Not A Fresh Request

, , , , , | Right | November 12, 2018

(I work in a grocery store deli where we can be quite busy on Sundays, especially when it comes to trying to keep fried chicken on the table due to large chicken orders. A couple of people have been waiting ten to fifteen minutes for a new batch when the cook is finally able to bring out two different pans.)

Me: “Hi. What can I get for you?”

(She has been waiting for ten minutes.)

Customer #1: “Yes, I’d like an eight-piece fried.”

(I start to box it up.)

Customer #1: “It’s fresh, right?”

Me: *rather dumbfounded* “Um… yes.”

(A few moments later.)

Customer #2: “Hi. I’d like an eight-piece fried.”

(I start to get it from one of the pans.)

Customer #2: “No, I want it from this one over here.”

Me: “Well, okay, but they came out at the same time.”

Customer #2: “This one looks fresher. You should see it on this side from where I’m looking at it; it looks fresher.”

Me: *boxes up his chicken from the pan he wants* “Two minutes ago, we had no chicken. I can assure you they’re the exact same.”

Common Sense Is Dwarfed By The Ignorant

, , , , , , | Right | September 14, 2018

(I work for a farm that specializes in breeding top-of-the-line, big-name miniature horses, and we have quite the reputation around town for having babies every year. This takes place not long after the Amazon Prime commercial with the mini horse airs.)

Me: “Hello! Thank you for contacting [Horse Farm]. How can I assist you today?”

Woman: “Hi, I just saw that Amazon commercial…”

Me: *internally* “Oh, boy, here we go.”

Woman: “…and I just thought that little mini was so cute! Do you have anything like it?”

Me: “We have one that is for sale, and similar colorwise.” *gives the basic info on this horse*

Woman: *interrupting me* “Oh, no, no, I meant one that’s little, with the little legs and cute head!”

Me: “Ma’am, with all due respect for that farm, that is a dwarf mini. Dwarfism is a genetic defect in miniature horses and some large breeds that causes bones, cartilage, and organs to grow improperly, and a majority of dwarves spend their lives in pain similar to stuffing your 80-year-old, degenerative arthritic grandmother into a corset that is much too tight. We do not have any dwarves because we do not breed for dwarfism, since it’s considered taboo in the horse world.”

Woman: “Then do you have any horses that have that dwarf gene? Couldn’t you breed them for me and then I’d take the baby?”

Me: *cheerily* “Thank you for considering [Horse Farm] for your next show ring champion. We hope you had a pleasant experience! Have a wonderful day!”

(I found out that two days later, she contacted a horse farm we have a breeding contract with, asking for a dwarf. She was then reported to all the local mini breeders.)

I’ll Pencil You In For Never

, , , , , , | Right | September 5, 2018

(I produce very fine pencil drawings of city views, done in psychedelic colour schemes. I also sell ink drawings of those same views, which resemble colouring book pages. Customers sometimes ask if it’s okay for them to colour them in, and it is, since it doesn’t affect me. This woman is a lot less polite about it, though.)

Girl: “Ooh, these look nice, Mum.”

Woman: “Yes, they look okay. How much are they?”

Me: “The colour prints are £40, black and white £20, and the originals are about £250.”

Woman: “What?! You’re charging £250 for pencil drawings!”

Me: *taken aback* “Well, they’re each nearly a month’s work and done in very fine detail.”

Woman: “I’m not paying that. I could do this!”

Girl: “Oh, but I really like them.”

Woman: “Fine.”

(She decides to buy one of the black and white prints.)

Woman: “Mind if I take a photo?”

Me: “That’s fine.”

Woman: *to her daughter* “Now we can copy it, and sell our own for £250.” *smiles smugly and leaves*

Me: “It’s your money.”

Another Visitor: “Aren’t you worried about her?”

Me: “It took 300 pencils to do these. A lot of the patterns are in very tiny spaces and done on a whim. Computers have trouble scanning them, and I couldn’t copy them, even with all the pencils to hand. Even if she does succeed, she’ll have to invest a few hundred getting her own art business set up. That’s money I haven’t made back yet. She is not going to make this £20 back.”

Unfiltered Story #116454

, | Unfiltered | July 12, 2018

We’re getting towards the end of our winter sale stock, and all the sizes we have of slippers are now out.
A young couple browsing ask me for sizes…

Lady: “Do you have this in a size 8?”
Me: “No, I’m sorry all our sizes are out.”
Lady: “So do you not have this in a size 8?”
Me: “Afraid not.”
Lady: “So I can’t see any more of these (she says, holding a size 7). What about a size 9?”

Me: *facepalm*

(imagine this conversation going on for the next 20 minutes)

First Lady Served, Last Lady Respected

, , , , , | Right | May 3, 2018

(I am a banquet server at a large “public ivy” college that is particularly known for its high economics rating, because they’re usually cheap and/or selfish, and cater to their donors instead of their employees. On this day, I am catering to the president of the university, his wife, and the donors and retirees of the university, and they have pulled out all the stops. Having encountered them before, I know it is mandatory not to serve my guests until the president and his wife has been served, or else the president’s wife will pitch a fit; she’s not known for being a pleasant person. We take our trays of food out, and I wait patiently as my coworker goes to serve the president of the university, then his wife.)

Wife: “Excuse me, miss?”

Coworker: “Yes, Mrs. [Wife]? Is there something wrong?”

Wife: “Yes, you should know something.”

(I watch in horror as she then THROWS her plate of food to the floor — the plate alone was worth more than $50 — and it shatters into a million pieces as food goes everywhere. Her husband, the president, doesn’t react.)

Wife: “You always serve the lady first! LADIES ALWAYS COME FIRST!”

Coworker: *stunned silence* “I… I’m sorry, Mrs. [Wife]. Would you like me to bring you out another plate?”

Wife: “NO! You’ve ruined this entire dinner! I’ll be talking to the head of your department! You will never work here again! I hope you kill yourself, you uncultured pig!”

(The wife then crosses her arms and pouts. As my coworker walks away to get a broom, one of the donors at my table nudges me.)

Man: “Is she always like that?”

Me: “Yes, I’ve encountered her before. She told me that my dreams of being a writer are stupid and I should expect nothing more of myself than working at [Fast Food Place], because I’m too incompetent for anything else.”

Man: “Well, if that’s the case…”

(He proceeds to hand me two $50 bills, which is almost half of what I make per paycheck.)

Man: “Split that between yourself and the young woman who served [Wife]. You both are lovely young ladies, and I promise to you both that [University] won’t get a penny more from me until that wretched woman is gone!”

Me: “Thank you, sir.”

(The president’s wife proceeded to sit and pout for the rest of the evening and refused everything we brought to her. Less than a week later, Mr. [President] announced that he was stepping down at the beginning of the spring semester. Needless to say, all of catering had a party on that day, happy to finally be getting rid of that horrible woman.)

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