This Customer Isn’t Even Remotely Right

, , , , , | Right | November 17, 2017

(I’m checking a couple into their room when the woman informs me they’re here on a trip with their church and are “top people” in their church. She comes down from her room 30 minutes later.)

Me: “How may I help you, ma’am?”

Guest:Remote! This isn’t working.”

Me: “Okay, let me get you fresh batteries.”

(I get her the batteries, but she comes back down ten minutes later. By now, it’s 5:00 pm and I have three guests in line I’m checking in.)

Me: “Okay, sir, you’re in room—”

Guest: *storms up to the desk, cutting in front of the line* “THIS REMOTE IS STILL NOT WORKING!”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am. If you can wait until I check this man in, I’ll get you a new remote. Or I can bring it to your room when I’m finished here.”

Guest: *doesn’t move from the desk, and is pacing back and forth and almost breathing down my neck* “This is ridiculous! I can’t believe the idiots they hire; I should be helped immediately!”

(She begins muttering profanities under her breath.)


Me: “Ma’am, I’m the only staff member on site for this shift, and we are at full capacity. I promise I’ll help you as soon as I can.”


(She then throws her remote control at me as hard as possible. It hits my shoulder.)

Me: “I suggest you apologize, pack your things, and leave, or I’ll call the cops. You just assaulted me. I’m allowed to refuse you service now, and I think that’d be the best decision.”

(The guest laughed and walked up to her room. She was escorted out by police an hour later. Moral of the story: your employer may use the “customer is always right” motto, but if a customer insults, harasses, or attacks you, you DO have the right to refuse service. It is illegal to be forced to serve someone berating you. If employees around the world allow customers to verbally or physically attack them, then customers will always think it’s okay to do so.)

Taco No No

, , , , , , , | Right | November 16, 2017

(I work at a 24-hour taco place in a college town, and I usually do graveyard shifts. We get our fair share of drunk students and strange characters. One regular customer, a lanky, scruffy-looking guy with a backpack, who smells like marijuana, comes in three or four times a week between midnight and 6:00 am. He always gets two tacos and a cup of water, pays with cash that often includes larger bills, leaves a dollar plus his coin change in the tip jar, sits at the same table if it’s available, eats quickly, consolidates all his trash into one basket, washes his hands in the bathroom, and leaves. He gives polite smiles, says all his pleases and thank you’s, and never has any complaints, but he does not make small talk and responds with one- or two-word answers when chatted with. That said, I much prefer a quiet, polite customer to a loud, rude one. The thought that he might be a drug dealer has occurred to me, but he’s a good customer and I have no interest in causing him any trouble if my unfounded theory happens to be true. One night at about 4:00 am, he comes in, does his normal routine, and is sitting at his usual table eating when another customer, obviously drunk, comes in and approaches the register.)

Drunk Customer:Hey! You’ve got to give me a bunch of free tacos. Your manager said so.”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Drunk Customer: “Are you f****** deaf? Free tacos. Uh, like, twenty of them.”

Me: “Sir, we don’t usually give tacos away for free, and my manager hasn’t told me anything about this. Can I ask why he said you should get free tacos?”

Drunk Customer: *he huffs and rolls his eyes like I’m a complete idiot* “B****, it’s not your business. Give me tacos! Tell the [Mexican slur]s back there to get ’em started, now, b****!”

(The regular jumps out of his seat and walks quietly up behind the drunk customer.)

Drunk Customer: “If you don’t give me twenty free tacos right now, I’m going to beat your f****** a**!”

Regular: “[Drunk Customer].”

Drunk Customer: “Who the f***—”

(He whirls around to see the regular standing behind him, shaking his head slowly. The drunk customer freezes like a deer in the headlights.)

Drunk Customer: “Uh, hey, [Regular].”

Regular: “No.”

Drunk Customer: “Hey, man, I was just—”

Regular: “No. Leave.”

(The drunk customer practically bolts out the door. The regular looks up at me and smiles politely.)

Regular: “Have you called the cops?”

Me: *still a little shaken and confused* “What? The cops? N-no?”

Regular: “Okay. Are you going to?”

Me: “I don’t— Should I?”

Regular: “No, thank you.”

(He then sat back down as if nothing happened, finished his tacos and water, consolidated his trash into one basket, washed his hands in the bathroom, and left. I gave him his tacos for free the next couple times I saw him, but his routine still hasn’t changed.)

Recipe’s Frozen In Place

, , , , , , , | Working | November 14, 2017

(I work with my sister at a vegan bakery. It’s her first job. It is January, so typically cold. I show up the first day before sunrise and it is freezing inside — literally. The building is separate from the main restaurant.)

Me: “Why is it so cold?”

Sister: “Oh, the owner doesn’t have heat installed in here. Don’t worry; it kind of warms up after a few hours when we turn the oven on.”

(Later, I start to mix a recipe with a spoon.)

Sister: “Oh, no, if the owner comes back here and sees that, we get in trouble. We have to use our bare hands.”

Me: “Seriously? Bare hands? And it’s all freezing?”

Sister: “Yeah, otherwise we get yelled at and she starts coming back here a lot more to check.”

(Another day the owner came back and hurriedly LOCKED US IN. There were bars on the window; we literally couldn’t get out if there was a fire. She did this for several days because, as we found out later, the health inspector was around and she didn’t want him to know that building was in use. It’s really hard to find a baking job, so my little sister begged me not to say anything. I got my revenge quite unintentionally. On one of my last few days, it was so cold I wore my longest coat. I got so many glares from the owner and the staff in the actual kitchen, all family members, and I couldn’t figure out why. Then I realized: they are all Hindu. My coat? A calf-length white LEATHER trench coat. Oops. Shortly after I moved on, my sister gave up as well. She made new recipes for things like their tea cookies, following all vegan guidelines, but they were rejected because, “They didn’t taste vegan,” “They weren’t hard enough,” and, “No one would believe they were vegan.” After she left, someone sued because the cookies were so hard they broke a tooth.)

Rock Solid Reason For Dismissal

, , , , , , , | Learning | November 13, 2017

(My kindergarten teacher doesn’t like me, probably because I am a bit of a smart-a**, correcting her on math, grammar, and seasons. Each student in the class has brought in a bag of rocks from our neighborhoods as homework. I am partnered with a boy in my class to talk about our selections.)

Me: ”These rocks are really hard. See?”

(I tap the bag on the kid’s head, not too hard.)

Partner: “Ow. Those are hard.” *continues eating snack*

(Then, my teacher proceeds to call me inside. She takes me to the reading corner, the one spot of the room that can be completely counted on to not be reached by security cameras. She then hits me over the head with the rocks so hard that I’m surprised I don’t get a concussion.)

Teacher: “Did you like that?”

Me: “No! I’m sorry! Please don’t do that again!”

(She then emailed my mom and let her know what happened. She never mentioned how she punished me, probably because physical punishment is illegal in my state’s schools. I didn’t tell my parents what really happened until about third grade because I thought it was my fault. She was retired by then, but if I had told my parents a bit sooner, we would’ve taken it to court and probably sued her.)

Lost And Found Your Body

, , , , , | Right | November 12, 2017

(A teenage girl comes into my craft booth, who I recognize from a previous visit.)

Me: “Welcome back!”

Girl: “Did you see a cell phone anywhere?”

Me: “No, but let’s look.”

(We check all around the booth and under tablecloths, but we don’t find a cell phone.)

Me: “Have you checked Lost and Found?”

Girl: “No, but I know I used it here; I sent a picture of that necklace.”

(She leaves, upset. A while later she comes in with a man, a phone in hand.)

Me: “Glad you found your cell phone!”

Girl: “No, this is my dad’s; I’m using a find-a-phone app. The phone should be making a loud noise.”

(The man starts looking under my tables, grumbling, so I help double-check the area. The whole time, he is glaring at me.)

Man: “Well, I don’t hear it, but they’ve probably put it somewhere muffled. Where the h*** is her phone?”

Me: “I hope she finds it.”

(Suddenly he gets in my face, angry.)

Man: “Look, she had it here. You’re going to give me back my daughter’s phone.”

Me: “I don’t have it.”

Man: “I know you stole her phone. Give it back.”

Me: “Look, I’m sorry she lost it. Have you checked Lost and Found?”

(Suddenly he knocks over a display, grabbing my shirt.)

Man: “Listen, you little [gay slur]. If you don’t give me her phone, they aren’t going to find your body!”

Me: “Help! Help!”

(Luckily, one of the police officers at the event is nearby and comes over immediately. The man lets go of me when he sees the officer, but knocks over more displays. The man argues with the office, and is eventually put in handcuffs. I’m picking up my displays and assessing damages when the event organizer comes over to talk to the police and to me. When she hears the whole story, she looks at the daughter.)

Organizer: “Was it a [Phone] in a pink glitter case? Someone turned that into Lost and Found an hour ago.”

(That was it!)

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