Not A Chicken About Being A Jerk

, , , | Friendly | July 16, 2020

We’re a group of friends on holiday camping near Venice. Unfortunately, the boyfriend of one of our group has decided to be a freeloader, the girlfriend has taken his side because love is blind, and several arguments have already broken out in the previous days.

Today’s dinner consists of two roasted chickens, bought at a rotisserie, and salad. The cost is split between the group but, due to the aforementioned arguments, the two freeloaders did not pay for any of it and are sulking in a corner.

I washed and chopped the vegetables for the salad and I’m handing out the plates as another friend carves the chickens. The first chicken has already been distributed.

Carver: “This is for [Friend #1] and [Friend #2]…” *Hands over both wings*

Me: “Whoa, easy, [Carver]. Make smaller pieces.”

Carver: “Give this to [Friend #3].” *Hands over half a breast*

Me: “Careful, [Carver], You’re running out.”

Carver: “No, I’ve got it. Give this to [Freeloader] and [Freeloader’s Girlfriend].” *Hands over both legs*

Me: “Excuse me, are we splitting half a chicken breast among you and me?”

Carver: “No, no, I’m getting the breast; it’s tough. You take this. There’s plenty of meat on it.” 

As if this is a grand gesture on his part, he gives me a plate with, literally, the carcass — what’s left of a rotisserie chicken after you pull out everything. There is some skin left along the spine and slivers of muscle between the ribs, and that’s it.

Me: *Exploding* “Are you pulling my leg? I paid good money to suck on salty bones while the deadbeat gets the thigh? What the f*** is wrong with you?”

Carver: “Okay, okay, if you’re hungry, just say so. Have this, too!”

He reached into the bag and added a mummified-looking chicken neck to my plate. I flipped him the bird and stormed out. I would have gone home on that very evening if a few people hadn’t followed and helped me calm down. The carver has still to reckon that he did anything wrong.

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It’s A Big, Bright, Beautiful World… But Not For Shrek

, , , , , , , , | Related | June 14, 2020

CONTENT WARNING: ABUSE

I own a dry-cleaning business and work there. When the national lockdown happened, my business was considered among the “essential” ones, so I was allowed to stay open but doing fewer hours.

During this, I had a particularly nasty client visiting me on the regular — almost every week, in fact. He’d always bring in absolutely filthy bedsheets and pillow covers, never had the correct amount of money, and only used hand sanitizer when he gave me his rags.

By chatting against my will with him and by what info my wife told me, I found out that he actually lived in the apartment above mine, meaning that he not only he was a pigsty of a person, he also was the same man that heavily swore in the wee hours of the morning and stomped up and down his place, waking my son up and scaring him, and had done so for months.

Due to this client’s boorish behaviour, I had nicknamed him “Shrek,” and I told my son that “Shrek” had left Fiona, took a potion turning him human, and then went to live upstairs from us, which was good enough to get him to stop being scared at his heavy steps and his Tuscan blasphemies against God at strange hours.

A few days ago, restrictions relaxed, and I was allowed to finally take my son out to play in the park. As we were getting ready to leave, I saw “Shrek” come down the stairs with some luggage on hand.

My son looked at him with curiosity and intensity, and then he asked, very loudly, “Hey, Mister Shrek, where are you going? Were you really an ogre?”

The client stopped midway through the steps to look at my son. As embarrassed as I could be, I rushed my son back inside, scolded him, and gave him a couple of slaps on the butt to teach him.

I just hope the guy never figures out why my son said that.

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Gas Problems Are The Worst

, , , | Working | May 24, 2020

This happens in the pre-cellphone era. Our company routinely performs jobs at a refinery located 230 kilometres away — that is, an hour-and-a-half drive. At 9:00 am, the foreman at the refinery realizes they will need special equipment to complete the job, so he calls the company and they send another worker with a van to deliver it.

At 10:30, the foreman is waiting outside the refinery. At 11:00, he’s annoyed and at 11:30, he starts to worry. The van finally shows up at 12.

Foreman: “At last! What took you so long?”

Driver: *Stalling* “Ehh, I had trouble.”

Foreman: “What trouble? I’ve been listening to the radio; the traffic was fine!”

Driver: “I had trouble… getting gas!”

Foreman: “Getting gas, eh? We’ll talk about that later. Where are you going now? We need to unload the van!”

Driver: “Why, I’m going to lunch before there’s a queue!”

Twenty years later, “I had trouble getting gas” is still the blanket reply whenever someone’s punctuality is questioned!

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They’re Not In The Upper Percentile, Part 3

, , , , | Right | May 22, 2020

I work at a money exchange facility. A girl approaches me in my office.

Customer: “How much is your service fee?”

Me: “Hello! Well, it depends on how much you are exchanging.”

Customer: “Yes, but how much is it?”

Me: “The maximum fee is 19.7%, but it depends on how much you want to exchange. How many dollars do you have?”

Customer: “No, I want to know in Euros how much it’s going to be.”

Me: “Ma’am, it’s a percentage, and it depends on the amount. It could be smaller, but you need to tell me how much you think to exchange”

Customer: *Patronizingly* “You don’t understand! Since it’s a percentage, how many Euros is it going to be?”

Me: “I’m sorry, no, I don’t understand. It’s a percentage; percentages depend on the total amount.”

Customer: “Yes, tell me how many Euros it will be on the total amount!!”

I just look puzzled.

Customer: “Never mind. I’ll ask somewhere else.”

Me: “Good luck!” 

Related:
They’re Not In The Upper Percentile, Part 2
They’re Not In The Upper Percentile

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Actual Veterans Would Like To Have A Word With You

, , , | Right | May 10, 2020

I’m working the till at the supermarket and it’s the fourth week into lockdown. Bread is the Italians’ staple food and people have started to bake it at home, so yeast is in high demand.

Customer: “It’s like wartime! You’re out of yeast and sourdough! It’s such an encumbrance, having to queue at the bakery every day!”

Me: “I understand, madam. However, if your freezer is big enough, you could buy it in a batch and freeze it.”

The customer is all suddenly all stroppy and toffee-nosed.

Customer: “Oh, no, no, no. Because then it tastes off. Like it was underdone, you see.”

So, this is her idea of wartime, having to queue at the baker’s because reheated bread tastes “off”? I guess all those people who lived through actual wartime have been hyping their stories a lot, then.

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