Unfiltered Story #155552

, , | | Unfiltered | June 27, 2019

(I work in a small toy store in a Main Railway Station in Prague so we often have customers that don’t speak Czech. All of our sales assistants can speak English, and although I do understand German pretty well, I can speak it just a little. This customer couldn’t speak Czech, English nor Russian so I had to use my broken German)
Customer: *brings the toy to the cash register*
Me: *pointing on a price tag and trying to explain in my horrible German* Hello. Well, this is our Club price, which is only for Czech people with our Club card, I have to give you this ordinary price. *I point on the second price tag*
Customer: But it says here that it costs ****CZK.
Me: Yes, but it’s our special Club price. It’s written over here. (It is, but only in Czech.)
Customer: *leaves*

(About five minutes later she returns with her husband. She speaks loudly and really fast and I can tell it’s not Hochdeutsch but I still kinda understand what’s going on so I explain it again. She starts yelling at me something about not having price tags in German and not talking German and something about Switzerland. I’m mere seconds from crying.)
Czech customer standing in line: *speaking fluent, fast German* Stop yelling at her. She explained it to you… (then she continued saying something about not having Czech tags in German too, I just stood speechless trying to understand what’s going on).
German customer: *smashes toy on counter and leaves mumbling something in German*
(I started to thank the Czech customer and I checked her an employee price)
Czech customer: Lot of them are like that because they think when they have money they can do anything. Have a nice day.
Me: Thank you very very much, have a nice day.

(To the Czech customer I’ll probably never meet again: Thank you, you saved me lot of problems that day and I hope someone will help you someday like you helped me)

Apparently, He’s Fine With Women Drivers, Though

, , , | | Working | June 18, 2019

(On my first day working in this office, a six-foot-five male coworker asks me if I can drive him into work every day. He does pay me the regular fee everyone else does for driving them, so I agree. However, every time I’m left alone with him in the car, he starts saying sexist stuff about me being a fertile woman, uneducated in the field, and too young anyway. I’m 23 at the time, a history art graduate doing well, with a good office job in this IT company. The next time the guy tries to invite himself into my car again over email, I’m not reacting. He comes over, looking at his phone as he speaks to me.)

Guy: “At four, as usual?”

Me: “Me? Yes.”

Guy: *simply stating* “Okay. I know I said I’ll pay the debt today, but I’ll pay tomorrow, with today’s fee.”

Me: “Sure thing. It’s [fee, leaving today’s fee for a ride out].”

(He finally looks up from his phone, does the quick math, and frowns a little.)

Guy: “Plus [today’s fee for the ride].”

Me: “No.”

Guy: “What do you mean, no?”

Me: “Because I’m not driving you anymore.”

(He frowns, actually confused.)

Guy: “Why?”

Me: “Because I don’t want to.”

(There’s a short pause; he’s even more confused.)

Guy: “Why?”

Me: “Because you keep presenting your sexist opinions on women, even though I asked you not to a few times already and said I’d like not to talk about such things with you.”

(Not gonna lie, the adrenalin rush is a thing. The guy is staring at me, silent and confused.)

Me: “It’s [fee, leaving today’s fee for a ride out].”

(He pulls out the money and leaves it on my table before leaving without another word.)

Other Coworker: “I think I’m scared of you a little now. I wouldn’t have the balls to tell him the truth. Wow.”

(This was not my first time dealing with the sexist idiot. A moment later a boss from the office next door came and asked who talked to The Guy. Our boss pointed at me, a nearly five-foot-tall, petite girl, and the boss from next door started laughing really hard and said The Guy was sulking at his table. Turns out nobody is happy with him or his work and he refuses to take orders from the boss, who is a woman, and acts as if he does not hear her. Later on, he missed the bus and called me desperately, begging me to drive him for the last time. I refused, of course, because I’d be scared to do so, anyway, after all this. Later, he was seen CRYING near the office building back exit. He got kicked out the following week after making some remark about another lady boss in a whole different district office.)

Arrear Window

, , , , | | Working | June 5, 2019

(Jobs are scarce, so I take a job at a place where the boss/owner is seven shades of crazy. There’s almost no heating during winter, lousy pay, commission money constantly in arrears, and “bonus” is considered a taboo word, but he is quick to cut our pay or fine us for any infraction. But then, I find him to be legitimately creepy. One evening I have my little granddaughter over, and we play “marching band,” me with an imaginary baton marching up and down the kitchen, and my little granddaughter following me with an imaginary tuba.)

Boss: “Hey, I was outside your window yesterday evening, and you behaved like a crazy person! Are you taking drugs or something?”

(Here I am, standing in the shop, trying to process what he just said. There is just so much wrong with it I don’t know where to start, so finally I say something that makes everybody laugh:)

Me: “And what would I be buying the drugs with? The pittance you are paying me?!”

(Call us petty and cruel, but we waited until the Christmas office party, and then we told him that we quit en masse on the 31st. He cannot figure out why there are no new workers flocking to his shop.)

Passed The Baton To More Civilized Times

, , , , | Related | April 13, 2019

Many years after the fact, my husband related to me and his parents a story of his first and only encounter with law enforcement.

When he was fourteen, he did one of those stupid things under peer pressure that was considered a badge of honor back then: driving a motorbike without a license, or indeed without being the appropriate age to get one. Of course, he was stopped and taken to the police station. As a minor, his parents were to be called, but there was an unofficial, alternative punishment: a couple of whacks across the buttock of the child in question. Different times, back then. It was not legal, of course, but deemed appropriate.

Given the choice, my husband without hesitation chose the alternative. The friendly police sergeant opened a drawer and gave him a choice of the tool. There was a colorful collection of batons of various materials, from wooden, to rubber, to plastic. My husband chose the least impressive, small one. The policeman said okay, grabbed the stick… and expanded it to working length. Yes, it was the first model of telescopic baton in use, and according to my husband, it stung.

Still, my husband maintains, that it was much better than what his father would have done to him, had he known about his ride without a license.

“You bet I would,” said my father-in-law, when my husband finished. “In fact, I still should!” and jokingly undid his belt.

OMG-yn!, Part 2

, , , , | Healthy | January 23, 2019

(I wake up feeling sick. There are explosions of pain in my right side. I try to walk it off but after a few hours my boyfriend decides it’s time to stop playing hero, and he takes me to an emergency room. A receptionist is sorting patients according to their suspected diagnosis — broken bones and physical injuries are sent to the surgical ER, ob-gyn problems to the ob-gyn ER, toothache to the dentist ER, etc. We think it’s appendicitis, so I end up in general ER because we actually don’t know what’s wrong. I am four months pregnant and it’s already starting to show.)

Doctor: “We need to do a test to see if you are pregnant.”

Me: “I am pregnant.”

Doctor: “Riiight. So, we will do the test to see if you are pregnant…”

Me: “I am pregnant.”

Doctor: “Sure. So this test–“

Me: “Which part of ‘I am pregnant’ don’t you understand?”

Doctor: “This test will determine if you are pregnant.”

Me: “Okay, last time: I am pregnant. I’m 17 weeks along. In your right hand is my pregnancy card which confirms my pregnancy, includes all the tests, results, and every check-up I’ve had. I am four months pregnant!”

Doctor: *pause* “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

Me: “Arggggh!”

(She sent me to ob-gyn ER since “irritated pregnant women aren’t her problem.” At the ob-gyn ER, I was told my baby was fine, and since they also agreed it might be appendicitis, they sent me to the surgical ER where they determined it wasn’t appendicitis, but that the cause of the pain was my baby. I had a slightly irritated and swollen appendix, and the position of my son allowed him to kick it, which caused the explosions of pain. Two days of an icepack on my right side and liquid diet, and I was fine.)

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