Proving He Is The Biggest P***k

, , , , | Right | November 26, 2018

I am a cashier at a pharmacy chain. A man comes in to the store and immediately asks where to find condoms. It is company policy to walk each customer to the product they are looking for if at all possible. Being a good employee, I walk the man to the “Family Planning” aisle, and show him where to find the condoms.

Rather than leaving our encounter to a minimum, he decides to ask me which condoms I like. Not only am I a woman, but I’m very uncomfortable discussing sex with anyone, especially strangers.

After explaining that I have no preference, and that it’s all up to him, he asks, “Which are the biggest ones? I need the biggest, because I am the biggest.” I am mortified.

I leave him in the aisle by himself, and he chooses a brand for purchase. No more than two minutes after ringing him out, he comes back in to the store, with the package opened, and one condom missing. He slaps the package on the counter and yells, “They’re too tight! I’m returning these, and I need your number… You single?”

I have my manager run the return as I go to the stock room to hide.

This Method Is A Punch Above The Rest

, , , , , , , | Friendly | November 21, 2018

CONTENT WARNING: Child Assault

(I have been working at the county detention center. My youngest sister is constantly getting bullied — name-calling, mainly — on the school bus in the afternoon by the same group of kids, and despite my parents making several complaints to the school, it continues. Finally, one day, one of the boys goes too far, and actually tries to grope her. These kids are all eight to ten years old. I give her some advice from our detention officer certification course instructor.)

Me: “Listen carefully, [Sister]. If that boy tries to put his hands on you again, hit him.”

Sister: “But I’ll get in trouble.”

Me: “I don’t care; you hit him hard. Punch him! Scratch him! Kick him! If you get in trouble, I will leave work and yell at your principal for not stopping this sooner.”

(The remainder of the afternoon is spent teaching her a few strikes and nerve points our instructor taught us. The next day when I get off work, I see her grinning ear to ear.)

Me: “Was your ride home okay?”

Sister: “Yup! He tried to pull my shirt up, but I hit him in the throat! He started crying!”

(She didn’t get in trouble for defending herself.)

Need To Put More Than A Hundred Feet Between Me And You

, , , , , | Romantic | November 20, 2018

(My car’s gas gauge is wonky, and one time my car unexpectedly runs out of gas while on the road, around early afternoon. Luckily, traffic is sparse and I am in my neighborhood, maybe 100 feet from a gas station. I manage to park on the side of the street, fish my empty gas can out of the backseat, and walk the 100 feet across an intersection to the gas station. As I’m crouching down near one of the pumps, filling up the gas can, some dude suddenly looms right over my head. I can see his pickup truck with its door open parked right behind him; it’s obvious he’s not an employee here. It’s just as obvious that he’s not here to get gas, himself.)

Dude: “Uh… so… Um-hmm…”

(I ignore him and pretend to be terribly busy. Nothing good has EVER come to me from talking to strange men.)

Dude: *inching even closer to me* “Uhh… Um-HEM! HI! HELLO! MISS!”

(I sigh. Clearly he’s not going away.)

Me: *side-eyeing him* “Yes?”

Dude: *suggestively* “Soooo… I just saw you walking down the street with your gas can while I was driving.”

(There is a very expectant pause while he’s staring at me hard enough that it’s almost like he’s attempting hypnosis. Already knowing where this is going, I put on a sweet, condescending tone of voice and a fake smile.)

Me: “That’s great for you!”

(I immediately dropped the smile and turned away from him again. He was somewhat flustered at this, but wouldn’t you just know it – he persisted in repeatedly offering me “a ride” to my car, anyway. Shockingly, I said no. Several times over. He finally left, with extreme reluctance. I have a very high skepticism that it’s even possible he didn’t see how close my car was parked, but frankly, even if I had to walk 100 miles instead of 100 feet, I’d never have agreed to get into his truck. 100 feet! That’s how little it takes to have a creep notice you walking alone down a street and decide to follow you in his car!)

When Management Messes With Maleficent

, , , , , , | Working | November 16, 2018

(I’m a woman, and I’m in the feminine product aisle. I hear a loud noise behind me.)

Old Woman: “AHEM! Where are your [items]?”

Me: “I dunno. Try [the section likely to have said item].”

(I turn back, still trying find my preferred item.)

Old Woman: “EXCUSE ME! I ASKED YOU WHERE [ITEM] WAS!”

Me: “And I told you that I don’t know. Here’s a pro tip. Go find it yourself, or go ask someone who actually works here.”

(It is worth it to note that I am wearing a black shirt with [horned Disney Villain] on it. It is very much NOT a uniform employees would be allowed to wear. I find my necessary package of product and put it into the basket on my arm, before turning around and walking away. I’ve moved on three more aisles when an enraged-looking manager suddenly looms over me.)

Manager: “What the f*** did you think you were doing?”

Me: “Beg pardon?”

Manager: “What. The f***. Did. You. Think. You. Were. Doing?”

Me: “I would appreciate some context, please?”

(While this is delivered in the most non-sarcastic, genuinely confused tone of voice I can muster, it sets him off.)

Manager: “Maybe you’re new to this, but the Christmas season? You know, the time when we have a bunch of customers pouring in to buy presents for their kids? Yeah, that’s happening right now, and you’re sitting here f****** around with your g**d*** baby wipes! And a customer who asked you an honest question doesn’t need your attitude.”

(I look to him, then the basket in my hand, then at my black [Disney villain] shirt, and back to him.)

Me: “I don’t—”

Manager: “I don’t care what you think!”

(He gets really close to me at this point, and actually backs me into a corner.)

Manager: “You need to work on your customer service skills!”

(I try to say my side, that I don’t work at this business, and that I’m trying to shop, and all that gets an explosion before I get two words out.)

Manager: “I’M NOT HERE TALKING TO YOU SO YOU CAN ARGUE BACK! YOU WILL LEARN RESPECT! YOU WILL SHUT UP AND ACTUALLY LISTEN TO ME! YOU WILL NOT ACT LIKE A SPOILED F****** BRAT TO CUSTOMERS—”

Me: “I didn-“

Manager: “STOP. TALKING. I DON’T WANT TO F****** HEAR IT. SHUT! UP! NOW! YOU’RE A WASTE OF SPACE! YOU’RE GOING TO GET YOUR F****** A** INTO MY OFFICE!”

Security Guard: “Excuse me. Just what the h*** is going on over here?!”

(This situation looks bad from every angle. I’m a woman, backed into a corner by a much taller, screaming man. I have this man in my face, screaming obscenities and abuse. Tears streaming down my face, I look at the security guard and scream hysterically:)

Me: “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GET HIM AWAY FROM ME!”

(Somewhere in my hysterics, I vaguely recall reality had apparently snapped back into the manager’s brain, as he jumped back from me and spluttered something that sounded vaguely apologetic and explanatory. I have flashes of a lady leading me away from the scene, flashes of the security guard planted between myself and my assailant, and a single, crystal clear image of a box of tissues getting pressed into my hands. It took quite a bit of time to get me back into a position of “functioning human” and away from “blubbering, traumatized mess.” By the time I was stable again, police were very much involved. Statements were taken, and yes, I wanted to press charges against this psychopath. This couldn’t possibly be his first incident, after all. The company got in contact with me right away, doing a frantic dance of appeasement, apology, and PR rescue… but regardless, I don’t think I want to shop there again for a long while.)

Alcohol Makes You Flirt With Danger

, , , , , | Right | November 5, 2018

(My high school choir works concessions for home games and I usually take cash from the customers and hand back change. While I do get flirted with a bit, especially by the younger, drunk customers, this one just takes the cake. I take his order and hand back his change.)

Drunk Customer: “So, what are you doing after this?”

Me: “Going home.”

Drunk Customer: “Not going to tailgate some?”

Me: “No, especially since I’m not old enough.”

Drunk Customer: “Okay. Wait, how old is not old enough?”

(At this point, I drop the polite customer service voice I’d been using and speak as if to a small child.)

Me: “I’m. Not. Legal.”

Drunk Customer: “Oh. OH! Sorry, I’m a little drunk.”

(Yeah, I noticed that.)

Page 3/3012345...Last