Yes Sauce Tastes Positive

, , , | Right | September 25, 2018

Me: “Thank you for choosing [Fast Food Place]. How may I he—”

Customer: *cutting me off* “I want a [Kid’s Meal].”

Me: “Okay, sure. Which kind would you like?”

Customer: “Yes.”

Me: *sighs, getting a sinking feeling that I’m going to have to walk them through this* “Okay, what size? The four or six piece? Or a burger?”

Customer: “Six piece.”

Me: “And what to drink?”

Customer: “Yes.”

Me: “I mean do you want Coke, milk, or juice?”

Customer: “YES, YOU IDIOT!”

Me: *puts it up as a Diet Coke, the grossest thing I can think of for a kid* “And what sauce would you like?”

Customer: “Yes.”

Me: *exhales slow*

Drive Straight Through Any Reasonable Outcome

, , , , | Right | September 25, 2018

(I work at a fast food restaurant. We recently began posting employees outside in the drive-thru to improve our service scores and times during the lunch rush. I am at one of the menu boards and wearing a headset, but as I am the only male employee outside, the manual labor of take-down falls to me.)

Manager: *over headset* “Okay, tell [Other Employees] it’s time to start heading in and get packed up.”

(I do so and start to walk back to the cash stand, which is a big metal podium-style cart with an umbrella that has to be carted to the back of the store. As I’m about to reach the cart, a car speeds into the drive-thru and past the menu boards, and the man at the wheel starts to shout at me.)

Customer: “I need a [combo meal] with well-done fries and a drink, and I don’t need any attitude!”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re already shutting down the outdoor ordering for today, but if you—”

Customer: “You’re shutting down the drive-thru?! I thought [Restaurant] was all about customer service!”

Me: “The drive-thru is still open, but we’re shutting down the outdoor—”

Customer: “You can’t just shut down the drive-thru in the middle of the afternoon!”

Me: “Sir, the drive-thru is still open; we just aren’t taking orders outside. If you could back up to the menu boards and let them know what you’d like to order, I’m sure they’d be happy to help.”

(At this point, he seems to have calmed down, and he backs up. I think I’ve seen the last of him, but as I’m folding the umbrella, he pulls up beside me and rolls down his window.)

Customer: “Ahem.”

(I continue folding the umbrella.)

Customer: “EXCUSE ME!”

Me: “May I help you?”

Customer: “Aren’t you going to take my money?”

Me: “Sir, as you can see, I am taking down the cart right now. We won’t be taking drive-thru orders or payment outside again until tomorrow morning at eleven-thirty. If you could pull up to the window, they’ll be happy to finish your order there.”

(I went back to tying the umbrella down, and he realized he wouldn’t get any rise out of me. He drove off muttering about how he was going to talk to my manager about my disrespectful attitude. Unfortunately for him, my manager that day had a history of not taking crap from guests, and on top of that, she’d already put in her two-weeks’ notice. When I returned inside, rather than the reprimand the customer wanted, I received a high-five and an ice cream cone for not telling him off like she did. I’ve always wondered what she said to him.)

Numb From The Pain

, , , , , | Healthy | September 25, 2018

(I am in high school, with braces on my upper and lower teeth. My orthodontist decides that the overcrowding on my lower teeth is proving a big enough problem to warrant the removal of two perfectly healthy molars. I can’t say I am impressed, but I don’t have a choice and I am assured it won’t hurt, so I am not too worried. Sitting in the chair at the dentist, I am mostly nervous of the needles I’ll receive for anaesthetic. I receive a needle on each side and am given a moment for it to set in.)

Dentist: “How’s that for you?”

Me: “I can feel that.”

Dentist: “Yes, you’ll feel pressure.”

(The dentist pokes a pointy tool into my gum.)

Me: “Ow, no, I mean it feels like it always would.”

(The dentist looks sceptical, but gives me a second dose of anaesthetic and another moment for it to set in. My mum sits next to me. She’s been quiet all this time. The dentist pops out of the room. I lean over and tell her that everything feels normal; nothing is numb. I ask her, “Please don’t let her do this.” She begins to say something; I can’t remember what. The dentist comes back in.)

Dentist: “Nonsense. She’s lying. You can’t feel anything.”

(I protest, but the dentist basically forces her tools into my mouth and my mum kind of holds me down. The dentist starts cutting into my gum. I scream and wail.)

Dentist: “Oh, stop; it’s just pressure.”

(She continued the procedure, and I kept wailing and crying and gripping my mum’s hand. Afterwards, Mum’s hand was red raw, and she was flustered. She legitimately thought I was just scared, like most kids and teens. I remember shaking and feeling too woozy to say anything further to the dentist. I don’t know whether I’d have been physically able to, either. What I do remember is that the procedure had happened at eight am and that before lunch time my entire face went numb, so I had to spend about five hours with my face over a bucket, the drool pouring out in a constant stream. I vaguely remember my mum and dad both on the phone with the dentist in the other room with some muffled shouting of some kind.)

“Permit” Me To Explain

, , , , | Friendly | September 24, 2018

(I work in the office of a regional park that requires vehicle permits. The annual permit option is a sticker that must be affixed to the windshield. I am working in the office by myself when a man comes in to buy a new permit, as his old one has expired.)

Man: “I’m not going to put this on right away. I’m just going to set it on the dash for now, okay? I still have to take the old one off.”

Me: “Actually, it does need to be attached in order to be valid.”

Man: “Okay, I’ll tape it to the windshield.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but it needs to be attached by its own adhesive. We aren’t the ones who enforce it; it’s the deputies, and you risk getting a ticket if it’s not attached.”

Man: “How many deputies are in the park?”

Me: “Um… I’m not sure if there are any here right now; they come through at random times.”

Man: “Do you ever talk to them?”

Me: “Well, they—”

Man: *interrupts me* “Do you ever talk to them?!”

Me: “Sometimes, but—”

Man: “Well, then, tell them there’s a man in a truck who bought a permit and just set it on the dash for now.”

Me: “They don’t always come in here. Sometimes they just drive through. I can’t—”

Man: “I don’t know why you can’t understand this. I bought the permit. I just don’t want to put it on until I take the old one off.”

Me: “I understand, but—”

(He continued interrupting and arguing with me. If he would have stopped and listened, I would have told him that I didn’t know the deputies’ schedules; they stop in when they have a chance, and usually drive through without coming into the office. Occasionally, they stop and chat, but I have no way of knowing if or when they will do so. Even if they do stop in, I can’t really tell them not to give out tickets; I’m just a seasonal park employee. It was the middle of the week, and chances were he’d be fine, but I couldn’t guarantee that, and it IS against county ordinance to be in the park without a valid permit. Also, I had a scraper he could have used to remove the old permit, but he wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise to tell him that, either. Personally, I could not have cared less if he had a valid permit or not. I was just trying to keep the guy from possibly getting an expensive ticket! Sometimes I’m not sure why I bother, other than the fact that if he DID get a ticket, he’d likely come back and blame me for not telling him the permit had to be attached in order to be valid.)

A Snappy Story

, , , , , | Healthy | September 24, 2018

(It is England in the 70s. My dad has been playing football — soccer — and ruptured his Achilles tendon. He had it repaired and spent six months in a cast from his foot to his knee. He is at the hospital, with the cast freshly removed, for an appointment with a physiotherapist.)

Physiotherapist: “I am going to put this skipping rope on the ground, and I want you to jump over it.”

Dad: “No.”

Physiotherapist: “Go on; you’ll be fine.”

Dad: “No way. You’ve got to be kidding.”

Physiotherapist: “I know what I am doing.”

(They argue a bit. But Dad gives in. SNAP! The Achilles tendon snaps all the way up the back of his leg to his knee. He then spends nine months with a plaster from his foot to his hip. Fast forward to the 2000s. Dad decides to get some soil delivered so he can work on a garden bed out the front while Mum takes it easy. He books the delivery of soil and realises my car is in the way of where it should be delivered. No problem, he thinks; he’ll just move the car. It doesn’t start, so he decides to roll it. It doesn’t have to go far, so he takes his foot off the brake, uses his other leg to get it started and SNAP. The car is fine. But there goes his Achilles tendon. It’s on the other foot, but he knows the feeling well. Despite being in a lot of pain, he is already in the car. The foot he’s damaged is his left, and he only needs the right to drive to the hospital, so he does so. Eventually he’s seen by the doctor.)

Doctor: “So, what seems to be the problem?”

Dad: “I’ve snapped my Achilles tendon.”

Doctor: *laughs* “It’ll just be sprained.”

Dad: “I know what you’re thinking, but in this case, you’re going to have to trust me.”

(Dad gets a scan; it is snapped. The doctor turns to him, bewildered.)

Doctor: “How did you know? And how did you drive here?”

Dad: “Well, let me tell you a story…”

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