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Nobody Likes A Party Pooper

, , , | Right | November 10, 2022

I host birthday parties as part of my job at a trampoline park. At one of my more recent parties, the birthday girl, age nine, was rude and entitled the whole time.

Birthday Girl: “This party sucks!”

Birthday Girl: “I want to go home!”

Birthday Girl: “I’m bored!”

It got to the point of giving me a breakdown when she threw a tantrum at the dodgeball area, all because she wanted to be able to go wherever she wanted. (Our parties are structured so that each party spends about ten minutes in a variety of areas to avoid losing kids and to spread out the number of guests at each area.)

Her best friend was also one of my Cub Scouts, and she tried putting it on by calling me by my Cub Leader name and not my real name, but I shut it down quickly.

At the end of the party, the mum said:

Mum: “Okay, everyone, say thank you to [My Name]!”

Birthday Girl: “Thank you, even though I made you cry.”

The only response I could muster was:

Me: “Happy birthday, [Birthday Girl]!”

The Leftovers Dilemma

, , , , | Working | CREDIT: A**hole_Catharsis | October 5, 2022

I used to work at this fine dining place that would hold large banquets for an assortment of festivities and tech seminars. There were a lot of fancy business credit cards with no real spending limits or budgets floating around, so it was common for people to go all out on the company dime.

A tech startup reserved half the restaurant to celebrate some achievement, and they booked it in anticipation of all eighty employees showing up, so we put in enough orders and set up rows of trays and chafing dishes. Only about fifty people showed up, and at least half the food was left untouched. I’m talking a king’s bounty of high-end, fancy seafood, ribs, and steaks.

I asked the CEO of the startup, who was hosting the event, what she wanted to do with the leftovers and offered to box everything up. She wasn’t really sure but told me to go ahead. There was a literal mountain of boxes. I went around and told all the guests to help themselves to whatever they felt like taking home, and several did. But by the time they all left, there was still a large pile.

“What’s the grace period before we help ourselves?” my hungry coworkers and I pondered. One hour, we all decided, holding tight to something with as much legitimacy as the ten-second rule. The other general rule we had was that whoever was directly taking care of the party got first crack (me, in this case). Also, it was common practice that whatever food was left over we’d haul downtown and hand out to homeless people, so we were not all necessarily self-serving vultures.

We’d already cleaned, wiped down, and closed the banquet hall for the night, and the boxes had been sitting there for well over an hour. I got the clear and headed over with a fork. I hadn’t eaten since noon, so I started absolutely shoveling food down my gullet.

Then, I heard a familiar voice.

Voice: “Hello?”

I turned around with a full mouth, and the CEO was standing in the doorway looking at me. F***. I awkwardly grabbed a napkin and covered my mouth. She had returned with a van so she could load up the boxes of leftovers.

I can’t say she was pleased, but she didn’t seem angry, either. I don’t have much shame, so I shrugged my shoulders, swallowed the chunk of food down, and asked through my obstructed windpipe:

Me: “Do you need help loading the boxes?”

CEO: “No, it’s fine. I brought a couple of people with me.”

Me: *Casually* “Oh, okay, cool.”

Then I headed downstairs and sprinted out the back of the restaurant.

Yeah, lesson learned that day. (Wait TWO hours.)

They’re Coming Down So You Better Get The Party Shafted

, , , , , | Right | September 22, 2022

I work in a hotel. A guest has a party in one of the suites on the top floor one night. During their party, they cram seventeen people into an elevator that can only handle eight people; the building is over a hundred years old.

Of course, the elevator gets stuck between the second and third floors, and the fire department is called to rescue these people. They all escape the elevator in less than forty minutes without further incident.

The next morning, the host of the party comes down to complain.

Guest: “I will be expecting some kind of discount.”

Me: “For what reason, ma’am?”

Guest: “The firemen were rude to me.”

They did not get a discount.

Hold Up

, , , , , , , | Right | September 20, 2022

I am planning a birthday party for a client’s six-year-old daughter.

Client: “Oh, and [Daughter] loves Beyoncé!”

Me: “Haha, of course! We can get the DJ to play lots of Beyoncé.”

Client: “Can you try to get her for the day?”

Me: “Get… Beyoncé?”

Client: “Yes. Please check if she’s available.”

Me: “She won’t be available, ma’am.”

Client: “How can you know?! You haven’t checked yet! Call her!”

An Unexpected Trip Around The World (Or At Least Minneapolis)

, , , , , , , , , | Friendly | September 14, 2022

My group of friends and I are celebrating one friend’s twenty-first birthday. Most of us live on campus someplace — a frat house, an apartment, a house with roommates, etc. — in the Twin Cities, and the few that don’t will just be crashing at someone’s place after the birthday party.

We start our adventure at the Seven Corners area; we all drive and park at the twenty-four-hour parking ramp there. We venture to the bars, drink, and then start our trek back toward campus over the 10th Street bridge. We hit up a few more bars in the area, wander through Dinkytown, and hit a couple of other bars on our way to our final destination — a house party that’s on the west bank.

At the time of this story, I live in the Dinkytown area with my roommates, and I know my way around the east bank and even downtown Minneapolis very well, so the area is very familiar to me on a normal day.

After a lot of barhopping and walking, we finally end up at the house party. We party, drink, and have fun. My birthday friend is pretty drunk by the time things start to wind down at around 3:00 am, and he just wants to crash at the house we are in. I know we’re not too far from my place, and I really don’t feel like crashing at a random house party with half the people still up drinking and doing mean things to those that have passed out (drawing on their faces and such tricks). Another friend and I are pretty sloshed ourselves, but we decide to head out and walk back to my place. It should be a twenty- to twenty-five-minute walk, so it’s not bad; it’ll be enough time to let us sober up some.

We remember leaving the party and making it to University Avenue. After that, it is a bit of a blur. The next thing we remember is walking up to a gas station/convenience store. We’re tired and getting hungry and thirsty, so we decide to wander in. We grab some water and snacks and check out.

Employee: “You boys are back again, huh?”

Me: “Uhhh…”

I look over at my friend with a look of confusion. He just kind of looks back at me, just as confused.

Friend: “Yeahhhhh. We, um, just wanted to get some more snacks and get change for the payphone so we can phone a ride.”

Me: “Yeah, have to get change for the phone,”

This is before cell phones are a common thing; most people had pagers but not cell phones.

Employee: “Okay, you boys keep safe.”

We leave the gas station and walk outside to the payphone.

Me: “What the h***? We were here before?”

Friend: “I guess. I don’t remember coming here. And speaking of here… where the h*** are we?”

Looking around frantically, I spot a couple of street signs.

Me: “We’re on University Ave, but I don’t recognize the area. Call [Other Friend]’s place; he knows the area.”

Friend: “Yeah, I’ll call him and see if he can help us out.”

My friend chatted on the phone for a few minutes with our other friend. Come to find out, my friend and I, in our inebriated condition, turned the wrong direction down University Avenue after we left the house party and ended up walking half an hour in the wrong direction. Not only that, but we stopped in the same gas station twice — once on our way past it and the second time after we’d walked a bit and turned around because one of us must have finally realized we were lost — and don’t recall the first time we went in there. Our other friend that lived on campus wasn’t out drinking that night because he had to work, so he told us to wait and he’d come to pick us up and drive us back home, saving us a nearly sixty-minute walk home.

The moral of the story: be sure you know where you’re going if you’re out partying and decide to walk home, and make sure you’re with someone if you do. If my friend hadn’t agreed to attempt to walk back to my place that night, I wouldn’t have risked it myself; I would have just sucked it up and crashed at the house party.