lurking in a seldom-frequented corner of the store. The company has a strict policy on apprehending shoplifters and prohibits clerks from approaching or even remarking on it to anyone suspected of it. Because of this, I follow her from a bit of a distance, keeping an eye on her in case I need to alert loss prevention.

She darts into some high-hanging racks used to hang long bathrobes and dresses. Glancing around, she doesn’t notice me and proceeds to grab a handful of bathrobe and whip it behind herself. She stuffs the wad of cloth deep into the back of her jeans and begins—to my horror— scratching and rubbing vigorously, using the cloth as what can only be described as toilet paper. She ends this session with one long, satisfying swipe, shakes the cloth free, and wanders off. Disgusted, I hunt down my manager and alert her. She moseys over, glances at it, and, seeing no “stains”… also wanders off.

I now launder all new clothes before wearing them.

Well, Mow My Lawn And Paint Me Purple

, , , | Right | August 8, 2018

(I work in the paint department of a local home improvement store. Our phone system has three options for callers: power equipment, paint, and retail. For some reason, callers never pay attention and just choose a random one. I usually get repair calls at the paint department. I figure I’ll have a little fun after the tenth time the wrong call comes through.)

Me: “Paint department. [My Name] speaking; how can I help you?”

Caller: “Yeah, is my lawn mower ready for pickup?”

Me: “Oh, geez, sir, I don’t know. Let me go check the shaker to see if it’s done.”

Caller: “Wait… What!? What kind of operation are you runnin’ here?!”

Me: “It was a joke, sir. This is the paint department.”

Caller: “Well, I don’t want to paint my lawnmower! “

Me: “Okay, sir! I’ll just transfer you to repairs. You have a good day, now!”

Caller: “D*** kids, always trying to paint my lawnmower!”

Pizza Is Life!

, , , , , | Friendly | August 6, 2018

(I live on campus in a dorm with three other friends, two of whom are twin sisters. [Twin #1] has a habit of talking in her sleep. I am chilling in the living room of our dorm with my roommate. [Twin #1] is napping, and [Twin #2] is not home at the moment.)

Twin #1: “[Twin #2]! Hey, [Twin #2]!”

(Hearing the shouting, [Roommate] and I go into the twins’ room to investigate. [Twin #1] is still calling out for her sister, sound asleep.)

Roommate: “[Twin #2] isn’t here. What can we do for you?”

Twin #1: “I want… pizza.”

Roommate: *trying not to laugh loudly and wake her* “What kind of pizza do you want, [Twin #1]?”

Twin #1: *pauses* “LIFE PIZZA.”

(She then fell back into her quiet nap while our roommate and I cracked up laughing. [Twin #1] doesn’t remember saying anything, but several years after graduation, we still haven’t let her forget!)

As You Wish…

, , , , , | Friendly | July 30, 2018

(My friend, her husband, and I get together to watch a movie. They share their apartment with another mutual friend who looks like he could be in biker gang and tends to frown upon “cutesy” things.)

Tough Guy Friend: “What are you guys watching?”

Me:The Princess Bride; it’s a classic!”

Tough Guy Friend: *scoffs*Princess Bride? Sounds like a chick flick.”

(We start the movie and [Tough Guy Friend] hangs around in the same room playing a video game. “The Princess Bride” begins with a frame narrative of an older man reading a book, also titled “The Princess Bride,” to his skeptical grandchild.)

Grandchild: *in film* “Is this a kissing book?”

Tough Guy Friend: “I like that kid!”

(As the film goes on, our friend becomes less and less focused on his game. By the climactic rescue mission he is on the couch with us, fully invested in the movie, precisely mirroring the growing interest of the grandson in his grandfather’s story.)

Tough Guy Friend: “Ugh, this is so sweet I think it gave me diabetes.”

Me: “But you like the story? You’d watch it again?”

Tough Guy Friend: *pause* “Maybe.”

Grandchild: *in film* “Grandpa, maybe you could come over and read it again to me tomorrow?”

Other Friend: “[Tough Guy Friend], you don’t just like that kid; you are that kid!”

Peppered With Risk

, , , , , , | Right | July 26, 2018

(I’m a cook at a popular casual dining restaurant known for its baby back ribs. A waitress rings up a ticket with big red “ALLERGY! SPEAK TO SERVER!” notes on it. Allergy notes typically go to me before anyone else because I have almost all of the ingredients in the kitchen memorized.)

Waitress: “Uh, the woman at table 33 has an allergy to peppers.”

Me: “Table 33 with the spicy shrimp taco? That dish is literally nothing but peppers.”

Waitress: “Is there any way you can make it without peppers?”

Me: “Honestly? No. Try talking to the table again; suggest the [other shrimp taco]. Or, I can make a custom taco no problem, but there’s no way she can have it like it appears on the menu. If she’s really allergic, that’s one thing, but if she’s just worried about it being too spicy, I can easily tone it down.”

(The server returns after speaking with the table.)

Waitress: “She says she’s allergic to all peppers. Like, green peppers, red peppers, chili peppers, jalapeño peppers, black pepper—”

Me: “Ah, geez.”

Waitress: “—and she still wants the spicy shrimp taco.”

Me: “I’ll see what I can do, but ask if she wants a different side dish. The beans are seasoned with pepper. And the rice has black pepper in the seasoned salt we use. Try suggesting some substitutions for the toppings on that taco, because I can’t put any of the current toppings on it.”

Waitress: “I already tried. I suggested, like, cheese, or lettuce, or tomatoes, but she said no. And she was insistent that she’ll have anaphylaxis if it’s made wrong. She started waving an Epi-pen at me. [Manager] is coming back to the kitchen to make the taco. She doesn’t want any substitutions; just make it without peppers.”

Me: “F***.”

Manager: “Okay, the shrimp is ready from the grill. Hey, there’s no seasoning on it; these are plain!”

Me: “Yeah, they are allergic to pepper, so I can’t use the cayenne on it.”

Manager: “Okay, next is the chili lime sauce—”

Me: “Nope.”

Manager: “…okay, then I’ve got the taco slaw—”

Me: “Nope. It’s made with chopped jalapeños.”

Manager: “F***. Okay, the pico—”

Me: “Green and jalapeño peppers, and seasoned salt.”

Manager: “And the garnish drizzle—”

Me: “Just checked. White pepper.”

Manager: “So, that leaves…”

Me: “Plain, flavorless shrimp on a plain, unseasoned tortilla, with a slice of avocado garnish.”

Manager: “Did they want lettuce or plain tomatoes, instead?”

Me: “[Waitress] said no.”

Manager: “Sides are rice—”

Me: “Seasoned salt.”

Manager: “—and beans—”

Me: “Salsa, peppers, and seasoned salt.”

Manager: “Well, I give up. Send it out.”

(The server takes the sad-looking plate out to the table, and returns five minutes later.)

Waitress: “She said she wants pico and chili lime sauce on the side because the tacos are bland.”

Me: “So, now she suddenly doesn’t care about her allergy?”

Waitress: “I tried. She insisted. I reminded her. She’s pissed off because it looks nothing like the photo in the menu.”

Manager: “Somebody’s living on the edge today.”

Me: “Okay. Fine. Pico and chili lime. What side dish did she want instead of the rice and beans?”

Waitress: “…”

Me: “Well?”

Waitress: “She picked southwest mac and cheese.”


Waitress: “I KNOW. I TOLD HER.”

(Apparently we haven’t killed her yet, because she returns at least once a month to flirt with death. She orders the same thing every time.)

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