A friend of mine used to own a small diner downtown a long while back, and when he got the “I know the owner!” thing, he wanted to see if they were willing to match him beat for beat in the lie.

Customer: “Oh, I know the owner.”

Friend: “I’m the owner… wait, long lost Aunt Maud? Wow, I didn’t recognize you with both eyebrows and no ankle monitor! Is Cousin Steve still in prison for exposing himself to—”

Customer: *Runs away.*

Friend: “—wait! Come back! I need to know if your husband is still banned from children’s hospitals after the amateur magic incident!”

Related:
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 30
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 29
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 28
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 27
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 26

I work at a late-night diner in an airport. A customer has ordered a mid-priced meal and a couple of drinks. He asks for the bill, which comes to around $50.

Customer: “Can I pay with this?”

He shows me a €500 bill.

Me: “Uh, no, sir. We accept cards and US dollars.”

Customer: “What if I say you can take the bill and keep the change. That thing is worth, like, $580.”

Me: “Why would you do that, sir?”

Customer: “Because I want to pay with cash? And I’m rich? And I’m a nice and generous guy?”

Me: “Nothing to do with the fact that while technically still legal tender, the €500 bill is no longer issued and is hard to find retailers that accept it, even in Europe? Or that I can only really exchange it in a European bank? And I know for a fact that the foreign exchange desks in this airport stopped accepting that bill years ago.”

Customer: “Well, maybe, but think of the size of the tip! Worth the inconvenience, surely!”

Me: “I would need to cover the cost of your meal from my own pocket in US dollars first, which surely is an inconvenience. Even if I was okay with all of that, there’s another major issue here.”

Customer: “And what’s that?”

Me: “The €500 bill is purple. That one you’re holding is bright red. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you didn’t know that was a counterfeit bill, and now that you know, you’ll be paying for your meal in US dollars or a credit card?”

The customer glares at me, but pulls a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and tosses it at me.

Customer: “I want the change! I’m not tipping!”

So much for being a nice and generous guy…

Two ladies are ordering. The first says:

Customer: “I’ll have a medium cold brew, but can you make sure it’s extra hot?”

Me: “I’m sorry, did you want a regular hot coffee? Or maybe a steamed Americano?”

Customer: “No, I want the cold brew. I like the flavor better, but it’s too cold outside for an iced drink today.”

Me: “I can certainly steam the cold brew for you, but just so you know, heating it up will change the flavor profile and make it taste pretty much like regular hot coffee.”

Customer: “No, that’s not right. If you heat it up, it’s just ‘hot’ cold brew. It shouldn’t taste like ‘hot’ coffee. That’s a completely different bean.”

Me: “It’s actually the exact same bean, ma’am. The only difference is the temperature of the water we used to soak it.”

Customer: *Exasperated.* “Look, it’s not that complicated. Just put the cold coffee in the microwave or something until it’s boiling. I don’t see why you’re making this so difficult.”

Me: “I can do that for you, ma’am, but I should warn you: you’re essentially paying extra for me to heat your coffee.”

The second lady laughs at my comment.

Customer: “What’s so funny?! They’re not getting it!”

Customer’s Friend: “No, hun, you’re not getting it. It’s a bold choice to order a drink defined by its temperature and then immediately declare war on it.”

This time it was my turn to laugh.

Related:
Trouble Brewing, Part 14
Trouble Brewing, Part 13
Trouble Brewing, Part 12
Trouble Brewing, Part 11
Trouble Brewing, Part 10

I’m a big guy and have previously been a bouncer/doorman/security at a few different venues for extra cash. During the St Patrick’s Day parade, my wife got tickets to the judge’s tent: free beer and shots of whiskey.

Afterwards, very well drunk, we were wandering around hitting up different bars. My wife is inside having a drink, and I’m outside by the entrance smoking a cigarette. A group of women comes up, stands in front of me, and holds out their IDs.

I look at them, confused, and go to say, “I don’t work here,” and the one in front starts annoyingly shoving her ID in my face.

I go into doorman mode and check all their IDs, spending time going over them all and comparing. I say they are good to go. 

They walk past me to the door where the actual bouncer is. He asks for their IDs. The front girl turns and points at me and says:

Front Girl: “He already checked our IDs and said we were good.”

The bouncer looks at me, laughs, and says:

Bouncer: “Lady, he doesn’t work here.”

They all turn as one and glare at me. I laugh and turn away going back to what I was doing.

It is late in the evening, and I have had an issue with a rash on the side of my foot, most likely athlete’s foot brought on by wearing my shoes too long. Foot sprays have had little effect, so after my evening activities and before I finally go home to take off the sweaty shoes I’ve been wearing since 6:00 that morning, I stop at the local drug store, still dressed in my teacher clothes with my school staff badge hanging off my belt, to get some over-the-counter anti-fungal creme. This, of course, is kind of embarrassing, so I’m hoping to get in, find it, and get out with a minimum of fuss.

No such luck.

The over-the-counter foot medicines are on the back wall of the store, and I exhaust all of the aisles before finally looking on the back wall. Just as I’m stooping down to pick it up, a man that I have been going around in several of the aisles as I search, walks up to me.

Man: “Excuse me, where are the [whatever item he was looking for]?”

I didn’t really listen to what he was saying. Instead, I turned to look at him with a very tired expression.

Man: “Oh, I guess you don’t work here, do you?”

Me: “No, sir, I do not.”

Man: “Well, I just thought you might since you have the badge and all that.”

The badge was on my opposing hip, away from him. He must have seen it as we passed each other in the aisles and decided I was an employee. Why an employee would be wandering up and down the aisles instead of restocking or manning the registers, I’ll never guess. But as he was now more embarrassed than I was with a box of foot fungus cream in my hand, he quickly walked away and found someone wearing the uniform for that store.

That was the limit of the encounter, but it was enough for me to want to flee the store. Still, I managed to smile on the way out as I thought about the fun I would have submitting it to Not Always Right.