Reading Not Always Right, I have always been a bit skeptical of people who are willing to destroy their own life over petty entitlement — that is until I actually ran into one.

I’m a lawyer and I had been working with a woman on a very specific court application that almost nobody in my city does, not because it’s hard, but, without going into details, solicitors consider it barrister work, and barristers consider it solicitor work. Importantly, this lady can’t sell her house without first filing this application.

This lady came in with her elderly father who is also on title with her.

The woman had been fine over the phone, but when she came in for a meeting to review the draft application and sign off, she was already huffy and looking for a fight.

The first thing she did was complain that this process was taking so long. It wasn’t. In fact, I had fast-tracked it because I was handling it as a favor to my boss.

Then, she complained that she had had to wait because I was sick and my boss should have been handling it. It had been delayed two days in a months-long process and she had been updated the whole time.

I started the actual meeting by describing how we needed court guidance on the application because it was very unique and each judge has their own way of handling it. She immediately took that to mean that I had no idea what I was doing. She complained that she wasn’t paying for me to get an education and she wanted a competent lawyer, not some moron.

Her dad managed to get her calmed down enough that she would listen to what I was trying to say, but I had to warn her to be more respectful.

Next, her middle name was spelled wrong. It was spelled the way that it was spelled on the documents we were trying to submit as evidence, but she spelled it another way. And I should have known that. Again, she went off shouting that I was totally incompetent and she never wanted to work with me; she wanted to work with my boss. After her screaming fit, she was reminded, much more strongly, that she would behave respectfully or be asked to leave.

Her father pleaded sadly to just get it signed and go, but he looked like a defeated man already.

Next, she got mad that the property address which she had given us as her address was not actually her address — which, again, we should have known. This time, she didn’t stop at the insults and berating. She got up and left, dragging her father out and shouting that she would be calling my boss to complain.

The father shook my hand and apologized before following her out the door.

I told my boss what had happened and he gave me a free hand to bill her for my time and fire her as a client. I will have to see if she calls my boss, but he’s far less patient with entitled people than I am, so I can guarantee it won’t go well for her.

But, coming back to the beginning of my story, this tantrum is going to cause serious problems in this woman’s life. She torpedoed her application at the eleventh hour, after basically all the work had been done. This means that she is not only going to have to pay for the work I did, but she will also have to go out and find another lawyer to do the same work over again. And I wasn’t kidding about very few people doing this kind of application. I can think of maybe two or three other lawyers who would do it. They all have hourly rates at least double mine, and they book six months in advance. She won’t be selling her house for a very long time.

I work at a chain fast food restaurant that sells Greek food in the food court of a large shopping centre. The menu is very simple if you actually bother to read it; you can get a meal that includes salad, rice, potatoes, and your choice of meat, or you can get a pita, or variations on those. Importantly, unlike some other Greek fast food restaurants, we do not serve fries. Almost all of the food you can order on the menu is visible on food trays at the counter that we use to serve the food.

I’m standing at the counter and two women are standing ten feet away looking at the menu. I wave at them so they know they can come order whenever they’re ready. They completely ignore me and continue staring at the menu for a solid five minutes. Finally, one of the women comes up to the counter.

Customer: “Hi. I would like an order of poutine.”

For those of you who don’t know, poutine consists of fries, gravy, and cheese curds and is a very popular Canadian food. My coworker and I look at each other for a few seconds, confused, before I answer.

Me: “I’m sorry, but we don’t serve poutine.”

Customer: “Yes, you do.”

Me: “No, I’m sorry, but we really don’t.”

Customer: “Yes, you do, I swear to God I just saw it on your menu.”

Our menu is displayed on three televisions where a couple of the pictures switch between two options in order to show every type of meal, pita, and salad available.

Customer: “I saw it! A small for $5.99 and a large for $8.99. I was standing there waiting for it to come back on but it never did.”

Me: “I’m really sorry, I’m not sure what you saw, but I assure you that we do not serve poutine. We don’t have fries or gravy, and the only cheese we have is feta. There is no way I can make you poutine.”

Customer: “I saw it on your menu. You have to make it for me.”

At this point, I have no idea what to do. My best guess is that she saw poutine on the menu of the fried chicken restaurant right next to us but is stubbornly insisting that it was ours. There is no way we can make her this dish.

My coworker then jumps in to back me up.

Coworker: “We really don’t have poutine.”

The woman then stares at us angrily for about thirty seconds. A line is forming behind her.

Customer: “Fine, then! I know I saw it, but you won’t give it to me. I’ll go get it somewhere else!”

She finally left. Thank God. I will never understand the customers that think they know the menu better than the people that work there for eight hours a day!

It’s the middle of a nasty snowstorm. I’ve trudged through it for thirty minutes after a long workday and decide to pop into the sub shop across from my apartment building. There are two other patrons there, but they seem to be sheltering from the cold and grumbling about the weather.

Since they aren’t in line, I place my order. As I’m choosing my toppings, the older of the two men comes up to me and says.

Patron: “Hey, Mister Big-Shot! Can’t even buy me a f****** sub? A**hole! F****** Big-Shot with your f****** money! Well, I don’t want your money and you can shove that sub up your a**!”

The irony is that if he’d asked me nicely, I probably was in the right kind of mood to buy him a sub. Ah, well, this “big-shot” did indeed enjoy that sub. And no, it only went in my mouth.

Related:
Sub-Standard Behavior, Part 3
Sub-Standard Behavior, Part 2
Sub-Standard Behavior

I’ve been working as a pizza delivery guy for a pizza chain for the past two years. I get an order for a condominium, and on the receipt, the customer has left instructions to call as soon as I arrive to find out which apartment she lives in. I get there and I call five times, and she doesn’t pick up.

I call my manager about what to do, and he tells me to call the customer’s daughter since she made an order with her and also left her number. I eventually make it to the customer’s door.

Customer: “Where were you?! You’re late!”

Me: “I tried calling you several times.”

Customer: “I thought those were scam calls.”

Me: “How would you like to pay?”

The order is $15.46 and she wants to pay with $100, and she wants exact change with no tip.

Me: “I don’t have the change necessary for that.”

Customer: *Yelling* “What the f*** is your problem?! This is your job!”

Me: “Do you have a debit or credit card?”

The woman finally pays, with no tip, and the daughter pays for her order and gives me a two-dollar tip.

Customer: “Now get the h*** off my property!”

I get back to work and my manager comes to talk to me.

Manager: “I got a call from your last customer. She says you pushed her, hit her, and called her a b****. She demanded that I fire you and give her a lifetime discount or she was going to call the cops.”

To this day, my manager is the best man alive. After that, he told her that she would be blacklisted from our chain and any other stores in the chain in the area. He told the other restaurants not to give her service or deliver to her.

In my last two years of university, I did my one stint in hospitality/food service. I worked part-time at one of the campus cafeterias that specialized mostly in sandwiches and pizzas.

One evening, I was working at the sandwich station when a female student came in and ordered a toasted bagel. At the time, we were simply using one of the bread knives (long and sharp) to cut the bagels in half for toasting. The most common technique was to hold the bagel down with the palm of one hand and slice it horizontally.

In my rush to get it cut, I didn’t hold the bagel down firmly enough. The bagel slipped under my hand and my thumb basically ran up the length of the knife, almost slicing a fair chunk of the end of my thumb off.

There was no pain (thank you, sharp knife), but as I looked in shock at the copious flow of blood from my thumb, I dropped the knife and ran back to the kitchen for first aid. As I stumbled through the door to the back, I heard the following:

Student: “Don’t get any blood on my bagel!”

The on-duty supervisor helped me bandage my injury enough to get to Medical Services for proper treatment and stitches.

When I came in for my next shift a few days later, the sandwich station had been supplied with a proper bagel holder to prevent any further “incidents”.

I still remember the customer’s reaction over forty years later.