One summer evening, I was craving a burrito for supper, so I got in my car to head to the local burrito place. As I drove past my next-door neighbor’s house, a car began to pull out… and didn’t stop. By the time I realized they weren’t stopping, I was in front of their driveway, so I slammed my brakes and hit my horn, but sure enough, the car backed right into me. 

The other driver pulled forward and parked on the side of the road. Then, she got out and came over to my car. 

Driver: “Here, let me give you my insurance information.”

Me: “Yeah, that’d be good.”

Driver: “Hmm, it’s not on my phone. It must be in my glovebox.”

Then, she walked back to her car, got in, and sped off without another word. Luckily, I had enough time to write down her license plate. The damage was minor: only a dented body panel, but it made it impossible to open the passenger door. 

I called the police and told them what happened. They said an officer would call me back in half an hour. “Great,” I thought. “I’ll go get my burrito after the officer calls.” I went back inside and told my roommate what had happened. 

Forty-five minutes later, I was getting hungry and impatient, as the officer still hadn’t called me. I decided I could answer the phone just as well in my car or at the burrito restaurant. I got in my now dented car and drove to the burrito restaurant.

When I got there, the workers told me they were out of rice. I’d have to wait fifteen minutes for more. I hesitated but decided to wait since I really wanted this burrito and I didn’t want to settle for less. 

Approximately fourteen minutes later, my phone rang. It was not the police; it was my roommate, telling me the police had arrived at my house, apparently skipping the part where they were supposed to call me. With a mournful look back at the burrito counter, I left the restaurant and quickly drove home. 

By the time I got there, the police had already left. I think they just talked to my neighbor and then left. By this time, it was about 9:00 and I was starving. The burrito place was closing and I was too tired to go out again anyway, so I settled for a grilled cheese sandwich, having missed both the police and my burrito, despite waiting for several hours. 

Eventually, I learned that the other driver didn’t even live at my neighbor’s house, and her insurance paid for all of the repairs. I also got my burrito the next day, and it was all the more delicious after having been delayed for so long.

I stopped at a well-known fast food restaurant for breakfast after working the overnight shift. The drive-thru was wrapped around the building, which should have been an indication to keep driving, but I was hungry, so I stopped and went inside.

A dozen or more people were standing around waiting. After confirming they had all ordered, I went to an order kiosk and got what I wanted. The printer did not give me an order number, so I went to the register.

Employee: “You can order over on the kiosk, ma’am.”

Me: “I did. It didn’t print a receipt.”

Employee: *Sigh* “What is your order number?”

Me: “I don’t know. It didn’t print anything.”

Employee: “Well, we need to know what your order is.”

Me: “That’s why I’m asking you… It was [items].”

Employee: “Okay, well, just wait for it to come up.”

She walked away before I could say anything else. Everyone else in the lobby slowly trickled out as their orders were filled. I checked my watch and saw that I’d been waiting over fifteen minutes. In the grand scheme, that’s not that much, but for “fast food”, it’s a little long.

Me: “Excuse me?”

Employee: “What?”

Me: “My order hasn’t been filled.”

Employee: “What is your order number?”

Me: “The kiosk didn’t print anything when I paid.”

Employee: “Then you haven’t ordered.”

Me: “Yes, I did. Look: I was charged [amount].”

I showed her my bank account on my phone, which showed a charge from the restaurant that day.

Employee: “Okay?”

Me: “So, where is my order?”

The employee shrugged and walked away.

I walked out without my food. I later wrote to corporate explaining what had happened. They sent back a form letter with a generic apology and a coupon for a dollar off ice cream. I filed a dispute with my bank, and they got my full amount back.

I’m lined up at a fast food place right after I’ve knocked off work at the nearby supermarket. It’s the middle of the day, and I’ve got a hankering for a specific burger and some fries. I see above the cashier’s head that the particular burger I want is on a lunchtime special for $5. I’ve just cracked a can of energy drink, which is in my hand, so I’m pondering whether I can get away with no drink.

The teenager behind the counter taking orders is obviously blaming me and the other customers personally for her bad day. She’s snippy and rude, and she actually yells at a little kid in front of me for asking for a spoon. Whatever, we all have bad days. It’s my turn to order.

Me: “Hi! Can I please have a [$5 lunchtime special]? But I don’t want a drink, thanks.”

Cashier: *Glaring* “It comes with a drink.”

Me: “I know. I just don’t need one. I’ve already got one.”

I wave around my very distinctive, large red can of energy drink.

Cashier: *Still glaring* “You have to have the drink. I can’t remove it.”

I think she thinks I’m trying to get it cheaper.

Me: “Oh! No, I know that, but could you put it through and just not pour the drink? I don’t need it; it’ll go to waste.”

Cashier: “No. It comes with a drink.”

I can see I’m not getting anywhere with her, so I finally just ask for their most popular drink, pay, and step off to the side to wait for my food. She stomps around a bit getting my order and then hands it to me, smugly adding, “And here’s your drink,” as she hands it over.

Me: “Thanks.”

I turn to a group of teenagers sitting at the table behind me.

Me: “You guys want a free drink?”

I set my drink on their table and they thank me while the cashier goes ballistic behind me.

Cashier: “YOU CAN’T DO THAT! IT COMES WITH A DRINK! YOU HAVE TO TAKE THE DRINK!”

I just walked out. When I looked through the window getting into my car, a very exasperated manager was talking to her. Good luck, buddy.

I work at a popular fast food restaurant. I was called in on my day off because they needed help.

“No problem,” I thought. “Probably a busy day.”

I walked the mile and a half up there, got inside, and clocked in to find out that the manager and most of the other employees had gone out and partied the night before. I wouldn’t normally have a problem with this if they hadn’t been the ones opening; now, an entire shift and most of another had called out due to being hungover. This included the opening manager.

Since all of them didn’t show up, it was now five in the afternoon, and the restaurant had never opened. Two of the biggest rushes of the day had been missed, and we were smack dab in the middle of the final one… with nothing ready.

The evening shift manager was alternating between screaming into the void, pulling their hair out, and trying to get the (very few) non-hungover employees to please, please, please come in!

The first thing I did when I got inside and clocked in was to check if we had things stocked such as tater tots, French fries, etc.

I headed back to the freezer, and nothing was done. I wasn’t happy. I’d been working there for a little over a month, had been fully trained in two weeks, and knew that stocking the fridge takes at least half an hour for one person to do it.

If I buckled under, I would be forced to juggle cooking and stocking, and it would take me about two hours to do everything that needed to be done. By that point, the dinner rush would be over and it just wouldn’t be worth it. I told the evening manager that we would simply have to be closed today because I would not be able to run this place with only said manager to help.

The manager struggled mentally for a moment and then sagged in acceptance. I was the only one they had gotten who was willing to come in.

This was the day I learned not to answer my phone on my day off. This was also the time I got to watch as nearly the entire staff was fired and replaced.

I’m a delivery driver. The restaurant I’m picking up from allows us to go through the drive-thru, so I do.

Me: “Hi. I’m picking up an order for [Delivery Service].”

Employee: “Okay. Go wait in the parking lot and it’ll be brought out.”

So I do. And I wait and wait.

Finally, after fifteen minutes, I’m about to leave when the guy comes out.

Employee: “What are you doing?”

Me: “I’m waiting for food.”

Employee: *Snickering* “You’re supposed to go through the drive-thru.”

Me: “I did, and you told me to wait here.”

Grinning, the guy shook his head and went back inside. I drove around and peeled out of there. I canceled the delivery, and I could see the guy waving me down.

If they can grin and laugh about being so dumb, they can deliver their own food. I reported them and decided to never pick from fast food restaurants again. So far, it’s been great.