My father-in-law was an imposing man — a solid six foot four — and a very successful Aussie plumber, and he had a really dry sense of humour. He also hated “privileged w*nkers” as he called them, as he used to have to deal with lots in his work.

He retired some years back when another plumbing firm paid lots for his business which had some very lucrative government contracts. To celebrate, the in-laws booked themselves a big tour to the US, Alaska, and Canada, which included a glacier cruise.

They arrived at the cruise check-in to be told that their cruise ship had hit an iceberg so it was in for repairs. The choice was to take a refund or try to fit on a competitor ship.

An English couple ahead of the in-laws were yelling and complaining about those options not being good enough and how they had better get a good room. As they finally left, everyone heard my father-in-law muttering, “Whinging w*nkers,” which horrified my mother-in-law.

When they stepped forward to the desk, the poor woman was looking concerned at this big bloke. She was about to start her explanation when my father-in-law stopped her.

Father-In-Law: “I heard you before. So some idiot’s getting his a**e kicked ‘cause our boat’s stuffed. We’ve travelled from the other side of the world and are not coming back, so we don’t want a refund. If you can get us on the other boat, that would be great. Thanks, love. We don’t care if it’s in the bowels with no window, as long as we can get somewhere to see the sights.”

She looked very relieved, told them she would see what she could do, and sent them off to a lounge to wait for a bus.

The bus came and took them to the other ship. They were taken around some corridors, and they opened the door into a stateroom on top of the decks on the corner. There were floor-to-ceiling windows facing the front and one side. They had a fantastic cruise, of course.

The fun bit for them both was finding that the “w*nkers” were down the bottom of the ship.

A customer walks in with a [Brand] 43″ TV to book it in for repair under his insurance.

Mistake #1: I don’t bring up the full details of the policy on the till because the letter he brought with his insurance information outlines the item that is covered but not the model or size. It is only after I book the TV that I bring up his full details. It turns out it is for a 50″  [Brand] rather than the 43″.

Me: “Sir, the TV you brought in isn’t the one that is covered under our insurance.”

Customer: “It should be covered anyway.”

Me: “It isn’t because it’s not the one on the policy. Even if it was sent away for repair, it would be sent straight back to the store.”

I offer to try to find a receipt for his 43″ [Brand] and see if that also has insurance on it. Then, I notice a particular sticker on the original box he brought to the store.

Me: “Sir, this TV is from [Competitor]. We wouldn’t have a record of your purchase.”

Customer: “That’s irrelevant. I did purchase the TV here.”

We go back and forth for a bit.

Customer: “The customer is always right! Just take off the [Competitor] sticker.”

Of course, I refused because I was not going to destroy proof of where it was bought from.

The manager eventually got involved. This resulted in more stupid arguments from the customer. At one point, he said, “If the TV was used as a murder weapon, then how would it be traced back to where it was bought from?”

What the actual f***?

After wasting a solid hour and half of our time, he relented and left.

Back in December, my hotel was sold out due to families traveling for the holidays. My hotel resides right beside a major freeway, and it was backed up; I’m talking about cars in one spot for more than four hours. People were standing beside their cars to have a smoke or walk their pets, and some even “relieved” themselves. I live ten minutes away from work but had to leave every day an hour early due to the awful traffic.

I got to work and we had three rooms left to sell. I went to clock in and print out the evening reports in case of system failure. Within the first ten minutes, we were sold out, and I had to face the twenty or so more families in my lobby who did not book in advance to turn them away. It took about thirty minutes, but once I passed out my list of local hotels and motels in the area, many of them were happy. I gladly put up a “Sold Out” sign.

A couple who got one of our last rooms came back down to the front desk. The wife was obviously drunk. I could smell her breath on the other side of the counter. The husband was taking pictures of the floor, the ceiling, and the doors — weird, but whatever. My coworker, a new person, asked them if everything was okay with the room. Meanwhile, I had gone to the back to shuffle some paperwork, but I could overhear everything.

Wife: “How old is this place?”

Coworker: “I’m not sure, but I think it’s ten years or older.”

Wife: “Well, it certainly looks like it.”

Husband: “We stayed at [Other Hotel] in [Other City And State] last night, and it was much nicer and cheaper than this place.”

My coworker was obviously trying to do her work and avoid them.

Coworker: “I’m glad you guys had a good stay with [Other Hotel].”

Wife: *Demanding* “Well, due to how crappy this place is, you had better give us a discount. Give us the rate we paid last night.”

Coworker: “I can’t do that, but I can take about $10 off.”

The couple was not happy with that answer.

Husband: “This is the crappiest hotel we’ve ever stayed in. You’d better believe I’m sending these pictures to your corporate office.”

This went on for another ten minutes before they asked to speak to a manager. There were none on duty, so my coworker came to get me. She usually can handle herself pretty well, but when she came to the back office, I could see her frustration and her eagerness to slap them both in the face. I went out to deal with the couple.

Wife: “She promised us a discount because our room isn’t good.”

Me: “What seems to be the problem with the room?”

The wife told me about her stay the previous night.

Wife: “I don’t feel clean in here. I don’t feel safe, and I’m totally uncomfortable. And I stay in hotels all the time. I’ve never had any issues. How are you gonna compensate us?”

Red flag! Meanwhile, someone who had ignored the “Sold Out” sign on the door came in, desperate for a room.

The wife now turned from complaining about the hotel to complaining about me and the other staff members.

Okay. Let’s play.

Me: “Ma’am, I’m so sorry that our hotel is not up to your standards. I do not want you to have to stay in a hotel that is going to make you uncomfortable or uneasy.”

I turned to my maintenance guy and asked him to please escort the couple and their luggage downstairs.

With that, I turned back to the wife.

Me: “Ma’am, I’m going to do something even better for you. I’m going to cancel your room with no penalty. Have a good night.”

I gestured to the desperate man who had walked in to give me a moment. My maintenance guy had come back down and whispered that the room was clean and could be resold. I booked the desperate man and gave him $10 off because why not?!

I didn’t give the unhappy couple a chance to protest anything. They walked past the front desk looking pitiful and sad. I knew that their behinds would be sitting in traffic in the cold unable to find a hotel room for A VERY LONG TIME. What were they going to say? Why would you WANT to stay in a hotel that is so crappy… unless you were intentionally looking for a free room?

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I’m full-time hourly at my job (which we all know means work weeks are forty hours and then you go home). However, my job requires me to work overtime every few weeks during busy seasons because it’s just the nature of the job.

On Monday, my general manager flipped out on my coworker asking why she hit overtime last week.

Coworker: “Well, you worked me six days straight, and on all of those days I was expected to work a full eight-hour day. If you don’t want me hitting overtime, don’t work me six days straight.”

Fast forward to Tuesday. After [Coworker] told me about the conversation she and [General Manaer] had, I was told I’d be working seven days straight — Monday through Sunday). I mentioned that I would hit overtime, so [Coworker] said I should work it and tell [General Manager] the same that she told him.

I was told, “No overtime unless it’s approved.” My happy ass said, “That’s fine! Friday will be my day off then, so don’t contact me about doing work-related things.”

Today is Friday. I took the day off. I was blown up about work things that they needed help with and were “so important,” and I enjoyed my day on the couch searching for a rental for my vacation coming up at the beginning of the summer.

Either pay me the overtime or don’t complain when things don’t get done.

I have spent twenty years at seven different major brand hotels. I am training a new clerk when a portly old bald guy in his sixties comes in and asks for the government rate. He’s dressed like a relic from the 1970s in a really tacky polyester jacket. Per normal procedure, I ask him for some government ID.

He opens his jacket to pull out his ID and at the same time very deliberately displays a huge .44 magnum hogleg in a shoulder holster. The ID is fake — a bad fake. I mean, you know that embossed label tape you used to put your name on stuff when you were a kid? It is basically a photo ID with “F.B.I.” in label tape underneath it. The hotel is far from full, so I shrug and check him in at the government rate.

After he leaves…

Trainee: “Wow, was that guy really FBI?”

Me: “I highly doubt it. I have actually spoken to FBI agents in this job before, and they never look like that. See that guy standing over there?”

I point at a young man in a dark suit who has been hanging around in the lobby for the past twenty minutes.

Me: “Now that is what FBI agents usually look like.”

At that exact moment, the same young man approached the front desk, pulled out his very real FBI credentials, and asked for information on the man who had just checked in. About an hour later, the guy was led out in handcuffs.

It was one of those rare events in life that unfolds like a movie.