A Fountain Of Laziness

, , , , , , , , | Working | February 19, 2020

I work as a bartender in a busy bar and restaurant. The bar is set up two-sided; one side has all the beer and lager taps with the liquors as well as fountain drinks. The other is strictly fountain drinks as it is meant as a quick station for servers to get refills for people.

I get an order from the restaurant for about ten people, all fountain drinks but different because two of the party are diabetic. I start on the drinks, getting glasses and filling them with ice, generally doing them two at a time and placing them on a tray.

I am the only one working on the bar itself.

Every time I get another glass, I notice that my drinks order has gone. One by one, every soda on the tray has vanished.

The man who has ordered has his back turned and is in conversation, but none of his party have their drinks.

I start the process again, and with each new glass, the same thing happens.

Frustrated, I move my tray, collect all the glasses, and do all the drinks at once.

As I am moving across the bar to deliver what seems to be the most difficult order I have ever filled, one of the new servers stops me and tries to pluck a soda from my tray.

I give her a “WTF” face and she brazenly states that it is my job to pour her drinks and that her table needs the sodas.

It turns out that she has been stealing my drinks orders whilst my back was turned, with no regard for preference — diet, zero-calorie, etc. — and giving them to her tables.

I finish serving my now angry customer, apologise, and then have to explain to the waitress that she actually has to tell me what her tables are drinking so I can pour them, not just steal drinks from other customers.

I show her the fountain station on the other side of the bar, even though I personally watched her being trained on this.

She is soon let go when she is found doing the same thing on other shifts, too lazy to get her own drinks for customers or to write orders down.

That evening, I filled 25 glasses for an original order of ten. The definition of madness is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

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Sales On Vulcan: Infinite Savings In Infinite Combinations

, , , , , | Right | February 17, 2020

(I work for a company that primarily sells its products online. We just had a 20% off sale that ran for a few days. It has been over for a week when I get this call.)

Me: “Hi, how can I help you?”

Customer: “You guys never run any sales! Why don’t you run any sales?”

Me: “Well, we just finished up a 20% off sale last week and run sales all the time. Did you miss our emails and advertising about that sale?”

Customer: “No, I saw them, but 20% is nothing!”

(I take a moment to see what she normally orders and it looks like she would have saved about $25.00 on her regular order. I, of course, let her know this and let her know about upcoming sales.)

Customer: “Wait… You’re saying I could have saved $25.00? Why didn’t you tell me that when you sent the email for the sale?”

Me: “We did, in fact. The email said it was a 20% off sale.”

Customer: “But how am I supposed to figure out how much that is?”

Me: “Well, an easy way would have been to estimate your normal order at $100. 20% of that would be $20, so you know that you would have saved more than $20 on the purchase. In this case, it would have been about $25.”

Customer: “You should just put exactly how much I am going to save in the email!”

Me: “We could, but as every order is different, the amount saved will also be different.”

Customer: “Well, how am I supposed to figure that out? I don’t have a computer to figure that out!”

Me: “Do you have a calculator?”

Customer: “I don’t have that, either!”

(That’s when she hung up in anger, and when I got up to make some coffee and shake my head.)

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Their Brain Is Fried From All That Reading

, , , | Healthy | February 15, 2020

(I have a health issue which means I have to stay for a few months at a medical facility specialized for this problem. As it is not a hospital, meals are not served in the patient rooms but in a communal space. It works like a standard cafeteria, where most of the food is easy to see, but fries and some others are made at a different station a bit removed from the counter — but still very easy to see. On top of that, there are multiple menus, including on the counter, spelling out what dishes are available on any given day. This is an example of a conversation I’ve had multiple times.)

Other Patient: *seeing my plate* “How did you get fries?!”

Me: “I just asked for them.”

Other Patient: “But how was I supposed to know they had fries? It’s not very clear. Are there fries every day?”

Me: “No, only on the days where it’s on the menu.”

Other Patient: “And how do you know what’s on the menu?”

(I point to the menu right above the counter, written in big enough letters to be read from afar.)

Other Patient: *absolutely serious* “Well, if I have to read…”

Me: *facepalm*

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Taking The Pettiness Up To Eleven (Cents)

, , , , , | Working | February 14, 2020

(After my father suddenly passes away, I start closing his bank accounts and such. All are payable-on-death to me, so it is pretty easy to get everything done at once. I go to a large national bank chain that’s known for ripping off its customers for one account, and I sit waiting 45 minutes to talk to a banker in a completely empty bank, until the customer “service” person tells me:)

Customer Service: “I’m afraid that [Banker] is too busy doing his own paperwork and therefore he is not going to be available for the rest of the day.”

Me: “But he has no customers!”

Customer Service: “You should go to [Another Branch 15 minutes away] where there is no line and someone can help you.”

(I am ticked off as h***, but I go since I really need to do this and have already traveled to another town and sunk the travel and waiting time into it. Of course, the other branch is packed, and I wait another 45 minutes. The banker is new and has to call the estate department to walk her through the process. Ninety minutes later, the account is closed, and I have a check in hand for the funds. Fast forward two weeks… A statement comes from the bank for that account, which is NOT closed, and apparently has $0.11 in it. So, I call the estate department of the bank.)

Estate Rep: “Oh, I guess the banker didn’t close the account properly. You’ll have to go back to the bank and do it again.”

Me: “No, that’s why I’m calling you. I can fax you the death certificate or mail a copy. But the last time I tried, I spent 90 minutes of travel time round trip, was left sitting for 45 minutes like an idiot at one branch because a banker didn’t feel like dealing with a customer today, then was told to drive across town to another branch, and then spent another 45 minutes waiting and another 90 minutes watching an untrained banker apparently incorrectly close the account despite being on the phone with you guys for tech support the whole time. I’m not doing that again. How do I send you a copy of the death certificate?”

Estate Rep: “You can’t. We only close bank accounts in person. You’ll have to go to the bank again.”

Me: “Really? Literally every other bank, brokerage house, credit card company, and creditor of his did this by mail or fax. Are you really going to tell me that you are the one and only bank that won’t close an account without going in, like every other bank will?”

Estate Rep: “That’s right. We don’t. You’ll have to go in.”

Me: “So… let’s say I decide to leave the account open, instead. It’s going to cost you a lot more than the $0.11 in the account every month to print the statement and mail it. In a couple of years, it’ll become ‘abandoned property.’ That’ll cost you a bunch more money for the paperwork, plus time and overhead looking for who the property belongs to. Inevitably, you’ll reach me, who’ll laugh at you and decline to claim $0.11. Then, the $0.11 will go to the state, requiring yet more overhead and time for paperwork. Are you really going to tell me to come in, or shall I leave the account open and watch the fun begin?”

Estate Rep: “You have to come in. You have to close the account.”

Me: “I don’t gotta do nothin’. I think I’ll leave it open. I’ll consider it my dad’s final gift of laughter.”

Estate Rep: “But you have to—”

Me: *click*

(And as bummed as I was about my dad dying, that is indeed how, for the past two years, I have had a good chuckle every month at that awful bank’s expense, and I’m sure I’ll have more chuckles for several years yet. All for the cost of eleven cents.)

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It’s Not A Hard Knock Life As A Deliveryman

, , , , , , | Working | February 12, 2020

I’m working at home. My wife and daughter are also in the house; my daughter is studying in her room, right next to the front door.

We have a wooden front door with a really loud brass door knocker. Although it’s a 100-year-old, three-floor house with thick walls and floors, the sound of the knocker easily carries everywhere.

For some reason, many delivery drivers choose to ignore the knocker and rap gently on the glass of the door, instead.

At lunch time, I wander out of the living room where I have been working to find a Missed Delivery card through the letterbox. Cue mental face-palm, as I have been sat within 20 feet of the front door since about 8:00 am.

When I visit the courier’s web site and enter the tracking details, I get a message that says, “Sorry we missed you; we’ll try again tomorrow,” complete with a photo of our front door, large brass knocker front-and-centre.

Nice to know they really tried to get my attention.

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