A Human Being Unreasonable

, , , , , | | Right | June 17, 2019

(The restaurant where I work is very popular and can be really crowded during lunch hour. Also, it is a small business and there are less than twenty seated places. My coworker has called off and I am the only waitress on the floor. Since most of the clients are regulars, they know the waiting can be long, so they are mostly patient and nice even though the line reaches outside. A woman decides she has had enough and cuts the entire line, grabs my arm — note that I have food plates in both hands and even on my arms — and yells at me:)


Me: “Please, madam, be careful! Those plates are hot!”

Customer: “I don’t care; I want to be served!”

Me: “I am really sorry, madam, but you will have to wait in line.”

Customer: “NO! I don’t have to wait.”

Me: “Again, madam, I’m sorry, but all these people were here before you and therefore, you must wait. As you can see, we are incredibly busy.”

Customer: “I DON’T CARE! Do you know who I am?”

Other Customer: “I know who you are.”

Customer: “Finally! I—“

Other Customer: *without missing a beat* “You are a human being like everybody else. And decent human beings wait in line! So get back there!”

(The lady left in a huff. I couldn’t have said it better myself!)

Spilled The Ink On That One

, , , | | Working | June 17, 2019

(I have made an appointment to get a tattoo covered up. I sit down with the artist to talk about my options.)

Artist: “So, which one are we covering up for you?”

Me: “This one, right here. The one that says, ‘[Male Name].’”

(I roll up my sleeve and show him the tattoo of a small heart with “[Male Name]” written under it.)

Artist: *rolls his eyes* “Ah, broke up, did you? This is exactly why I don’t tattoo names on people.” *shakes his head*

Me: “Uh, no, it’s not like that. It’s actually–” *cuts me off*

Artist: “This is seriously one of the dumbest tattoo choices you can make. I mean, how stupid do you have to be to tattoo a boyfriend’s name on you? Jesus, c’mon. Nothing lasts forever these days.” *shakes his head again*

Me: “It’s not my boyfriend’s name; it’s–” *cuts me off again*

Artist: “Fiancé, husband, whatever. You’re a real idiot for tattooing his name on you. I mean, seriously–”

(Sick of his s***, I cut him off.)

Me: “Actually, it’s my father’s name. I got it as a memento four years ago when he died. Or I should say, when he faked his own suicide so he could go live with his new family on the other side of the country, which we just found out about. I want it gone. But I am definitely not doing that here. Goodbye.”

(The artist went absolutely white and tried to spit out some sort of apology, but I was already halfway out the door.)

Hunting Down The Scavengers

, , , | | Right | June 17, 2019

(The mall I work in has a No Solicitation policy. They also frequently have tween and teen groups doing scavengers hunts. Ten minutes after opening on a Saturday, a group of seven girls, around age fourteen, walks in with two adults. While I know they are on a scavenger hunt, there isn’t anything I can do until they actually out themselves and/or break store policy by taking pictures. As they look around the store, I can hear them whispering to each other about what products will work for items on their list.)

Girl: *holding up a pack of tissue paper* “How much will this cost?”

Me: “$2.95”

Girl: *to group* “Well, this would work for #5, since it’s pink!”

Girl’s Mom: “That’s a lot of money for one item… Maybe you can just get one piece?”

Girl: *to me* “Do you sell single sheets?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry. They only come in the pack of eight sheets.”

Girl: “Do you have any swatches or samples we could have for free?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry, and we don’t participate in scavenger hunts.”

(Mind you, I haven’t actually asked them to leave at this point; I’ve just made it clear that we won’t be participating.)

Girl’s Mom: “EXCUSE ME?! What makes you think this is a scavenger hunt?!”

Me: “I can tell.”

Girl’s Mom: “No, I want to know exactly why you’re refusing service to my daughter!”

Me: “Ma’am, you brought a group of teenage girls into a specialty boutique whose typical demographic is middle-aged women. They are holding a printed-out, numbered list, and discussing what they can get to qualify for those numbers. They asked for free merchandise. All of those are tell-tale signs of a scavenger hunt, which is, by the way, in violation of the mall’s No Solicitation policy. But do correct me if I’m wrong about any of this.”

Girl’s Mom: “I want to speak to your manager!”

Me: “Ma’am, I am the store manager.”

Girl’s Mom: “Well, how do you expect to do any business if you won’t participate in community events?!”

Me: “Your daughter’s birthday party is not a community event. And I expect to make a profit by not giving away merchandise to teenagers who are never going to spend a dime in my high-end store.”

Girl’s Mom: “Come on, girls; let’s go somewhere else!”

(I promptly called my buddies in the security office, and later saw the group being escorted through the mall, I can only assume to the exit.)

Tech Support Retort

, , , , , | | Working | June 17, 2019

(A minor note before I go into this story. I work in tech support. We’re not talking the “have you rebooted it,” outsourced type, but serious tech support — the kind that deals with digging through code to fix issues, patching, and some hardware support. Recently, I found myself thinking about upgrading my graphics card, not because I really needed one, but I thought it’d be just a nice change compared to what I had. So, with that in mind, I head down to the local big-box tech store on my way home after work. I head inside, wander back to the parts department, and start looking through the shelves for the specific card I’ve had my eye on. It’s about this time that one of the salesmen approaches.)

Sales: “Finding everything you need?”

Me: “Not entirely sure.”

Sales: “Well, what do you need help with?”

Me: “I’m looking at getting a new graphics card, but…”

Sales: *cutting me off* “Well, it depends what you’re doing with it. Take this—“ *grabs a cheap card* “—It’s good for most things, but you don’t want that. Nah, you need this.” *grabs the most expensive card*

Me: “You think so, huh?”

Sales: “Oh, yeah. I’m an expert!”

Me: *muttering* “Sure, you are.” *aloud* “I get that you’re trained in these things to some degree, but you didn’t let me finish explaining the issue.”

Sales: *rolling his eyes* “Oh, go on, then.”

Me: “As I was about to say, I’m looking for a graphics card, but I’m not sure what kind of connector this type has, or if it’s for a laptop or tower. It doesn’t say it on the box, and I need a specific type to fit my system.”

Sales: “They’re all the same thing! I don’t know what gives you the idea they’re different.”

Me: “Education, training, experience…”

Sales: “What?”

Me: “Ever hear of [Well-Known Tech Support Company]?”

Sales: “Yes. And?”

Me: *producing badge* “I’m a technical support agent for them. So, yeah, the connections are different. I don’t need the upsell into something more expensive than what I want, and I don’t need the condescending ‘I know everything’ attitude. I just need to know what kind of connection this is, or if it’s for a laptop or tower.”

Sales: “Whatever. They’re the same [censored] thing! Here.” *grabbing a box off the shelf* “That’s the one you want.”

(With that he left. I ended up having to go back a second time, returning the one he picked up when I found out that yes, it was a laptop card. I also had a long talk with the department’s manager and the store manager about my experience. They ended up trading me the PC version — which was fifty bucks more — even for the laptop card I’d picked up, and assured me that they were going to have a long sitdown with that employee. I got the impression that this wasn’t the first time something like that had happened.)

A Medium Rare Scare

, , , , | | Right | June 17, 2019

(I work in a really posh town, and most of our customers are posh, upper-class people. Most are really nice and friendly, but some try to act posher than they actually are and treat the waiters like dirt. One regular who acts like this comes in and is, as usual, obnoxious.)

Regular: “This glass is dirty, boy. Get another.”

Me: “Sorry about that.”

(I go behind the bar and pretend to get another glass. As I take it over to him and his wife, I ask if they’re ready to order.)

Regular: “Yes, I’ll have a steak, medium rare.”

Wife: “That.” *pointing to what she wants on the menu*

Me: “Okay, I’ll bring your food out shortly.”

(When their food is ready I bring it over.)

Regular: “This is not done enough; your chef is crap.”

Wife: “And this isn’t what I ordered.”

Regular: “Kids like you should go back to the gutter where you belong.”

Me: “Sorry, I’ll get the head chef right on it.”

(Again, I bring out their food when it’s ready.)

Regular: “What the h*** is wrong with you people? This still isn’t right!”

Me: “I’ll go get the chef.”

Regular: “No! I want the manager!”

Me: “He is the owner, as well.” *calls over to the kitchen* “Hey, [Chef], someone has a problem with your cooking.”

(After a few seconds a figure appears at the doorway. Our chef is almost seven feet tall, and as he believes in trying all his food before it’s served, is a little well built. Plus, as he has just been chopping vegetables, he still has a long, sharp knife in his hand.)

Chef: “Sir, I have over forty years of experience cooking for Her Majesty, the Queen, all without one meal being sent back. Now, if my food is good enough for her, it’s good enough for your scrawny neck. And I can overhear everything that’s said to my staff, so the next time you open your mouth, picture me before you speak, you human question mark.”

(After that, no one’s had any trouble from those customers.)

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