Unfiltered Story #108171

, , | Unfiltered | April 1, 2018

(My family is originally from Virginia, but my parents and a couple of my sisters moved to Florida a few years ago. My wife and I stayed in Virginia. It’s summer and we are visiting them. My wife and I were eating at the shrimp house for the first time. We are eating with the family the evening before we go home. My 14 year old niece brings a meal in from a neighboring restaurant because she is spoiled and never eats what the rest of the group eats.)

Waitress: (to my sister) Excuse me ma’am. Please don’t be mad at me but unfortunately you are not allowed to bring in meals from other restaurants. I don’t want to get in trouble with my manager and there is a sign stating this. (Points to sign clearly stating this rule.)

My sister: That is so ridiculous! She doesn’t eat meat and I told her she didn’t have to eat the food you all have here!

My brother-in-law: That is so stupid!

Waitress: I’m sorry. As I mentioned, the rule is posted and I don’t want to be in trouble. We do have vegetarian options! Feel free to check them out!

My sister: No! My daughter is a picky eater! The only reason we aren’t leaving is because my brother and his wife are not from around here and wanted to eat here! You’re not getting a tip from us!

Waitress: I’m sorry but that is the rule.

My mom: That’s stupid! Can I talk to a manager?

(The waitress proceeds to get a manager. My wife and I are clearly embarrassed by this. We are sitting there rolling our eyes while my sister and my parents continue to insult the manager. Thankfully the manager didn’t back down.)

My sister: She is just a little kid! She is a picky eater and I don’t think she should be forced to eat this food!

(Finally, my wife and I have heard more than enough and we chime in. The waitress is visibly upset)

Me: Guys! First of all, the rule is clearly posted. This is a restaurant! Not a cafeteria! She is 14 years old and going into high school. Therefore, she is not a little kid. She is more than old enough to eat what everybody else eats. She could have gotten some french fries or salad. If she couldn’t at least attempt to eat the food then that is a sign she needs to grow up or you could have eaten with her at the other restaurant. Quit acting like 5th graders.

(My family sighed at us the rest of the meal. We got our bills, which were separated. My family didn’t leave any tip. My wife and I left a $10 tip. After all my family left, I approached the waitress and manager.)

Me: Guys, I apologize for my family. Yes my niece is a very picky eater and she does not eat meat. I told them they could have gotten her a salad but she doesn’t eat vegetables either because my sister never made her eat what was fixed for supper. Instead, she always fixed her fries or a pizza..

Waitress: Don’t worry! I’ve dealt with worse customers than that. Your family is mild! We hope you enjoyed the beach here!

Being Hell-pful

, , , , , , | Friendly | March 29, 2018

(I bike around my city, which is fairly bike-friendly, and thankfully, a mixed-use trail and bike lanes connect my workplace, home, and dance studio. I’m leaving the dance studio one evening when I realize I’ve got a flat. I’ve just pumped the tires so I realize there must be a puncture, and resign myself to walking the bike home on the mixed-use trail. I decide to take the opportunity to call my mom. About halfway home, a middle-aged man and a young teenage boy ride past me. Suddenly, the man stops and bikes back to me.)

Middle-Aged Man: “Do you need help?”

Me: “No, thanks.” *returns to my conversation*

Middle-Aged Man: *interrupting me* “Are you sure?”

Me: “Yes, thanks.”

(He rides off and returns to the boy, who abruptly starts pedaling back to me and bellows:)

Boy: “HEY! He was just trying to be nice!”

(I ignore them but start to feel nervous. They begin idling about the trail, staring at me; I can’t get home without passing them. I whisper into the phone what’s happening and ask that my mom stay on the phone with me. Another cyclist passes me and stops at the crosswalk ahead, so I feel better about continuing onward. As soon as I approach them, the man asks me AGAIN if I need help. I shake my head and continue talking to my mom.)

Middle-Aged Man: “Okay, I’m just trying to help,”

(He says this loudly enough that I can’t hear my mom, and starts following me. I’m not sure how else to hint, so I say:)

Me: “Please leave me be.”

(They continue to follow me down the trail to the crosswalk, and I hear the kid whisper:)

Boy: “She’s got a flat.”

(I wonder to myself why they offered help if they have just now noticed this; walking a bike while you’re on the phone isn’t unusual.)

Middle-Aged Man: “Sure you don’t need help?”

Me: “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

(I say this pointedly, making eye contact with the other cyclist, who doesn’t seem to catch my silent plea for help. The light turns, and she carries on as I sadly watch her leave me alone with them. The man and boy initially take off, and I pull my pocket knife from my bag and rest it on the handlebars. But, sure enough, they pedal back to me a few minutes later and start CIRCLING me like sharks.)

Middle-Aged Man: *with somewhat of a salivating grin* “I’ve got a pump in my bag you can use.”

(I’m feeling totally creeped out, and I am realizing that they are just going to keep bothering me. I’m still on the phone, but I interrupt my mom to tell them:)

Me: “I told you I don’t need help. The police station is right up the street. I will call them right now if you don’t leave me alone.”

Boy: “God, we were just trying to help!

(They pedalled away, finally for good, apparently realizing the proximity of the police station. Five minutes later, I was very, very relieved to get home, and found it ironic that I did start feeling like I needed help, because I was being harassed by people who would not accept that I didn’t need their help.)

Some Adults Actually Believe This

, , , | Related | March 28, 2018

(I work at a convenience store. A customer with a boy of about seven comes to my register. They ring their items up and the customer swipes her card.)

Boy: “Mom, pick credit! That means you get your money back!”

Me: “Man, I wish that was how it worked.”

Getting An Icy Reception

, , , , , , | Working | March 28, 2018

(I am a huge coffee drinker. I only like hot coffee; I can’t stand the iced stuff. Even in triple-digit weather, I will drink hot coffee. I travel a great deal and always have trouble with the person taking my order giving me iced coffee, even AFTER telling them to make sure it’s hot. They tell me they thought I just misspoke, because there was no way someone would want a hot drink in the middle of summer. Usually they just remake it and apologize, I tell them it’s no problem and that it was an honest mistake, and I go about my merry way. I am at a hospital taking care of a relative. I go down to a fast food restaurant to get a much-needed coffee.)

Me: “Good afternoon. May I please have a hot mocha coffee, medium.”

Cashier: “Okay, that is one coffee… Are you sure you want hot?”

Me: “Yes. Please make sure it is hot. I do not like iced.”

Cashier: “Um, it’s over 100 degrees.”

Me: “Yes, I know. I want hot, not iced, please. I think the iced coffee is nasty.”

Cashier: “Okay.”

(I go and wait for my order. I wait about ten minutes. People come in to order after me and leave with their orders. I go up and talk to who I believe is the manager.)

Me: “Excuse me. I have been waiting for ten minutes for my coffee order.”

Manager: “Oh, here it is, ma’am, on the counter.” *gestures to an iced coffee*

Me: *sigh* “No, I ordered a hot coffee. I said it three times.”

Manager: “It’s over 100 degrees out . Nobody orders hot coffee on hot days like this.”

Me: “I do.”

Manager: “Tell you what. This drink is more expensive than what you ordered; you can have this one, instead, without paying more.” *he tries to walk off*

Me: “No. I do not want iced coffee; I think it is nasty. I ordered hot coffee and that is what I want, please.”

(At this point the original cashier comes over. She just shakes her head.)

Cashier: “I told you to make sure it was hot.”

Manager: “Who orders hot coffee when it’s 100 degrees out?”

Me: “I do. Now, please, either make my coffee the way I ordered it, or you can give me a refund. I really am done arguing.”

(He just stands there. The cashier goes around him and makes my coffee. I thank her, but as I start to leave, the manager tells me in a bit of a snotty tone I should take the iced coffee, too, because it would just go to waste.)

Me: “I. Do. Not. Want. Iced. Coffee. Seriously, what part of that do you not get?”

(As I am leaving, I hear him telling the cashier:)

Manager: “I don’t see why she wouldn’t just take the coffee we already made. It’s better than the hot stuff she is drinking.”

(Unfortunately for him, my receipt had a “How are we doing?” survey code on it.)

What The Truck? Part 2

, , , , | Working | March 28, 2018

(The morning my friend and I are set to leave our hotel, the valet informs me that my car won’t start. I call my dad, and we figure it’s the fuel pump. The valet helps me find the only car repair place in town that’s open on Sundays, and I arrange for towing. About an hour later, I get a phone call from someone with a very heavy accent who doesn’t speak English very well. He’s the tow truck driver, and he can’t find the giant theme park resort hotel we’re staying in. We eventually communicate well enough that he figures out what hotel he needs. As I used valet parking, I do not know exactly where my car is. I give him the number for the hotel people so he can get the details from them. Not long after, I get a call from the valet telling me that the tow truck is a giant flatbed that’s too big to fit into the parking garage. I call the 1-800 number and arrange for a smaller truck to retrieve my car. The call center lady gives me the direct phone number to the local towing company they contract with, in case I should need it. Several hours later, I get a call from the valet asking when the second tow truck is going to arrive. I’m shocked my car hasn’t been picked up yet, and I call the local number to find out what’s going on.)

Towing Dispatcher: “Yeah?”

Me: “Yes, my car was supposed to be towed from [Hotel] to [Garage], but the first truck they sent was too big. They said they’d send a smaller truck, but it’s been hours and no one’s showed up.”

Towing Dispatcher: *brings up my info in their system* “[Hotel]? That call was canceled. We couldn’t reach the car.”

Me: “Yeah, but I scheduled a second truck to come get it. My car’s in a parking garage.”

Towing Dispatcher: “Fine. I’ll send someone out.” *hangs up*

(Another hour passed. I got a call from the valet saying the towing company sent ANOTHER giant flatbed to get my car. At this point I broke down; I have Aspergers and anxiety issues, and the tow truck troubles, on top of everything else, were too much. My friend saw the state I was in, put on her manager face, and marched off to handle things herself. She returned and told me they finally got my car loaded, thanks to the valet and the tow truck driver, who pushed my little car out of the parking garage themselves. The tow truck driver was complaining loudly about how his company should have sent a smaller truck.)

What The Truck

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