The Museum Does Not Serve Whine

, , , , | Right | October 16, 2020

I am a press information officer for a large city. When you work in the front lines of government service, you deal with who I call the “regular whiners,” who are constantly complaining.

They show up at EVERY Municipal Council meeting and complain to the Council, invariably going over their allotted time. They denounce the Mayor (whoever the incumbent is), the Council (whoever they are), and the whole boiling setup.

I get the spillover calls, and the most frequent caller is this one woman. She gets forwarded to me by the mayor’s office every four weeks to complain about… something, but it is invariably something I can do nothing about.

One of our museums is holding a major evening event, long-planned, long-advertised. Five hours before the event, she calls to complain.

Caller: “This event will mess up traffic in my neighborhood! Please move the whole thing to another date.”

I am stunned by this bizarre request.

Me: “For that, you should complain to the museum’s leadership.”

Caller: “Do you have their phone number?”

Me: “No, I don’t, actually, and given how busy they are, I don’t think they’re answering the phone today. Why don’t you send them an email?”

Caller: “I don’t have a computer.”

Me: “Well, why don’t you just head over to the library two blocks from your home and use theirs?”

Caller: “I’m disabled in the fingers. I prefer to call.”

Me: “So that would prevent you from writing them a note and walking that over?”

At this point, I just want my pals at the museum to laugh their heads off at the situation.

Caller: “I told you, I’m disabled in the fingers!”

Me: “But you could still walk over there and complain.”

Caller: “It’s too far to walk!”

Me: “Well, then I’m out of ideas, Mrs. [Caller]. I don’t know what to say or how to help you.”

Caller: *Angry* “That’s what my Council Member’s aide said when I called them a few minutes ago! Nobody wants to help me!”

“Maybe that’s because you’re an annoying whiner,” I think, “and nobody wants to talk to you.”

Me: “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mrs. [Caller].”

She hangs up. I wait for fifteen seconds and call the mayor’s office.

Me: “Folks, for the past twenty years, you have been transferring Mrs. [Caller] to me. I can’t help her with her problems. Send her anywhere, send her to the New York Aquarium, to Grant’s Tomb, but please, not to me.”

They understood, got the point, and I never heard from her again.

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A Pound And A Half Of Jerkface

, , , , | Right | October 16, 2020

I only have four days left at my current store before I transfer to another. There’s a rude customer that comes by once a week to get ham shaved. Ham is really hard to shave.

He wants a pound and a half of honey turkey this time, which is so close to ham that it’s just as hard to shave. I put it on the scale; it is 1.535 lbs.

Customer: “I wanted a pound and a half.”

Me: “Sir, that is a pound and a half.”

Customer: “No. I want exactly 1.500.”

I sigh and take off little pieces until it’s exactly that. The printer is, of course, out of labels. So, I carry it to the other one and he follows me. For some reason, the other printer adds an extra .15.

Customer: “Why is that one weighing different?!”

Me: “I don’t know, sir. Maybe they need to be calibrated. Don’t worry; I’ll fix it.”

I adjust it so it’s exactly 1.500 and hand it to him.

Me: “Here you go.”

Customer:Why was it different?!”

Me: “Sir, I don’t know. I charged you only for exactly the pound and the half you asked for.”

I turn to my coworker, not hiding the attitude in my voice.

Me: “I’m going home.”

I’m often commended on how polite I am to customers, but this guy gets off on bullying retail workers. I walked away and he looked like I had slapped him. I hope he comes in next week to lodge a complaint; I won’t be there.

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Fifteen Pizzas’ Worth Of Entitlement

, , , , | Right | October 15, 2020

It is my second week of work at this pizza place. It is about 9:10 at night and I’m just starting my cleanup when a car pulls up to the pickup window. Keep in mind that we close at 9:00; that means the ovens are off and we can’t take any more orders.

As far as I know, we don’t have any orders left to be picked up, so I walk up to the window, already slightly flustered.

Customer: “Hi, I’m here to place an order. It’s for [Customer]. I want…”

She starts to rattle off an order for a LOT of pizzas before I interrupt her.

Me: “Um, I’m sorry, we’re closed. We can’t take any more orders. T- the ovens off; I can’t do anything for you.”

She looks shocked like I just slapped her.

Customer: “No, that’s not right. I called and ordered like thirty-five minutes ago.”

Now I’m embarrassed, assuming I misheard her and she is here to pick up an order, which I am almost sure we don’t have.

Me: “Oh, I’m so sorry! I thought you were trying to order. Can I have a name and I’ll go see if it’s ready?”

She gives me the order’s name and I go in the back to see if her order is ready. Of course, there is nothing. The cook says there hasn’t been an order in the last forty-five minutes or so. Now thoroughly confused and even more flustered, I walk back to the customer who I notice is texting on her phone.

Me: “Hi. So, unfortunately, we don’t have your order; are you sure you called here? I know there’s another [Pizza Place] down in [City]; maybe you accidentally called there, instead?”

She looks exaggeratingly offended with her mouth hanging open, looking like she’s about to cry.

Customer: “You’re telling me that I called the wrong place, that I have the wrong number in my phone! I know [Boss] and I can call her. This is ridiculous! I think I know which [Pizza Place] I called!”

I’m an eighteen-year-old who has never had a job before, and I am quickly intimidated by this customer who looks to be on the verge of angry tears. I quickly backtrack and start apologizing, hoping she won’t bother my boss, who is at home taking a day off.

She starts saying how she wants so and so pizzas and I stop her, recognizing the order.

Me: “Wait, did you order a…”

I rattle off the pizzas I know were in the order.

Customer: “Yes! That’s exactly what I ordered! God, why didn’t you say you had it?!”

We don’t have it, at least not anymore.

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that order was called in for a delivery to [Location]; they left with the pizzas around twenty minutes ago.”

Customer: “I know that!” *Scoffs* I’m here to pay for it!”

I’m getting less flustered and more annoyed with her. I go pull her order up on the computer and give her the total, but that’s not good enough for her. She ignores me and starts talking on the phone with someone.

Customer: *To phone* “I know, I’m right here and they won’t… So, you got them already? Yeah, I know, I’m trying to get—”

Right at that moment, the delivery driver walks through the door and is laughing with the cook. I overhear him saying that the last delivery he did — as in the order I’ve been dealing with for the past twenty minutes — gave him a forty-dollar tip.

I turn around and tell the customer that the delivery was already paid for and I point out my coworker. 

Customer: “No, I’m here to get our change back. My friend said that the driver didn’t give him change back.”

I was beyond exasperated but still worried about getting in trouble, so I told the problem to my coworkers. They ended up giving her the forty bucks back and she finally left. My coworkers and I just looked at each other in disbelief. 

We ended up with no tip for an eighty-dollar-plus order, thirty minutes behind on cleanup, and still wondering what was going through that woman’s mind.

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If It’s Free They’re Not Free To Choose

, , | Right | October 15, 2020

I work as an onsite IT technician for small industries and privates.

Client: “Yes, you remember my PC? You came one month ago to install my printer and some other stuff.”

I remember very well. In fact, I remember even the second time, when she wasn’t at home and I drove ten kilometres — forty-five minutes each way in the Italian traffic — for nothing.

Client: “See, the store formatted it for some problems it had, but now I need you to redo the work of the other time.”

Me: “Yes, I can be at your house on…”

Client: “No, I can’t pay for you, so I’m asking if you can make it free.”

Me: “If it’s only for the printer, I probably can, but you have to wait until I’m called by someone near you. Let me see… Tomorrow no, maybe the day after tomorrow, but I’m not sure.”

Client: “No, tomorrow is too late. You can’t come here tonight?”

Me: “Gratis?”

Client: “Yes.”

Me: “No.”

I didn’t hear from her anymore, thank God!

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Not Just A Crazy Request, But A S***ty One

, , , , | Right | October 14, 2020

I run a dog grooming business. A man walks in with his dog, who is coated in something brown. I pray it’s just mud but as he gets closer, I can smell that it’s not.

Me: *Trying not to gag* “Hello, sir.”

Man: “Rodger needs a bath.”

Me: “I see.”

Man: “He rolled in s***.”

Me: “Yes, I see.”

Man: “You can get him clean?”

Me: “I can do that.”

He hands me Rodger’s leash, which is thankfully clean, and walks away. An hour later, the man returns and collects his dog. He thanks me, pays, and leaves.

The next day, I arrive to find a voicemail from Rodger’s owner. He demands his money back. I call him to find out what happened.

Man: “Yes?”

Me: “Hello. This is [My Name] from [Groomer]. You were unhappy with Rodger’s bath?”

Man: “Yes! He’s covered in s***!”

Me: *Confused* “He is?”

Man: “Yes!”

Me: “I don’t understand. He was clean when he left me.”

Man: “And he went and rolled in s*** again! I want my money back!”

Me: “Um… No, I’m not refunding you because you allowed your dog to get dirty again.”

Man: “Yes, you will! He’s dirty!”

Me: “Then maybe you shouldn’t leave him unattended.”

Man: “I want my money back!”

Me: “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir, but I did bathe your dog and you were happy with it when you left. So I will not be refunding you.”

Man: “I’m calling the police!” *Hangs up*

I never heard from the police, nor that man, again.

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