I used to be a server/bartender at a golf course. I was pretty much the only one who paid attention to little details and got the little details taken care of.

I didn’t recall any of the coffee pots being cleaned in the last three years, so I peeped inside one and holy Hell, it was beyond disgusting. Like, I was about to barf, disgusting. 

On a slow day when I had no tables, I spent time cleaning and sanitizing every coffee pot we had (there had to be at least thirty of them).

The next day, we’re having a lunch rush, and a regular customer asked me:

Regular: “Did you change coffee brands? The coffee is so much more tasty than it was last week.”

This regular was one of the ones who insisted on sitting in my section because I wasn’t afraid of all her food “requirements,” and she thought I was awesome for some strange reason.

Regular: “Did you switch to a better brand of coffee? It’s so much better! The coffee has been a bit s*** as of late!”

Me: “I gave the coffee pots and the machines a serious cleaning.”

Regular: “…”

Then she bursts out laughing and says:

Regular: “Good on you!”

The general manager overheard.

General Manager: “Nobody has ever cleaned those since I’ve been here!”

Me: “🤢🤮”

I got promoted to shift supervisor after that. Wheee!

Back when I was 21, I’d just gotten my licence and drove a beat-up old Nissan hatchback—the kind popular with pensioners and budget minicab drivers. That look earned me more than a few police stops and, as I’d soon learn, the occasional belligerent drunk.

One night, after a twelve-hour shift, I got a call from my sister. She was crying. Her boss had just announced—at their Christmas party, no less—that the business was relocating and if they weren’t willing to relocate, they were being let go. Happy holidays. 

I agreed to pick her up at the golf club where the party was being held. I pulled in feeling a bit self-conscious; my Nissan looked like a charity case among the gleaming Audis and Mercs.

I was just about to get out and find her when an old guy yanked on the locked passenger door and banged on the window.

Entitled Old Guy: “Oi! Let me in! I’m too drunk to drive!”

Me: “I’m not a taxi.”

Entitled Old Guy: “Don’t lie, you’ve got the car. You’re a minicab. Let me in!”

I had to physically walk him around my car to show: no roof light, no plate, no meter, no radio. Just a tired guy picking up his sister.

He wasn’t having it. Shouted I should take him home anyway! When I turned to leave, he started ranting to the whole car park, then kicked my bumper and fell over.

I found my sister, still sniffling, and walked her back out. As I unlocked the door for her, he absolutely lost it.

Entitled Old Guy: “You said you’re not a cab! Why are you letting her in?!”

Me: *Finally snapping.* “I’M NOT A CABBIE! I’M PICKING UP MY SISTER WHO JUST GOT FIRED AT HER WORK CHRISTMAS PARTY! GO GET A COFFEE AND REIN YOUR NECK IN!”

He wasn’t the first—or the last—to mistake my car for a cab. But he was the only one to yell at me for not accepting imaginary fares.

I’m a grandfather with a loving wife and a band of golf buddies I’ve known since I took up the sport. I try to avert the stereotypical elder’s tech incompetency, aided by my self-proclaimed nerd of a grandson; he visits my place at least once a week in order to get away from parents who don’t really share any of his interests, owing to my willingness to lend him an ear about what he’s up to regardless of whether I know anything about it.

One day, [Grandson] mentions a group he plays tabletop games with. The next time my buddies and I go golfing, I relate it to them in the clubhouse as we have a coffee before the tee-off.

Me: “[Grandson] told me about his gaming buddies the other day, and I realized that they’re not all too different from you and me.”

Buddy #1: “What in the h*** do a bunch of teenage gamers have in common with a sack of old farts like us?”

Me: *Laughing* “That’s what I thought, too! But he told me he’s got four or five guys that he meets up with every week or so for these games. They have fun with each other, they don’t get mad when they get one up on each other, and they consider each other friends. But they don’t really know that much about each other outside the games when they sit down and think about it.”

Buddy #2: “That’s… Huh. That does kinda sound like us when you say that.”

Me: “And that’s my point! [Grandson] mentioned that [Friend] ran late to one session ’cause he almost ran out of gas after a date, and [Grandson] said, ‘I didn’t even know he had a girlfriend!’ So, [Wife] kissed me goodbye as I was going to meet up with you guys, and I thought, ‘How many of those guys know I’m married?’”

Buddy #3: “That’s a good point, actually! I didn’t know you were married! How long have you two known each other?”

Me: “Well… s***. How old am I again?”

We all have a laugh. Some time after you become old enough to do age-restricted things, “How old are you?” stops being a question you can answer off the top of your head.

Me: “I met [Wife] in college, so… [multiple of ten] years, at least?”

Buddy #2: “Oh, that’s a load of bulls***, that is.”

Buddy #4: “What are you talking about?”

Buddy #2: “No relationship that starts in school lasts until you’re old and grey. No dumba** expects a marriage to last the rest of their lives. If you’re involved with someone long enough, you stop loving each other. That’s just a fact.”

Buddy #1: “The f*** that’s a fact! I met [Woman #1] my last year of college, and I had grey hairs when she passed away.”

Buddy #3: “Never went to college, but [Woman #2] was in college when I hooked up with her, and we’re still enjoying each other every night.”

Buddy #4: “Seems like you’re the only dumba** here, [Buddy #2]. I met my husband in high school.”

Buddy #1: “I didn’t even know you were gay!”

Buddy #4: “Neither did my high school. People thought there was something wrong with it back then.”

Buddy #3: “Wow, [My Name] is right: we really don’t know that much about each other outside golf.”

Buddy #2: “Well, it’d help if you weren’t all lying out of your s***holes!”

Buddy #4: “F*** off, [Buddy #2]. Why are you acting like there’s something wrong with two people who love each other being able to stay that way?”

Buddy #2: “Because f*** you, that’s why!”

He storms out, leaving the rest of us in the clubhouse.

Me: “Well, now I know something about [Buddy #2]. And I don’t want to know anything else about him.”

We the remainder made an effort to learn a bit more about each other from that day on, but we never hung out with [Buddy #2] again.

I’m working the counter at a family-friendly crazy-golf place on a weekend. A dad and his son come in (the mom is there too, but she sits in the waiting area reading a magazine). The dad’s in full athletic gear, like he’s about to play the Masters. The kid is wearing a Pokémon hoodie and holding his putter like a lightsaber.

They get their scorecard and head to the first hole. I hear the dad from across the course:

Dad: “Keep your elbows in! That’s how you slice it! You want this or not, buddy?”

Kid: “I just wanna try the volcano hole.”

Halfway through the round, the dad storms back to the counter, visibly frustrated.

Dad: “Do you guys calibrate the obstacles? That windmill blade’s timing is off. My ball got bounced twice!”

Me: “It’s… meant to be tricky. That’s kind of the fun.”

Dad: “Well, it’s not fun when there’s no consistency. And I’m pretty sure that pirate ship hole is sloped wrong. I demand a refund or at least another round!”

Me: “Sir, this is a $6 game with a fiberglass parrot that squawks when you miss.”

Dad: “I don’t care!”

Mom: *Without looking up from her magazine.* “Hun, this better not be about how your seven-year-old is winning.”

Dad: “Ugh, whatever! This isn’t real golf anyway!”

Me: “Yeah… crazy.”

I was just finishing up making a tee time at my local country club when a woman entered the pro shop. She came up to where I was and “nudged” me out of the way.

Woman: “I want to make a tee time for 12:00.”

Employee: *Kindly* “That time is already taken, ma’am.”

Woman: “By whom?”

He pointed to me as I was leaving the pro shop to go hit balls on the range. I heard her behind me complaining that I was too young to play the course. (I’m fourteen.) I decided to ignore it and carry on with my day. She didn’t chase me or bother me, so I assumed that it was dealt with.

I went to my tee time later only to find that woman already teeing off with her kids. (They looked to be around eight and ten, but I’m horrible at judging kids’ ages.)

Me: “What’s going on?”

Woman: “The pro shop gave me your tee time because I’m actually paying for my membership and don’t rely on my parents.”

I immediately knew she was talking BS. I’m at the range every day and have actually gotten to be friends with most of the employees in the pro shop through lessons and helping them clean up if I’m the last one at the range.

I went back to the pro shop and asked if I still had my 12:00 tee time, and they said yes as expected. I explained my problem, they end up telling the woman and her kids to get off the course, and I was able to play my round of golf.

I didn’t see them again until I went to get a drink before leaving and saw them eating lunch. The woman was pissed to see me and followed me outside.

Woman: “I want you to apologize to my boys for ruining their day!”

Me: “No.”

Then, I walked away and got picked up by my parents.