Your Milkshake Brings All The Scammers To The Yard

, , , , , | Right | October 3, 2018

(I’m a manager at a local fast food burger joint. I am in the back office counting money when my drive-thru employee approaches me.)

Employee: “A customer drove up to the window and he is being very rude. I don’t know what to do, so I closed the window and came to get you.”

(I walk over to drive-thru and open the window.)

Me: “Hello, sir, what seems to be the problem?”

Customer: “As I was trying to explain to your worker, we have been sitting in drive-thru for fifteen minutes, and I ordered one small vanilla milkshake. I demand compensation for the long wait time.”

(He then begins to count everyone in his car.)

Customer: “There are five of us, so I think five free, large milkshakes is fair enough.”

(The way the customer has been talking to me, and the fact that he ordered only one small milkshake when he has four people with him, makes me suspicious that he is trying to get free food from us. Even so, giving him five large milkshakes is out of the question.)

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t offer you five free milkshakes. I can give you your small one for free, and if you feel that isn’t enough, then you can email [Owner] about your complaint.”

Customer: “F*** YOU!”

(They speed off. The next customer pulls up. I take their money, and give them their food, along with the small vanilla milkshake that would have been thrown away.)

Me: “Have a free milkshake, courtesy of the customer ahead of you.”

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Trespassing On The Law

, , , , | Legal | October 3, 2018

(My family has a hunting cabin in a very rural area. Our land borders part of a national forest, and there is another piece of private property on the other side of the national forest land. Nobody in my family has ever met the person or people who own this other property. Because the property lines are difficult to follow when you’re walking through the forest, my dad has mapped all of the boundaries with his GPS unit so we know exactly where the boundaries are. One day during deer hunting season, I’m in my deer stand on national forest land when a man rides directly under my stand with his ATV.)

Man: “Hey! Get off of my property or I’ll call the cops!”

Me: *realizing he must be the owner of the neighboring property* “Sir, I’m on national forest land.”

Man: “Like h*** you are! That’s it. I’m calling the Department of Natural Resources. Stay here and we’ll get an officer out to settle this.”

(The man rides away. I assume he’s going to his cabin to make his call, and knowing that I have done nothing wrong, I stay in my stand. About an hour later, the man returns with a DNR officer.)

Man: “Here we are. As you can see, this man here has been on my property all day.”

Officer: “Well, let’s look at the GPS.” *he checks his GPS unit* “Sir, according to my GPS, this stand is actually on national forest land.”

Man: “Like h*** it is! I mapped the boundary line out last year, and put up No Trespassing signs all along the line. Come on over and I’ll show you the closest sign.”

(We all walk over to the man’s “No Trespassing” sign, and the officer checks his GPS again.)

Officer: “Actually, this sign is also on national forest land, and since it’s illegal to put private No Trespassing signs on national forest land, I’m going to have to write you a citation for that.”

(I thanked the officer and walked back to my cabin, fighting to contain my laughter until I was well out of hearing range. I’ve continued hunting in that same spot for several years since that story took place, and have never seen any sign of the man since.)

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Cost You Down To The Bone

, , | Right | October 3, 2018

(My colleague and I work in the gift shop of our local museum, where we tend to have rather high-priced, locally-made products. The customer in question is a man with his ten-year-old daughter. She is interested in a scoop-shaped drinking vessel made of bone from a bear, and it’s 50% off.)

Me: “That’ll be [amount].”

Customer: “WHAT?!”

Me: “It’s actually 50% off…”

(He starts to scream and walk off, dragging his daughter by the hand.)

Me: “It’s a unique handmade product made of natural materials, which is why the price is a bit—”

Customer: “NO, IT’S NOT! BULLS***! I CAN MAKE THAT MYSELF!”

Me: “Oh. Okay, then.”

(He stormed out, leaving me and my colleague staring after him in bewilderment.)

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Won’t Sit Idly By

, , , , , , , | Working | October 3, 2018

(Boston is recovering from an intense storm around April. Now that snow from the blizzard is finally gone, the city starts working on the roads. Among the work is sewer assessment, which means fixing anything that’s damaged and giving what’s not a cleaning. The city distributes flyers through the mail to notify us of times when work will be done in our area over the next month or so, asking that we minimize water, and that any strange smell emanating from our faucets and toilets is normal and not hazardous. On the day my neighborhood is scheduled for this work, I’m up at six am, making myself breakfast as usual when I hear the sound of an idle truck and workers yelling. Since local legislation states work can’t begin until nine am, this is already unusual. What follows doubles down on that.)

Worker #1: “We’re all set up? When’s [Person] getting here?”

Worker #2: “Should be here around seven.”

Worker #1: “What’ll we do until then?”

(Rather than a verbal answer, the sound of the idle engine is now mixed with the sound of chain links rattling. I look out the window and confirm my suspicions: these workers, two black men that are easily twice as jolly as Santa are pulling on my fence to help them as they limber up for the job ahead. I step outside.)

Me: “Get off the fence!”

Worker #1: “Relax! It’s a fence!”

Me: “Fences aren’t meant to hold your weight! Now, get off it and turn your truck off!”

Worker #2: “Fine! Jeez!”

(They both step back and release the fence, and proceed to stand there waiting.)

Me: “The truck?”

Worker #1: “It’s fine!”

Me: “You’re burning gas right now. Turn it off!”

Worker #2: “It’s no problem. It’s got one of those engines that doesn’t use much fuel.”

Me: “It’s not about fuel. It’s about air quality and the law. To help reduce pollution, Massachusetts passed an Anti-Idling Law which prohibits vehicles from sitting idle for more than five minutes without just cause.”

(Both of their hands launch above their heads while grinning.)

Worker #1: “DON’T SHOOT! DON’T SHOOT! OUR HANDS ARE UP! DON’T SHOOT!”

Me: “What the f*** are you talking about?”

Worker #2: “You’re a white guy talking like a cop! We don’t want to get shot!”

(I have no response. I do, however, report the idle engine — which miraculously turns off just before the police drive up — and file a complaint with the city about the workers showing up incredibly early, attacking my fence, leaving their engines idle, and harassing me when I try to protect my property, also being sure to mention, “If my fence had broken and they’d gotten hurt, they’d have sued me for their medical bills.” The following week, the crew is back, but they park next to my neighbor’s house, instead. My neighbor is not only a friend, but also very old and very gossipy. When I come back from work at around 3:30, he emerges from his backyard, where his wife is also sitting, and I hear a distinct chirping.)

Me: “Is your alarm going off?”

Neighbor: *nodding* “They parked their truck next to my vent. The exhaust fumes are leaking into my house and setting off the monoxide alarm, and they won’t move the truck.”

(I once again go out front and talk to these workers, and I find a different crew member with a monitor connected to a large pipe leading down into the sewer.)

Me: “So, why is your truck idle?”

Worker #3: “We’ve got a camera down in the sewer taking magnified pictures to see if there’s anything we can’t see. We need the truck to power it.”

Me: “Oh. So, where’s the cord connecting it to the truck?”

Worker #3: “What?”

Me: “The cord. If it’s getting power from the truck, they have to be connected.”

Worker #3: “…”

Me: “Turn the truck off and apologize before I get inside, or I’m calling the police again to report an idle engine and reckless endangerment.”

Worker #3: “‘Reckless endangerment’?”

Me: “You filled the home of two senior citizens with carbon monoxide — endangering their lives — and you refused to turn off your engine or move your truck when he confronted you about it. And even with your equipment running, the alarm is still audible from here.”

(Thankfully, that works. Even so, I invite my neighbor over to help file another complaint with the company. The following week, the team is back on the job. At this point, I am just curious to know when the work will be over.)

Me: “So, what’s the…”

Worker #4: “Shut up!”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Worker #4: “Our union rep told us you’re a troublemaker and we’re not supposed to talk to you! So shut up!”

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That’s A Ham-Fisted Excuse

, , , , , , | Working | October 3, 2018

(My mother-in-law wants a party for a milestone birthday. My husband and I are in charge of getting sandwiches, so we decide to order from the deli counter at our local grocery store to save some time and money, rather than buying ingredients and making them ourselves. The store offers two types of meat: ham and turkey, or you can order a mix of the two. My mother-in-law’s family has ham for every family get together, but some of my husband’s generation doesn’t eat it. It’s not a strict dietary requirement or religious thing; they just don’t like it. I order two batches — one ham and one turkey. When I go to pick it up, the deli worker brings two boxes, one almost comically huge, and one regular-sized donut box.)

Me: “These were supposed to be the same size orders.”

Deli Worker: “All of the sandwiches are there. They didn’t all fit in the big box, so the extras went in the little box.”

Me: “They were supposed to be separate. There were two orders: one turkey, one ham.”

Deli Worker: “Oh, we always mix them together unless you add a note that you don’t want that.”

Me: “Why would I add a note when I ordered them separate? There’s an option to have them mixed, and I didn’t order that; I ordered them separate.”

Deli Worker: “No, you ordered them together.” *pulls out my order* “See? One ham and one turkey, on the same order.”

Me: “That’s one order, so I only have to pay once. That’s not ordering them mixed together. I have people who won’t eat the ham; I didn’t want them to have to dig through to find the sandwich they want.”

Deli Worker: “You know, I’m having a really hard day, and you’re making it worse. Do you just want a manager?”

Me: “I do now.”

(The manager comes, and I try to explain. At this point, I’m more upset that the deli worker blamed me for not being specific enough, and then for making her day harder, and I’m near tears from frustration.)

Me: “I don’t have time for you to fix the sandwiches here; I have to go. I’ll deal with it. I just want to make sure that in the future they don’t just get mixed unless they’re actually ordered that way. And I definitely don’t think it’s okay to blame me for making her day harder.”

(I left and went to the front to pay, where the manager caught up to me and gave a discount while apologizing.)

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