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Who Will Fold First?

, , , , , | Right | July 22, 2026

I work in tech support. This was during COVID, so those of us who could were working from home.

Me: “Thank you for calling [Tech Support]. How may I assist you today?”

Caller: “Do you know I’ve been on hold for half an hour?!”

It was fifteen minutes, but whatever.

Me: “I apologize for the wait and appreciate your patience. How may I assist you today?”

Caller: “You appreciate my patience, do you? Well then, I will appreciate yours! I know you’re not allowed to hang up, so I’m going to make you wait half an hour before I talk to you!”

Me: “You know what? That would be great! We’re all working from home at the moment. My laundry run just finished, so that will give me time to get all the clothes into the dryer, and then do the dishes, and then—”

Caller: *Click.*

COVID was a horrible time, but it did allow us to have no f***s to give for a while…

Mansplain This

, , , , , | Right | July 21, 2026

This story took place a while ago. The conversation is mostly as I remember, but I’ve simplified it somewhat so that you’re not here all day.

A man walks into the auto shop with his teenage son. I’m the only person at the counter at the time, and I’m a woman.

Customer: “Uh… can I speak to a man?”

Me: *Gesturing to my coworker in the back.* “Sure.”

I call over the newest hire we have. He’s been with us a few weeks, and he’s a great dude, but as green as they come.

Coworker: “Hey, what can I help you with?”

Customer: “I’ve got a question about my truck. It’s making a noise.”

Coworker: *Glances at me immediately.* “Uh… she’s actually the one you want.”

The customer sighs like he’s being inconvenienced by reality and turns back to me. He sizes me up and then looks at his teenage son. When he speaks, it’s like he’s trying to prove a point to his son.

Customer: “Fine. I’ve got a 2014 Silverado. It’s making a noise.”

Me: “What kind of noise?”

Customer: “A ticking. Happens mostly on startup.”

Me: “Cold start tick? Probably lifters. Has it been sitting a while, or are you overdue an oil change?”

Customer: *Pauses.* “I change my oil.”

Me: “Okay. What weight are you running?”

Customer: “5W-30.”

Me: “Factory spec’s 0W-20 for that engine. Heavier oil can mess with lifter performance, especially on startup.”

Customer: *Frowns.* “That’s not what I’ve been told.”

Me: “Alright. When’s the last time you changed the spark plugs?”

Customer: “Recently.”

Me: “All of them?”

Customer: *Hesitates.* “Yeah.”

Me: “And the wires?”

Customer: “It doesn’t have wires.”

Me: “Good. Just checking.”

His son snorts a little. The customer ignores him and doubles down. From here on in, he seems to be testing me instead of diagnosing an actual problem he might be having.

Customer: “Okay. My transmission’s been slipping. What would cause that?”

Me: “Depends. When was the last time you serviced it?”

Customer: “It’s sealed.”

Me: “It’s marketed as sealed. There’s still fluid in it, and it still degrades.”

Customer: “So what, you’re saying I should just… open it up?”

Me: “I’m saying if it’s slipping, you’re either low on fluid, the fluid’s degraded, or you’ve got internal wear. Ignoring it won’t fix it.”

Customer: “Alright then. What about my brakes squeaking?”

Me: “Pads are probably worn or glazed. Could also be cheap pads. Did you replace the rotors when you did the pads?”

Customer: “You don’t always have to.”

Me: “No, but if you didn’t resurface or replace them, that could be your noise.”

Customer: “Huh.”

He glances at his son again, who is now very clearly enjoying this.

Customer: “Okay. Engine light’s on. Code reader says P0171.”

Me: “System too lean, bank one. Check for vacuum leaks, dirty MAF sensor, or fuel delivery issues.”

Customer: “MAF?”

Me: “Mass airflow sensor.”

Customer: *Quickly.* “And where is that?”

Me: *Quicker.* “Between the air filter and the throttle body.”

Customer: “And how would I clean it?”

Me: “MAF cleaner. Not brake cleaner, not carb cleaner. MAF cleaner.”

Customer: *Grudgingly.* “Okay…”

He shifts gears again, clearly trying to find something.

Customer: “What about torque specs on lug nuts?”

Me: “Depends on the trim, but around 140 foot-pounds for that Silverado.”

Customer: “And the firing order?”

Me: “1-8-7-2-6-5-4-3.”

Customer: *Immediately.* “Clockwise or counterclockwise?”

Me: *Without missing a beat.* “Firing order doesn’t care about directions. It’s the sequence the cylinders fire in.”

His son actually laughs out loud this time. The customer leans in slightly, like he’s about to deliver something clever.

Customer: “If I rotate my tires left to right, won’t that reverse the tread pattern and mess up the drivetrain?”

Me: “Only if your tires are directional.”

Customer: “And if they are?”

Me: “Then you wouldn’t rotate them left to right in the first place.”

Customer: “Okay, but what if I just—”

Me: “—ignore the arrows on the sidewall and do it anyway?”

Customer: *Caught mid-sentence.* “…yeah.”

Me: “Then the only thing you’re testing is how committed you are to doing it wrong.”

There’s a pause. The son is trying very hard not to laugh again.

Customer: *Finally, quieter.* “Alright… so… lifters, you said?”

Me: “That’d be my first place to look.”

Customer: “And the oil weight?”

Me: “Start there, yeah.”

He nods slowly, like he’s recalibrating something.

Customer: “Okay. Thanks.”

Me: “No problem.”

He turns to leave, then hesitates.

Customer: “…you’ve worked on trucks long?”

Me: “Since I was a kid.”

Customer: “…huh.”

He leaves. My coworker leans over the counter.

Coworker: “So… should I still be the one helping people?”

Me: “Only if they specifically ask for a man, which happens a lot and is fine by me as I like my breaks.”

The Next Smartphone Generation

, , , , , , , | Right | July 20, 2026

This story reminded me of something similar. A customer is at my checkout. She looks to be about fifty-ish years old.

Customer: “I want the 10% discount.” *Points to a banner.*

Me: “Those are for signing up to the store app. I can help you do that now if you like. Then all I have to do is scan a QR code, and—”

Customer: “—I will not be doing any of that. Instead, you will be giving me 10% off right now, or I shall be reporting [Store] for discriminating against those who do not have cellphones.”

Me: “We’re not, ma’am. It’s just a promotion to—”

Customer: “—can I get the discount listed on the banner if I don’t have a cellphone? Yes or no?”

Me: “I don’t think—”

Customer: “—I’m not asking you to think, girl! I’m asking you to answer!”

Me: “I’m going to call my manager.”

I call over my manager, and the customer voices her complaint.

Manager: “First of all, ma’am, [Store] is well within its rights to offer any promotion it wishes and set the rules of that promotion. You can, by all means, send in a complaint about this current promotion, but your consumer rights aren’t being violated by its existence. Secondly…”

The manager turns to me:

Manager: “[My Name], only if you’re comfortable doing so, do you mind telling us your age?”

Me: “Seventeen.”

Manager: *To the customer.* “Smartphones have been around longer than your cashier has been alive. I don’t think it’s outrageous for [Store] to assume most of its customers will have one. Now, is there anything else?”

Customer: “I’ll be reporting you all for discrimination! What if I were blind! What if I couldn’t read!”

Manager: “You read the ad banner, but good point! The promotion is also advertised through the store’s speakers. Feel free to report us to… well… whoever. Now, please pay for your items.”

The customer actually pays but keeps telling us she’s reporting us as she leaves. I don’t know who she’s reporting us to, but we’ve yet to hear from them.

Side note: My dad still has his original generation one iPhone. He got it the day before he found out his wife was pregnant… with me!

When They Wear Their Sunday Best, Expect The Sunday Worst, Part 5

, , , , , | Right | July 19, 2026

I’m serving the after-church crowd on a Sunday afternoon. My lot usually aren’t as bad as some of the other stories I read on this site (mine usually tip… with MONEY!), but this one family seems to always set out to be a problem.

Dad Customer: “I ordered the club sandwich and fries, but the fries are cold! Remake them!”

Mom Customer: “This clam chowder is way too creamy! And why don’t you serve it in a bread bowl like they do out west?!”

Teen Customers: “Why don’t you have chicken nuggets!? We don’t want fried chicken with the bones!”

And so on. They would always find some way to justify not leaving a tip due to the “bad service”.

Until one glorious Sunday, when they were in their usual mid rant:

Dad Customer: “You’d think after weeks of our helpful suggestions your chefs would know how much cheese is appropriate for a cheeseburger, but no, instead—”

Other Customer: “[Dad Customer’s Name]?”

Dad Customer: *Freezes mid-rant, turns to see the other customer, an older gentleman, staring at him.* “Uh… hello Father.”

Other Customer: “I thought I recognized your voice. You’re always so vocal about my sermons in church that I knew it was you from the other side of the restaurant.”

Dad Customer: “Yes, uh… well…”

Other Customer: “I hope today’s sermon about being loving and compassionate carries over into everyday life. For example, I know the workers here are mostly young adults trying to keep up with the rent. It would be a wonderful show of how well you took to heart the scriptures I mentioned by leaving them a healthy tip.”

Dad Customer: “Yes, I…”

Other Customer: “I mean, since you’re bursting with so many suggestions for these waitstaff, you should follow up such fervor with a corresponding tip, don’t you think, just like I know you do at the church based on how often you remind me how much you put into the donation boxes.”

Dad Customer: “Yes, Father.”

Other Customer: “Good, good!” *Turns to me, speaking loudly.* “Thank you for your excellent service! The food has been impeccable! I think I might come here every Sunday after my service from now on!”

Me: “Thank you… You’d be very welcome!”

Both go back to their meals, and I get zero more “suggestions”. This family tipped for the first time ever (10%)!

It was also their last time ever, as I never saw them come into the place ever again, Sunday or otherwise. I guess since they couldn’t skimp out on the tip at our place anymore, they had to find another place to offer their “helpful suggestions”.

Related:
When They Wear Their Sunday Best Expect The Sunday Worst, Part 4
When They Wear Their Sunday Best Expect The Sunday Worst, Part 3
When They Wear Their Sunday Best Expect The Sunday Worst, Part 2
When They Wear Their Sunday Best Expect The Sunday Worst

A Lesson In Hospitality

, , , , , , | Right | July 18, 2026

I work in the restaurant and bar area of a large resort in a part of Mexico popular with American tourists. I look way younger than I am (good genetics), and thanks to having a local college degree, the resort considers me experienced enough to hold a management position.

The resort is located on an oceanside cliff. The private beach is below, accessible by stairs and an elevator. The restaurant I am working at this evening is located on the beach.

Because it’s a busy weekend, I’m helping wait tables on top of my other duties. I’m serving an American family (parents and two teenage children), but the mother has seemed upset the entire evening.

Mother: “Why is the special always seafood?”

Me: “Well, ma’am, since we’re a coastal property and we buy all our fish from local fishermen, it’s often that our specials will be seafood. If this isn’t to your liking, we also offer steak, pork, and we have a pizza menu that—”

Mother: “—We’re from New York! Why would I come all the way to Mexico for a pizza?!”

Me: “I was simply explaining our menu, ma’am.”

Teenage Daughter: “Mom, why are you being like this?”

Teenage Son: “Yeah, mom, don’t be a Ka—”

Mother: “—Don’t you say it!”

Teenage Son: “—A Ka…razy… tourist. Just order what looks good!”

The mother gives a ‘hmph’ and orders a steak. The rest of the family orders some seafood and some Mexican specialties.

The mother is ready to complain again sometime later:

Mother: “My children ordered Mexican food and got this. Please explain yourself.”

Me: “Those are indeed Mexican dishes, ma’am. They might differ from what you get in New York, but they’re—”

Mother: “—If you get an American ordering a dish, shouldn’t it be catered for the American tastes? I don’t care how you do it here in lil’ ol’ Me-hee-co, but if an American asks for it they should get it as they do in America.”

Me: *To the teenagers.* “Ma’am, sir, please tell me what about the [Mexican Dishes] were not to your liking, and I can—”

Teenage Daughter: “—Oh, no! We loved it!”

Teenage Son: “Yeah! They tasted really fresh!”

Mother: *Souring.* “That’s not the point! They did not come out as expected!”

The rest of the night is like it with this woman, and it’s beginning to scratch against my customer service armor.

At the end of the meal:

Mother: “Go and fetch the manager. We’ll be needing to talk to them about the quality of the service we have received tonight.”

Me: “That would be me, ma’am. Please tell me about the quality of the service I have provided for you this evening.”

Mother: “You? You’re the manager?!”

Me: “Yes, ma’am.”

Mother: “Are you even old enough to drink?!”

Me: “Yes, ma’am. I am thirty-one years old.”

Mother: “I don’t believe you.”

Me: “That’s fine, ma’am. I am still the restaurant manager this evening. Please tell me about the quality of the service I have provided for you and any issues you might have with it.”

She pauses for a moment, obviously not expecting this turn of events. She had been hoping to complain (and likely exaggerate said complaints) about me to someone else.

Mother: “Then I want to talk to YOUR manager.”

Me: “That would be one of the resort managers. They work in the main resort on the top of the cliff. You can ask for them at the front desk.”

This is obviously not to her liking, as she wants to complain to someone right here, and right now. Angered by this, she’s only left with insults:

Mother: “This place must be pretty desperate if they have a local waiter boy doubling as the manager. You look like you didn’t even finish high school.”

Me: “Actually, I have a master’s degree, ma’am. I’m working here for a year before I go to the National Autonomous University of Mexico to start my doctorate.”

Mother: “You’re making all that up!”

Father: “That’s enough, dear, don’t you think? I’ve heard this nice gentleman speak three languages tonight serving us guests, and you still say the hard ‘J’ in fajita. Let’s not go down this road tonight.”

The father signs the check, tells me to charge it to a room, and the family leaves.

The next day I am serving the teens at the bar (they’re eighteen and nineteen, both legally able to drink in Mexico), and they tell me that their parents are divorcing, but this trip was a graduation present booked before they decided to divorce, so the whole thing is very tense.

For the rest of the week, when that family dined in the hotel, the dad and the teens dined without their mother. From what I heard, she barely left the room all week.