Bus Stops Are An Amber Alert

, , , , | Working | January 16, 2018

I am riding the bus back to my apartment after my classes one day. There is a stop light near my stop, so I end up pulling the signal while we are waiting at the light.

The bus driver then opens the doors for a few seconds while the light is still yellow. I’m a little confused by why this happens, but I don’t really think anything of it.

Then, we approach the bus stop and a few of us realize the bus driver is not slowing down. We start pulling the signal again, but the driver passes our stop.

When people start to complain, she tells us that she had already stopped and nobody got off, so it was our fault. She ended up letting us off at the next stop, and I had to walk 20 minutes back to my apartment, all because I didn’t want to exit the bus in the middle of a stop light!

Kicking Up A Stink

, , , , , , , | Right | January 16, 2018

(I work for a popular pizza delivery company. I am on my way to an address with an order. My car has got the light-up sign on top of it with the company logo on it. I have stopped at a traffic light when suddenly my rear passenger door opens. A lady I don’t recognise puts a whole load of shopping bags in before climbing in herself.)

Lady: “All right, I need to get to [town an hour’s drive away]. The address is…”

Me: “Whoa! Sorry, madam, but I’m not actually a taxi. I work for [Pizza Place].”

Lady: *looks at me like I’m crazy* “I know that! But you’re better than a taxi service! I’m sure you know the roads just as well, and I wouldn’t have to spend an extortionate amount of money, either!”

Me: “Madam, I’m not allowed to take passengers, and even if I could I never head to [Town]; it’s outside our delivery area!”

Lady: *huffy* “Well! It’s not like you have nothing to gain from this! If you take me home and help take my shopping indoors, I might consider ordering a pizza from you tonight. Depending on how I feel later, of course.”

(By this point, the lights have been green for a while. The cars behind me are honking their horns and the drivers are expressing themselves with rather rude gestures.)

Me: “Madam, I really don’t have time to explain this! I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can give you a lift! You’re going to have to travel home some other way!”

(The lady stares agape before scowling, grabbing her bags and leaving, slamming my car door as hard as she can. I take my delivery as normal. When I return to the shop, my manager pulls me aside.)

Manager: “So, we got a complaint about a straggly young man that wouldn’t take a tired woman with her heavy bags of shopping home?”

Me: “Oh, she rang up, did she? Did she say how she got in my car at a traffic light, knowing full well I was a pizza man?”

Manager: “Actually, yeah. But don’t worry; I talked some sense into her.”

Me: “Oh? You explained how we’re not insured to do that?”

Manager: *raises an eyebrow* “No. I explained how, if she rides in your car to [Town], all her shopping would stink of pizza for months. She asked why you didn’t just say so, and hung up. Okay, back to work.”

(And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you become a good manager.)

Making A Mad Dash On The Dash-Cam

, , , , , , , | Friendly | January 15, 2018

(I drive heavy goods vehicles for a company that primarily delivers farm equipment. Due to the nature of who we deliver to, we often wind up on roads that aren’t, strictly speaking, designed to accommodate vehicles that are 60 feet long. As such, a certain degree of understanding from anyone coming the opposite direction is needed, since my vehicle generally takes up so much of the road that passing is only possible via them staying in an entrance to a field, or the rare dedicated passing spot that small rural roads sometimes have. I have just completed my delivery to a large farm and I am leaving the site, followed by several vehicles from said farm. I am roughly halfway between the farm and the passing point when a twenty-something woman drives past the passing point at speed and continues down the lane to come to a stop barely five feet in front of me. I know, given the size of my vehicle and the numerous vehicles behind me, that I can’t possibly get out of her way, so I simply wind down my window and wait for her to make a move.)

Woman: *getting out of car* “You need to move.”

Me: “The lane’s too tight for me to manoeuvre to the side, and I can’t back up because there’s vehicles behind me. You’re going to have to back up to the passing point.”

Woman: “I don’t care how hard it is for you; I’m not moving, so you’ll have to.”

(Knowing that sooner or later someone in the vehicles behind me will come along to back me up, I opt to just stare her down rather than trying to argue with her.)

Woman: “Well? Come on! I have to get moving! Get out of the way. I own the f****** farm! I have right of way. Move, NOW!”

(After another couple minutes of this, someone from the convoy behind me finally comes up to support me, and it’s clear he has little love for the stroppy woman in front of us.)

Farm Man: “[Woman], what are you playing at? There’s a line of cars behind this lorry. We aren’t all backing up for you, so back yourself up to the passing point.”

Woman: “I’m not moving. I own the farm so I have right of way!”

Farm Man: “Your uncle owns the farm. You don’t even live here; you just show up to ride horses a couple times a week. We aren’t all moving for you. Back up.”

Woman: “I’ll just tell [Uncle] and get you fired if you don’t move.”

Farm Man: “There’s over a dozen people in this queue. Apart from this guy here in the lorry, all of us work at the farm. Good luck with that.”

(With this, he turns and walks back to his car, and the woman, finally realising an entire convoy isn’t going to whisk itself out of her way, gets back into her car and starts backing up. The distance back to the passing point is perhaps 1/4 of a mile with a couple mild turns; even reversing slowly it should take no more than two or three minutes to make it back. I slowly follow after her, keeping about 50 feet away from her at all times. All seems to be fine until she arrives at the first bend in the lane. After several failed attempts at getting round it in reverse, she seemingly loses all patience, slams on the accelerator, and crashes backwards through a wooden fence, all captured by my dash-cam. Before I’ve even pulled up to where she crashed, she’s out of her car and screaming at me that I have destroyed her car.)

Woman: “You f****** a**hole! You’ve crashed my car! You can f****** pay for repairs, you c***!”

Me: “You managed that all by yourself; clearly you aren’t injured, so I’ll be on my way now.”

Woman: “Don’t you dare drive off. I’ll have your job, you b******! I’ll report you to your boss!”

Me: “The company phone number is on the side of the cab. I do have dash-cam footage of you putting yourself through that fence, though, so maybe think twice before you ring up. Goodbye.”

(I then drive off past her, ignoring the further ranting, and noting with a certain amount of satisfaction that not one of the vehicles behind me makes any attempt to stop and help her. About an hour later my boss rings me.)

Boss: “I’ve just had a complaint about you from a very angry woman saying you threw her out of her car and crashed it backwards through a fence because she wouldn’t get out of your way. Care to explain it for me?”

Me: “She managed it all by herself. I never even left the cab, and I certainly didn’t fling her from her car. I’ll be back at base in about four hours. You can check the dash-cam footage, but there’s no way anyone could say it was any fault but hers.”

(I got back to base. My boss had a look at the footage, concluded that the accident was no one’s fault but the woman’s, and proceeded to rip her a new one on the phone about abusing his staff and making fake claims against them. She did then try to go through insurance about it, but again, once they’d seen the footage, they shut her down. I do have to wonder, looking back, how self-entitled someone has to be to first demand that an entire convoy of vehicles move for you, and then somehow blame me for her own shoddy driving when she backed through a fence, and THEN be so full of themselves to fabricate a story about it even after I’d warned her that all of it was recorded by my dash-cam.)

Getting Into A Pillow Fight

, , , , , , | Related | January 15, 2018

(My in-laws are visiting and my mother-in-law comments on my new purse, so I show it to her.)

Me: “You like it? I made it myself.”

Mother-In-Law: “Wow, that’s really nice! Where’d you get it?”

Husband: “Mom, she just told you that she made it.”

Mother-In-Law: “Oh? All I caught was, ‘See my new purse.’”

(I fight the urge to roll my eyes because that is NOT what I just said. She looks over the purse then looks at me.)

Mother-In-Law: “Can you teach me to sew? I have a sewing machine, but I don’t have the book for it. It was secondhand and the person who gave it to me lost it, so I don’t know how it works.”

Me: “Sure, if you bring it over one day I’ll see what kind of machine it is and look up the manual online. We could probably find one for free or very cheap.”

Mother-In-Law: “Okay. Then you can show me how to sew a purse like that, right?”

Me: *shakes head* “No, you should start with something simple, like a pillowcase or simple skirt, just to get the hang of it. This purse isn’t a beginner project, but we can find you a beginner’s purse pattern.”

Mother-In-Law: *scoffs* “If you can make it, how hard can it be?”

Husband: “That’s not very nice, Mom.”

Mother-In-Law: *feigning innocence* “What do you mean? She’s obviously new to this herself.”

Me: *calmly as possible* “No, I’m not. I’ve been sewing since I was 14 years old, and I am now 28, so I’ve been doing this for half my life. The pattern I used for this purse says that it is not recommended for beginners. After you have made a few simpler projects, I can help you make a purse like this in whatever fabric you like.”

Mother-In-Law: *sighs* “Well, I guess I could do that, then. Just let me know when you can teach me.”

(I don’t think I will have the time to teach her. Ever.)

Email Fail, Part 15

, , , , , | Right | January 15, 2018

(I’m the front desk manager at a hotel. One night an irate caller gets put through to me.)

Me: “Good evening. This is [My Name] speaking. How can I assist you tonight?”

Customer: *in a very rude and condescending tone* “Well, I don’t know; do you think you can help me? I called here last night to reserve a room. I was offered an email confirmation and I’m still waiting for it, so… Yeah.”

Me: “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. Let’s see if we can figure out why you haven’t gotten it yet. Can I have your name, please?”

Customer: *sighs* “Yes. My name, again, is [Customer]. I reserved my room for next Friday.”

Me: “Yes, I see that here. Let me just confirm your email address. Is it—” *I read out her email address and confirm the spelling*

Customer: “Yes, yes, yes, that’s my email address. Now, the problem isn’t with the address; it’s with you guys not doing your jobs. All I wanted was an email confirmation of my reservation. I waited all night for it and I never got anything. I’m checking my emails right now, and I don’t… Oh.”

(At this point I’m looking at the email in our sent messages, and I see that it was delivered within minutes of her making the reservation. Before I have a chance to say anything else, the customer speaks again.)

Customer: “Oh, wait. Um… Yeah. Okay. I see it; I have it. Okay, well, that’s all I needed, then. Thank you.” *click*

(I never did get an apology for how she spoke to me at the beginning of the call. When she did finally check in, she acted just as entitled and rude towards my front desk clerk as she had been to me on the phone, so I quickly introduced myself and asked if she’d had any more trouble printing her confirmation. She shut up quickly and was pretty quiet for the rest of her stay.)

Related:
Email Fail, Part 14
Email Fail, Part 13
Email Fail, Part 12

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