If Only They Could All Talk That Way

, , , , , , | Right | September 19, 2019

(A woman is shouting at the worker behind the service desk at my local grocery store. I come up partway through her rant, but from what I gather, her ice cream and other groceries melted when she left them in her car while running errands. It being a hot summer day, it seems that her groceries getting warm came as a complete shock to this poor woman, and that she is incensed at the grocery store not somehow keeping them cold until she got home. The man behind the counter is an older gentleman who has been trying to console her, but as she continues shouting over him, his face slowly loses expression. After a bit, he lifts one hand in the air, and then slowly begins lowering it in quick, jerky increments. This startles the woman out of her diatribe.)

Customer: “What the h*** are you doing?!”

Worker: *glancing over at his hand and faking shock* “Oh, this? This is my ‘caring about your bulls***’ meter. As you can see, it’s getting rather low.”

(The woman gapes at him for a bit.)

Customer: “You… That… You can’t…”

Worker: “Can’t what? Put up with any more of your bulls***? Yeah, I can’t.” *shrugs* “I’m gonna retire at the end of the year, so I just can’t give a d*** about you being an idiot.”

Customer: “I- I- I’m gonna call your bosses. You can’t talk to customers this way!”

Worker: “Mmhmm. You go do that. Tell them my name’s [Worker]. Did you get that? [Worker].” *continues to shout after her as she storms out* “That’s [Worker] with a [letter]. You want me to spell it for you?”

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Mixed Feelings On Mixed Marriages

, , , , , | Right | September 19, 2019

(I work at the till at a charity shop in England. It is the day of Harry and Meghan’s wedding, and as I’m ringing up this lady, the news talks about the wedding. The lady shakes her hands and sighs before looking up at me.)

Customer: *giving me a horrified look* “You know, it’s the first mixed marriage in the royal family!”

(My mind stops. Mixed? What does she mean? I’m caught so off-guard that my first thought is “mixed because it’s a man and a woman?” My next thought is “mixed because they’re from different countries?” and, I know it’s wrong, but nothing else seems to make any sense, so I go with that.)

Me: “Oh, well… I guess… Back in the day, it would have been… good for the countries’ alliance?”

Customer: *shaking her head again* “No! It’s awful!”

Me: *still dumbfounded* “That’s [price]. Would you like a bag?”

(The lady paid, grabbed her stuff, and stormed out, still grumbling. It took me a full ten minutes to release exactly what she was talking about.)

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Karen Wants Her Pudding

, , , , | Right | September 18, 2019

(A Yorkshire pudding is a savory item made of batter and baked until it rises and looks kind of like a mini bowl. Aunt Bessie’s is a famous brand of supermarket-sold Yorkshire puddings. It is Sunday. Our pub is well known in the local area for doing really good roast dinners. I am serving a family. They all look fairly normal, apart from the young grandmother — middle-aged — wearing pearls and a cardigan. Everyone else at her table is in jeans.)

Me: “Here you go, everyone! Here’s your roast beef, your lamb, and your veggie sides. Does anyone need any more sauces?”

Woman: “Excuse me?!”

Me: “Is everything okay?”

Woman: “Take this back to the kitchen at once! This roast pudding is burnt!”

Me: “I can do that for you now. I’m so sorry! I’ll get this changed right away!”

(I rush off to the kitchen.)

Me: “One of the ladies at table eight says that her roast pudding is burnt. Could you swap it for a lighter one?”

Chef: “It’s not burnt. Bloody h***. Let’s take a look at this batch and find one she might like.”

(We find the palest one we can find and I go back out.)

Me: “I’m so sorry about that. Here’s your meal. The chef assured me that they aren’t burnt. The Yorkshire puddings just look a bit darker than you would expect because they are made from scratch and baked. If you pull it apart, it still comes apart like bread and doesn’t flake.”

Woman: “Hmmf!”

Me: “Is it still not to your liking? If not, the chef cooks them in batches, so I can get another one for you in about five minutes. If you don’t want to wait, I’m more than happy to get you some more meat or potatoes, instead.”

Woman: “What I want is an unburnt roast pudding!”

(She shoves the dish at me and spills hot gravy on my hands.)

Woman’s Daughter: “For God’s sake, Mum! Every restaurant!”

Me: “It’s no trouble.” *forced smile* “I’ll just go check on the kitchen and get you a new one.”

(I go back to the kitchen and the chef hands me a plate of roast puddings.)

Me: “What’s this for?”

Chef: “That’s the new batch. Check if she can find one she likes. Let the table have the rest if they want them.”

(I go back to the table.)

Woman: “Every single one of these is burnt! Can’t you do anything right?! A roast pudding is meant to be beige! Light brown! Not mahogany! Not the colour of my bloody coffee table!”

Me: *silently goes back to the kitchen and explains what happened*

Chef: “I’ll make her one special. The colour she wants.” *sarcastically* “As this woman clearly knows how to cook a roast pudding better than me! You know what? I think she’s thinking of those cheap crappy ones you buy at the supermarket.”

(I take out the newly-cooked Yorkshire pudding. It’s light brown, undercooked, and almost raw in the middle. Her family has finished eating.)

Woman: “That’s what I’m talking about! Finally! That’s the right colour!”

(The woman takes a bite of the gooey mess, only held together by a ring of almost-cooked batter. I see the look on her face. It’s clearly underdone, but she’s made such a fuss to get what she wanted, it’s obvious she can’t back down.)

Me: “Is it to your liking?”

Woman: “It’s perfect. Thank you!”

(As I walk away, I hear…)

Woman’s Daughter: “Next time, we’re leaving you at home with your cheap Aunt Bessie’s!”

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The Employee Is Brighter Than They Thought

, , , , , , , | Working | September 16, 2019

I used to work in an independent bookstore. We were known for being quirky and selling novelties on the side. I had bright rainbow hair whilst I was working at the shop and getting my degree at the same time.

One day, a woman came in and my manager led her around. I greeted her and sold her some books and we had a nice conversation about local art. I didn’t think much of it until my manager mentioned that the woman was buying the store and would be the new owner.

A few months later, I graduated and got an entry-level position in a job in my field. I decided to dye my hair back to its original brown and remove my facial piercings.

The sale of the shop completed and the new owner came in and introduced herself. We talked and got on well.


She mentioned that she was glad that the eyesore with “bright hair and metal in her face” had left. I let her talk for a while as she proceeded to get more agitated about “that girl,” Going as far as accusing bright-haired me of being a drug dealer.

I’ll never forget the look on her face when I informed her that the bright-haired girl was me.

I didn’t see her once for my two final weeks at the store.

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That Tip Is Going Swimmingly

, , , , , , | Right | September 16, 2019

(My young children take swimming lessons at the local YMCA. The lessons are held from 7:00 to 8:00, and I always take them out for a quick meal beforehand at a diner. My kids finish their dinners before me, so while I polish off the rest of my food, my younger daughter amuses herself by asking me for pennies and dropping them into her half-full water glass. I don’t mind, because it is keeping her quiet, and I have every intention of removing the pennies from the glass before we leave, since I don’t want to leave them for the server to deal with. Then, I realise to my dismay that it is getting late.)

Me: “Oh, dear! We’d better get going, girls.”

(I stuff the last bite into my mouth, grab a $5 bill, and leave it on the table for a tip. We dash out to the car…)

Daughter: “Mummy, here, you forgot this.” *hands me the $5 bill*

Me: “Oh, no, honey, that was meant for our server. Quick, let’s run back into the restaurant and give it to her.”

(As we re-entered the diner, I realized two things. One, I’d forgotten to remove the pennies from my daughter’s water glass. Two, our poor server was looking at the pennies in dismay, thinking that they were her tip, and wondering what on earth she’d done to deserve that! I apologized profusely for the pennies and gave her the $5.)

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