What Leftist Nonsense!

, , , , , , , | Learning | October 11, 2018

(My right hand was amputated when I was a baby. My school isn’t told before I start there as there isn’t really anything I can’t do with one hand. I am eleven years old, on my first day at my new secondary school.)

Teacher: “Can everyone write their full names on their homework planners, please?”

(The class does.)

Teacher: “Can we be doing this with our rights hands, please? We do things properly at this school.”

(We all look up in confusion, then carry on exactly as we were.)

Teacher: *pointing at me* “I said, ‘right hand!’

Me: *holding up right arm* “I’m sorry, miss, but I don’t have a right hand.”

Teacher: “Stop being silly and write with your right hand.”

(I rotate my arm to show the front and back of my forearm.)

Me: “I’m really sorry, miss, but I don’t have a right hand; it was amputated when I was a baby.”

Teacher: “Then go and sit outside the Headmaster’s office. I will not have your defiance in my classroom.”

(I gather my things and leave, very confused as to what I have done wrong. The Headmaster calls me into his office and I explains why I am there.)

Headmaster: “So, you don’t have a right hand, and were told to use your right hand… which you don’t have?”

Me: “Pretty much.”

Headmaster: “Well, we can tape the pen to the end of your arm, I suppose. Yes, that is better than this left-handed nonsense. You’ll use your right arm from now on.”

(I left his office totally bewildered and used my left hand for the rest of the day with no issues. I told my parents, who reported it to the school governors. The headmaster retired a month later, and the teacher went on maternity leave later in the year and never came back. It wasn’t mentioned again. I wasn’t able to move schools, as no school in the area had a spare place. It was all a bit weird.)


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Their Humor Is Footloose

, , , , , | Right | July 6, 2018

(I work in the clothing and accessories department of a big department store. A lady comes up to me with a pair of shoes.)

Customer: “Excuse me, these shoes are my size; however, one is slightly too big.”

Me: “Oh, no, can I take them for a moment and find you another pair in the same size from the stockroom, as it could be that these are defective.”

(The customer hands me the shoes for me to go and find her another pair. I take the new pair to her and she tries them on, but she still has the same issue. I then suggest she tries a different style, just to be sure of whether it’s the shoes or her feet. After trying a different style with same issue, we come to the conclusion that it’s her feet.)

Customer: “As only one fits, could I get a discount?”

Me: “Unfortunately not, because the shoes themselves are not defective.”

Customer: “But they don’t fit me!”

Me: “May I suggest some of those little stick-on heel cushions that will make the shoe a bit smaller, so that it’ll fit better?”

Customer: “Do you sell those here?”

Me: “Yes, they’re in the health and beauty department.”

Customer: “Could I get those free instead of the discount, then?”

Me: “No, because I can’t give away products for free.”

Customer: “Why not?”

Me: “Because it’s not our fault you have different-sized feet.”

Customer: “That is disability discrimination. Get me a manager.”

(A customer in a wheelchair who only has one leg has been behind her the entire time, also looking at the shoes.)

Customer #2: “I pay full-price for a pair of shoes and I can only wear one. Maybe I’ll throw my spare one at you for thinking your nasty weird feet are an actual disability.”

(The lady throws down the shoes she wants and quickly leaves.)

Customer #2: “I should have gotten her number and put her in touch with my doctor to get her weird foot amputated, and we could have shared the cost on a pair of shoes!”

Can’t Have A Chit Chat Without A Kit Kat

, , , , , | Working | May 14, 2018

(My boss is a generally nice guy, but he does get worked up and angry quickly when things go wrong. He calms down as quickly as he gets angry, but everyone always approaches his office with a chocolate bar, just in case, as they seem to soothe him. One day a new employee goes to say the photocopier is broken.)

Boss: *from his office* “FOR F***’S SAKE!”

(A few seconds later the new girl comes out nearly crying.)

Me: “You forgot the chocolate, didn’t you?”


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Managed That Gamble

, , , , | Right | March 8, 2018

(I am working at the reception desk of a hotel at 11 pm. We have a walk-in, which is uncommon here as it is a golf resort, out in the middle of nowhere, but does happen. This guy says he is traveling on business and wants a basic room. I make his booking in the system, and give him the price. It’s a pretty low rate for this county, as it is midweek.)

Customer: “Aww, that’s really expensive! Can’t you get me a better rate?”

Me: “I’m sorry. The system decides the price based on day and availability; there’s nothing I can do.”

Customer: “Come on! I know the manager of this place! He’d give me a low price!”

Me: *my scam senses are tingling so I decide to play his game* “I see. Well. I might be able to get you a regular’s discount… if you can give me the manager’s name.”

(I say this in the full knowledge that this guy won’t know it, and I won’t have to give him the discount. I realise this could be considered a gamble, but call it intuition.)

Customer: “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

Me: “Well… if you were asking for a member’s discount, I would need your member’s card to prove you were a member. Usually for a regular’s discount, I have to check our system for proof of at least six bookings in the year, so… as a customer, there’s a lot of things you have to prove. Is there a problem?”

(Lucky me, as a night porter, I can get cheeky with the customers, as we are considered security, and I can write almost any questioning off as “checking for suspicious behavior.” I do not suffer people like this gladly. I would never, ever swear or raise my voice to a customer, so through this exchange, I have been smiling, polite, and chirpy.)

Customer: *getting a sort of “rabbit in headlights” look* “Um. Well. It might be the old manager, now.”

Me: “Ah, well, that’s a shame. You could give me his name to be sure?”

Customer: *grumbling* “Never mind. I shall take the rate.”

Me: “Of course, sir.”

(I finish putting his booking through, and take him to his room, wishing him a goodnight. As I walk away from his door, he leans back out and calls quietly to me.)

Customer: “How many times has someone actually tried that on you?”

Me: “Enough that I have an answer for every method they try.”

Some People Only Have A Shelf-Life

, , , , , | Right | February 5, 2018

(I work in a small charity shop, for a small, local animal shelter. Our prices are always pretty good. We have a shelf for 50p items: cheap stuff like generic mugs, small plates, little trinkets, typical charity bric-a-brac. I am manning the till when I see a regular troublemaker sidle into the shop. Today, she sneaks up to the area where things worth more than 50p are placed with price labels. I am subtly watching her as I tidy the counter. She browses, and then picks up a very nice vase, which is priced at £2.50. As I watch, she creeps — I do not exaggerate; she walks sideways, like a crab, so that her back is to me, “hiding” the vase — and pops it down on the 50p shelf. I sigh inwardly, because I know where this is going. She backs up about three feet, then swoops in and plucks the item from the shelf, exclaiming about how nice it is, before strolling over and placing it down on the counter.)

Me: “Just this one for you today?”

Customer: *all sweetness and light* “Yes, please! It’s quite a find!”

Me: “Lovely. That will be £2.50, please. Would you like it bubble-wrapped?”

Customer: “Oh, no. It was on the 50p shelf. See?”

(She points at the shelf, as though I am unaware of where the shelf is, literally five feet from the tills.)

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry, but this item was out on the main shelves. Look.”

(I turn the item to show her the base, where the original price sticker remains.)

Customer: “Well, it was on the 50p shelf when I found it, so you have to give it to me for 50p!”

(Her nice tone is slipping to snappy now, as she and I have one of these arguments about once a fortnight, and she knows she won’t get her way.)

Me: “I am so sorry, but I can’t do that. It only went out today, so it has to be sold at the original asking price. After all, we are an animal charity; every 50p is another tin of dog food to us!”

(This “tin of dog food” speech is my greatest weapon against the customers who quibble over less than the cost of a pint on items in a charity shop, but today, she is not having it, and I brace myself as I see her visibly inflate with rage.)

Customer: “I AM A REGULAR CUSTOMER HERE. I SPEND MONEY IN HERE ALL THE TIME. YOU HAVE TO GIVE IT TO ME FOR THE PRICE I FOUND IT AT. THIS IS FALSE ADVERTISING AND I WILL HAVE YOU FIRED.”

Me: “Ma’am, I am a volunteer. They don’t fire volunteers in the same way. And, as such, I am free to tell you that no, I do not have to sell it to you at that price. It is not false advertising, as the price on the base is present and correct, and you were the one who moved it to the 50p shelf.”

Customer: *starting to go a faint shade of purple now* “HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME IN THAT MANNER, YOU IGNORANT LITTLE BRAT?! NO WONDER THEY HAVE YOU AS A VOLUNTEER. NOBODY WOULD EVER ACTUALLY HIRE YOU!”

Me: “I am sorry you feel that way.”

(I pick up the vase and move it out of her reach, on a bit of counter beside the wall.)

Customer: “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! THAT’S MINE!”

Me: “It is not yours; you have not paid for it. I am refusing you service for insulting me.”

Customer: “HOW DARE YOU?! YOU CAN’T DO THAT! I’LL HAVE YOU FIRED! I AM A REGULAR! I AM NEVER COMING BACK AFTER THIS OUTRAGE! I SPEND A LOT OF MONEY HERE!”

Me: “Usually about 50p. Now, please, there is a queue forming.”

(Still ranting and raving, she storms out of the shop, all but shattering our elderly doors as she slams them.)

Me: *under my breath* “See you again next week.”

Next Customer: *puts down their genuine 50p-shelf purchases and grins at me* “So… How many tins of dog food do I owe you?”

Me: *laughing* “Five. Or I’ll take £2.50, instead.”

(The other customers were very understanding about the disturbance, and I am sad to say this was one of almost daily occurrences of trouble with the dreaded 50p shelf.)


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