He Cowers When You Have A Legitimate Argument

, , , , , , | Working | December 10, 2018

(Several friends and I are barhopping. We have just left the first bar and are heading to our next stop. We show the bouncer our IDs. Everyone is let into the bar, except my one friend who is 22. She and I both have Maryland driver’s licenses, but mine was from a few years earlier than hers, so it had the old design, while hers has the new one. After a minute inside the bar, I turn around and realize one of my friends is still standing outside with the bouncer. I go outside to discover that the bouncer has turned away my friend with the newer Maryland driver’s license.)

Me: “What’s the problem?”

Friend: “The bouncer said my ID was fake and won’t let me in.”

Me: “Are you serious?!”

(I grab her ID myself to make sure the holograms are correct and that nothing is wrong.)

Me: “Excuse me, sir, but the holograms on her ID are legit.”

Bouncer: “Yeah, well, so were the ones on the Maryland ID I confiscated last week. I asked her some follow-up questions, and she couldn’t answer them correctly.”

Me: “What did he ask you?”

Friend: “He asked me what the capital of Maryland was. It’s Annapolis, right?”

(My friend got a Maryland’s driver’s license while staying with her sister for a few weeks when she turned 21. She’s a Florida native. I, however, have lived in Maryland for my entire life, minus the past few months since I moved to Florida.)

Me: “Yes, Annapolis is the capital of Maryland. Sir, she answered the question correctly; I’ve lived in Maryland my whole life and can attest that she is correct, but I’d be happy to Google it if you’re still unsure.”

Bouncer: “Doesn’t matter. Took her too long to answer the question. This is my job. Her ID isn’t legit, anyway. She’s not getting in.”

Me: “Let me direct your attention to the wristbands we’re both wearing from the last bar we just came from.”

Bouncer: “That’s great. She’s still not getting in.”

Me: “All right, let’s just clear this up once and for all; can you scan her ID?”

Bouncer: “I have no way of scanning it.”

Me: “Then, technically, you have no way of proving that her license isn’t legit.”

Bouncer: “That isn’t my problem.”

Me: “You know what, we aren’t doing anything wrong. Let me make this easy: I’ll call the police and ask that they send out an officer who can scan her ID to let you know if it’s legitimate. Once that’s proved, you can let her in.”

(I am trying to be helpful, not threatening. But at this point, the bouncer gets a little too close to me and seems angry at my suggestion.)

Me: “Look. I get that your job is to turn away people with fake IDs. If we were a bunch of kids who got caught with a fake, we’d run away. We’d be too scared of our parents finding out or the police getting involved. I offered to call the police myself to fix this situation. Why would I do that if her ID was fake?”

Bouncer: “I don’t know. It isn’t my job to know. It’s my job to check IDs.”

Me: “I can’t help but notice your accent. You’re clearly from the UK, so I can understand your confusion over the laws and capitals of states over here in the US. But you are wrong in this situation. My friend is 22 years old. Her Maryland license is legitimate. The capital of Maryland is Annapolis. You have not been open to reason in any shape or form, so I’m going to go inside, grab all six of my friends who are waiting for us to order drinks, inform the hostess inside that you’re turning away legitimate IDs, and take my friends elsewhere. But I’m going to make d*** sure that the employees inside know that their bouncer is turning away legal-aged customers, who were eager to spend a bunch of money in this establishment.”

(I then turned and walked back into the bar. I marched up to the hostess station and informed her of the situation. She was understandably frazzled, so I told her to let her manager know or to inform her supervisor. As I was talking to the hostess, my friend came up behind me and informed me that she’d gotten in. She claimed that she snuck past the bouncer. But I have a feeling he turned his back long enough to let her go by, without apologizing, to try to get me to stop getting him in trouble. I later contacted the management company that owned that bar. I included an entire transcript of the conversation, the fact that my friends ended up buying around forty shots and ten drinks during our time there — money that would have been spent elsewhere — the conversation I had with the hostess, and information to contact me with any questions. I also included how the bouncer admitted to having confiscated an ID. I looked it up the next day; it is ILLEGAL for a civilian to confiscate an ID, whether it is legit or fake. I made sure to inform the person I spoke to about that. Only a police officer can confiscate any form of ID in the US. Someone reached out to me within two hours of my email with follow-up questions and promises to investigate. I don’t know what happened to that bouncer, but I hope that serious actions were taken.)

A Customer For The Archives

, , , | Right | December 10, 2018

(I work in a museum in the UK.)

Caller: “Hello. I’m conducting some family history research and I need information about [Person] buried in [Village].”

Me: “Unfortunately, our archivist is out of the office at the moment.”

Caller: “Well, that’s typical! These people get paid so much that they’re always on holiday!”

Me: “She’s actually meeting with a local history group, but she’ll be back shortly, so I’ll take a few details and ask her to call you when she returns.”

Caller: “Why can’t you get me the information? All you do all day is sit in an office answering the phone. You should get out more.”

Me: “The archivist is really the best person for this enquiry. I’ll just take some details.”

(The caller goes on for a bit about the information he wants, and I take notes. Then, suddenly, this happens:)

Caller: “I used to be an engineer, you know. I travelled the world. You people have no ambition or life experience. You think the world is the Internet. That’s all you know.”

Me: *ignoring his outburst* “So, I’ll pass on the information you’ve given me to our archivist.”

Caller: “You people don’t know what the real world is. You just sit in front of the Internet while our NHS gets exploited by foreigners. You need to do something with your life. I bet you’ve never even been abroad. Get some experience. Then you’ll realise why intelligent people like me voted for Brexit!”

(Despite having British parents and an “English” accent, I grew up “abroad.” However, given his views on “foreigners,” I decide not to mention this.)

Caller: “Nowhere else has a nationalised health service. You didn’t know that! We’re the only country that does. Everywhere else they have to have insurance and pay a fortune. That’s why they all want to come here.”

Me: *forcing myself not to correct him* “I think I’ve got everything I need to process your enquiry, so unless there’s any more family history information you’d like, you can leave this with me.”

Caller: “My family is related to [Famous Company]. You wouldn’t have heard of them, because if it’s not on the Internet, you don’t know about it.”

Me: “Right…”

Caller: “You should really educate yourself more. Do something with your life.”

Me: “Okay, well, right now, I’m going to take your enquiry to our archives department. Good day.”

(I hang up the phone, rest my head on the desk, and scream. The archivist pops her head round the door.)

Archivist: “I’m back! Oh, my… What happened while I was out?”

Me: “This guy would like you to call him back. Have fun!”

They Just Can’t Quite Cut The Mustard

, , , , , | Working | December 10, 2018

(I pull into the drive-thru at a nationwide fast food joint, one that I’ve been going to for eons.)

Worker: “Hi. Can I take your order?”

Me: “Sure. I’ll have a #6, but without mustard, large size. with a [Soda].”

Worker: “No problem.”

(I watch her punch it into the computer as it shows up on my screen and notice that she does not put “no mustard” in there. So, I drive up to her window.)

Worker: “Okay, that will be [total].”

Me: *hands her my card* “Here you go. Oh, and please make sure that my hamburger doesn’t have mustard on it.”

Worker: “Oh, that hamburger doesn’t come with mustard. That’s why I didn’t put it in.”

Me: “I’ve been ordering the same thing for years, and it’s always had mustard on it; when did it change?”

Worker: “Oh, you must be wrong; it’s never had mustard.”

Me: “It always has, for the many years I have been ordering it. Can you please make sure they don’t put mustard on it?”

Worker: “It doesn’t come with mustard, sir. I don’t need to tell them.”

Me: “Please go tell them, anyway, or give me my card back and I’ll go someplace else.”

Worker: “I already charged your card, but here.”

(She hands me my card back, and I’m about to ask for a manager, when a manager happens to come by the window.)

Manager: *to worker* “Is there a problem?”

Worker: “He ordered a #6 and says he doesn’t want mustard on it, but I’ve told him it doesn’t come with mustard.”

Manager: *to worker* “A #6 does come with mustard! Ugh, now I have to have them remake it. Next time just punch it into the computer.”

Manager: *to me* “Sorry about this.”

(A few minutes later:)

Manager: *to me* “Here you go. I threw in a chocolate cake for you. I’m sorry about her; she’s new, but she thinks she knows everything already.” *sighs*

(I visited that place many times after that and never saw her working there again.)

Mom Needs To Move From The Mouse House To The Funny Farm

, , , , , | Related | December 10, 2018

(I have recently passed my 48th birthday. My mother has been demanding that we do something to celebrate. I am very low-key and like to keep to myself; my mother prefers to draw attention to herself and “embarrass” me by behaving outlandishly or telling strangers stories about me, and she is disappointed that my personality is not more like hers. For these reasons, I have been reluctant to celebrate with her. This occurs shortly after my birthday when I am helping her run errands.)

Mom: “I have something to tell you and you’re not going to like it.”

Me: “Okay…”

Mom: *launches into a long story about how Disneyworld is putting on a big celebration for Mickey Mouse’s birthday this year* “And Mickey Mouse’s birthday is the same day as yours!”

Me: “Oh. Hm. Okay.”

(As we are out and about, my mother manages to slip into conversation with several total strangers that I recently had a birthday and was upset that it was the same day as Mickey Mouse’s birthday. Some people wish me happy birthday, but all seem as confused as I am about why I would be mad about Mickey Mouse. Later, we are out for lunch with a neighbor, and my mother, of course, tells this story both to the neighbor and our server. During a lull in conversation…)

Mom: “So, how old are you, little girl?”

Me: “What?!”

(I heard her, but I am surprised that she would publicly ask me my age, and that she called me “little girl.”)

Neighbor: “I was always told that you can ask a lady what day she was born, and what month, but never what year.”

Me: “Thank you, [Neighbor]; that was my understanding, too.”

Mom: “But we have to ask you, so you can be reminded that Mickey Mouse has the same birthday!”

(I am just tired of hearing about Mickey Mouse, so I Google his birthday on my phone.)

Me: “Mickey Mouse’s birthday is November 18. My birthday is [date that is NOT November 18].”

(My mother went silent for a moment then, but a few times as we conversed, she interrupted me by belting out, “M-I-C! K-E-Y! M-O-U-S-E!” She is still annoyed with me that I didn’t celebrate my birthday with her.)

Derriere Size Is A Science

, , , , | Right | December 10, 2018

(I am pregnant with my second child, working as a cashier. It is not long before my due date. I am ringing a woman through when she asks for cigarettes. I have to leave my till to get them behind another till, maybe ten feet away. While I wobble, she turns and looks at my backside, even turning her head. Then, she informs my coworker at the next till:)

Customer: “She’s having a boy. I can tell because of how fat her a** has gotten.”

(I come back and finish up the transaction while my coworker and her customers stare at the woman with their mouths literally open. As soon as she walks out the door, my coworker’s customer, who is also a regular, says:)

Regular: “What a b****! I don’t care what the reason is; never comment on a pregnant woman’s a**!” *to me* “Sweetheart, ignore her! You are beautiful, and good for you for working so long.”

Me: *confused* “Thank you.”

(As soon as both customers have left, my coworker explains what happened, and we spend the next several hours laughing about it. About four hours later:)

Me: “Oh, my God. I just realized something!”

Coworker: “What?”

Me: “For her to know how big my a** has gotten means she had to have been checking it out before.”

Coworker: “Okay, that just went from funny to creepy.”

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