The Grid Truth

, , , , , | | Right | June 18, 2019

(I am working the checkout when a young boy, about five years old, comes up with me to buy a few “Tron Legacy” toys. I’m also a fan of the “Tron” movies, so I start to talk to him about it.)

Me: “I guess you like Tron, then?”

Boy: “Yeah! I love it! They are gonna make a second one!”

Me: “Well, technically, Tron Legacy is the second one. The first one is about as old as I am.”

(The boy just looks at me with shock.)

Boy: “But you’re ANCIENT!”

(I look at his mother, who is in shock that her little boy has called me ancient, as I am not that old. She also begins to turn red out of embarrassment until I burst out laughing. The little boy buys his toys and leaves with his mother, and I turn to my manager while still laughing.)

Manager: “If you’re ancient, what does that make me, then?”

(That little boy made me forget about all the abuse I get at work, and still makes me laugh now.)

They’ll Be There By The Twelfth Round

, , , , , , | | Legal | June 18, 2019

(This story is courtesy of my father-in-law. He is a regular at a busy little pub in [Large City] with an interesting mix of clientele. This pub is located on the main road and shares a car park with a reasonably large police station. One night things get a bit rowdy and a large scale fight breaks out. Windows are being smashed and people are staggering away bleeding. Naturally, the landlady calls the police.

Landlady: “This is the landlady of [Pub] on [Street]. We’ve got a massive brawl going on; could you please send some help?”

Dispatch: “No problem, but the nearest officers we have right now are 30 minutes away.”

Landlady: *glances down the street at the busy and active police station* “Isn’t there anyone who can get here faster?”

Dispatch: “Sorry, duck, there isn’t. Tell you what; do you think you can keep the fight going until we get there?”

Not Feline That I Don’t Work Here

, , , , , | | Right | June 18, 2019

(I am a well-known sales associate in a toy shop in a shopping centre. We get one-hour lunch breaks, so I tend to change out of my uniform completely to go for a wander. Today I leave the centre to buy lunch at a large shop directly across the road. While I’m inside browsing in the cold food section, a middle-aged female customer grabs my arm. I’m wearing a bright blue jumper with a happy Christmas cat.)

Customer: “Wait up. Where’s the smoked salmon?”

Me: *turning around so it is 100% apparent I’m not wearing any form of uniform* “Wait, what? Sorry, I don’t work here.”

Customer: *still clutching my arm hard* “You’re a cashier! It won’t take long. I’m in a hurry!”

(I pull my arm away, pinched my jumper with both hands, and wiggle it so the cat on the front is very obvious. Then I say, in a small voice to emulate the cat:)

Me: “She. Doesn’t. Work. Here. Are. You. Mad. Don’t. Touch. Strangerssss.”

(The woman rolled her eyes, called me a lazy c***, and tried to flag an onlooking employee to report me, who was holding back hysterics watching the whole thing.)

Driving Below The Speed Limit Is For Babies

, , , , , , , , | | Right | June 18, 2019

I work for a luxury car company. It’s my job to be on the sales floor and take people on test drives, etc.

One day, a man comes into the dealership whose English isn’t the best. He has booked a test drive via the online feature.

When we walk towards the car he will be test driving, he stops me with a wave of his hands and rushes off to get something out of his car. I think, at first, that he’s getting his glasses or something, but he comes back with a tiny baby in a car seat. Not unusual, but worth mentioning.

We start driving down the dual carriageway, and I mention that if he wants to test the sixth gear, he can, as the speed limit is 70.

Instead, the man’s speed starts to edge towards 100 mph, and every time I try and ask him to slow down, it becomes clear that he can’t understand what I am saying.

Finally, through wild hand movements, we manage to get back onto the smaller roads to drive back to the dealership. The man starts driving on the wrong side of the road.

I have to grab the steering wheel to move us out of the oncoming path of a lorry, whilst I am being berated in German by the man.

I pull the handbrake — when it’s safe to do so — and drive us back to the dealership.

When we get back, the driver gets into his car and drives off without a word…

…leaving me with his infant daughter in the test car.

The phone number provided doesn’t work and in the end, we have to phone the police because we don’t know what to do. They come with social services and take the baby into their care.

The police eventually reunite the daughter with her mother. It turns out that the man was her father, who has visitation every other weekend.

The man submits such a poor feedback form about the test drive that I could lose my job and I am subjected to an internal review. Luckily, the camera and audio footage from the car show what actually happened.

The speeding ticket we receive from the test drive, with his photo driving, also helps me keep my job.

We’ll see if the ticket gets paid or not…

A Medium Rare Scare

, , , , | | Right | June 17, 2019

(I work in a really posh town, and most of our customers are posh, upper-class people. Most are really nice and friendly, but some try to act posher than they actually are and treat the waiters like dirt. One regular who acts like this comes in and is, as usual, obnoxious.)

Regular: “This glass is dirty, boy. Get another.”

Me: “Sorry about that.”

(I go behind the bar and pretend to get another glass. As I take it over to him and his wife, I ask if they’re ready to order.)

Regular: “Yes, I’ll have a steak, medium rare.”

Wife: “That.” *pointing to what she wants on the menu*

Me: “Okay, I’ll bring your food out shortly.”

(When their food is ready I bring it over.)

Regular: “This is not done enough; your chef is crap.”

Wife: “And this isn’t what I ordered.”

Regular: “Kids like you should go back to the gutter where you belong.”

Me: “Sorry, I’ll get the head chef right on it.”

(Again, I bring out their food when it’s ready.)

Regular: “What the h*** is wrong with you people? This still isn’t right!”

Me: “I’ll go get the chef.”

Regular: “No! I want the manager!”

Me: “He is the owner, as well.” *calls over to the kitchen* “Hey, [Chef], someone has a problem with your cooking.”

(After a few seconds a figure appears at the doorway. Our chef is almost seven feet tall, and as he believes in trying all his food before it’s served, is a little well built. Plus, as he has just been chopping vegetables, he still has a long, sharp knife in his hand.)

Chef: “Sir, I have over forty years of experience cooking for Her Majesty, the Queen, all without one meal being sent back. Now, if my food is good enough for her, it’s good enough for your scrawny neck. And I can overhear everything that’s said to my staff, so the next time you open your mouth, picture me before you speak, you human question mark.”

(After that, no one’s had any trouble from those customers.)

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