Not So Hot On The Hotspot, Part 2

, , , , , , | Friendly | CREDIT: noobisle1 | September 5, 2020

Whist on annual leave during the summer holidays, we take the kids out to the countryside. It is a beautiful day and we decide to stop and have a few drinks and lunch in a pub.

While my seventeen-year-old daughter is very sociable and quite happy to sit in a pub garden enjoying the sunshine, my twelve-year-old son isn’t. He is autistic and actively avoids social situations, even with family, and hates to have his routine disrupted.

However, we have found that as long as he has access to his games through his phone or tablet he will stay relatively happy as he can zone out.

My wife, daughter, and I sit in a picnic-type pub while table my son plonks himself on a bench nearby and proceeds to play his games. We have been sat in the pub garden for an hour or so when a couple of women come into the garden with three children and sit themselves in the shade next to the pub. No biggie, as we are at the top (sunny) end of the garden.

After about twenty minutes, the mother of the three children approaches my son.

Woman: *Demanding tone* “Are you playing online? My son cannot access the pub Wi-Fi.”

The signal is poor in the garden area.

Son: *Nervously* “Yes.”

He holds up the mobile Wi-Fi device he is using.

Woman: “What’s that?”

I respond as my son is now showing signs of elevated anxiety.

Me: “It’s a mobile Wi-Fi device so he can play his games.”

Woman: “How do I connect to it? My son needs to play his games!”

Me: “I’m afraid you can’t. There is limited data on it and it is for my son’s use.”

Woman: “But my son can’t play his games.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but that’s not my problem.”

Woman: “But why should your son be able to play his games and not my son?”

Daughter: “Because we brought a mobile device and you didn’t.”

Gotta love my daughter!

Me: “As I said, it’s for my son’s use and there is limited data on it. End of.”

The woman then stomps back to her table in a huff and we think nothing more of it. 

I have to point out that even if she had asked politely, I would have still said no as the range on the thing is pretty poor which meant her son would have had to sit near my son to use it. This would have only raised my son’s anxiety levels and he would not have been happy.

About ten minutes later, she shouts across the garden in a rather jubilant tone.

Woman: “Ha! I’ve managed to connect to your device!”

Me: “I doubt that, since you haven’t got the password.”

Woman: “I don’t need it; I have put my own in.”

I’m like, “Whatever; there’s no way she connected to it.” We carry on chatting for another hour before getting up to leave. As we pass her table, she demands to know.

Woman: “Why is your service provider charging me for data?”

Me: “They’re not; you were never connected to my device.”

Woman: “Yes, they are… look!”

She thrusts her phone in my face.

Me: “I’m not with [Provider]… but I assume you are?”

I do not stay any longer and am not prepared to “discuss” the situation with her.

Daughter: “She probably selected personal hotspot option, thinking it was our device, from her own device but there was not enough data available. When she entered her password it was to purchase additional data!”

Not So Hot On The Hotspot

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No Vocation For Location, Part 25

, , , , | Right | CREDIT: Crank05 | September 5, 2020

I work at a café that sells breakfast and lunch, as well as baked goods and take-home meals. We used to have another location, but it is no longer open to the public. We do still use it for private events, and we have a chef who regularly uses the kitchen there. Also, it shut down well before the current health crisis.

 An entitled woman customer comes up to my register and speaks to me in an angry, condescending tone.

Customer: “Apparently, I have a sandwich order to pick up here but I would never order from this place!”

Uh-oh, red flag!

Me: “Okay, what’s your name for the order?”

She tells me and I check and confirm her order.

Me: “Is this order correct?”

Customer: “Yeah, it’s what I ordered, but I always go to [Other Location]!”

Me: “[Other Location] is closed now. Here’s your sandwich, and your total is—”

Customer:No, it’s never closed! I go there all the time!”

Me: “Okay, well, I beg your pardon; as far as I know, it’s been closed for a while, but perhaps I am wrong and I will look into that.”

Whatever, I don’t care to argue.

Me: “So your total today is—”

Customer: “You’re wrong! I know it’s open! It’s been open the whole time during this lockdown, with a full retail menu! I know because I’ve been going there all along!”

Me: “Okay, here’s your sandwich, and is there anything else?”

Customer: “No, and you’re wrong!”

Me: “Okay, would you like a receipt?”

Customer: “You’re wrong!”

She continues arguing and yelling at me. I am done listening to her at this point. There is a line growing behind her and she won’t stop yelling at me. I call the owner over to come and talk to her.

 She finally admits to the owner that she has been sending a coworker of hers to buy her lunch all along, but she still insists that they were getting it at the other location.

 Afterward, I found out that what happened is that she had called our store to place an order, and then went to the other location to pick it up. She saw the chef working in the kitchen through the window, knocked on the door, and demanded that he help her. He politely informed her that that other location is closed to the public and told her to go to our store. The chef also sent a text message to the owner, saying that an angry customer was coming our way. The owner showed it to me and we had a good laugh.

No Vocation For Location, Part 24

No Vocation For Location, Part 23
No Vocation For Location, Part 22
No Vocation For Location, Part 21
No Vocation For Location, Part 20

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I’m Not Your Bro And My Dog Isn’t, Either

, , , , , , | Friendly | CREDIT: Ghoul_Prince_reddit | September 2, 2020

I live in a large apartment complex and a lot of people like to mess with my dog, but this one entitled dude takes the cake.

Entitled Dude: “Hey, that’s a nice dog. What breed?”

Me: “Thanks. He’s a pit mix.”

Entitled Dude: “How old is he?”

Me: “Almost five.”

I continue walking.

Entitled Dude: “How much do you want for him?”

Me: “What? He’s not for sale. He’s my ESA.”

Entitled Dude: “What’s an ESA? And name your price.”

Me: “Emotional support animal, and no. He’s not for sale.”

Entitled Dude: “You don’t need a dog for emotional support; he’s a pit bull, anyway. That’s a fighting dog. Let me buy him; I can make lots off of him.”

Me: “Dude. He’s not for sale. Just leave us alone.”

Entitled Dude: “Come on, man. Everyone has a price; name it.”

Me: “This is the last time I’m saying this. He. Is. Not. For. Sale. Bye.”

This dude proceeds to follow me on the rest of our walk back to my apartment building. I get nervous because I notice he’s walking behind me.

Me: “Dude, stop following me. You got a problem?”

Entitled Dude: “Nah, bro. I just want your dog, bro. Come on, bro!”

Me: “I’m not your bro, and no. Seriously, f*** off. You’re not having my dog. Come near me or my dog again and you’re gonna end up in the hospital.”

He leaves.

Four hours later, I am walking my dog again and a police officer comes up to talk to me and asks if I am who I am. I say yes, and he says he was called because I threatened to stab someone. I tell him the situation, tell him who the guy was, and show him a video of the guy following me. He just apologizes for the situation and goes to find the guy. So, yeah. People suck.

A week goes by and my wife is walking my dog because I am in the shower. I get out to five missed calls and thirty text messages. This guy tried to STEAL MY DOG from my wife. He talked to her for a minute and then tried grabbing my dog by the harness and taking off, but my dog slipped out of his hand and a neighbor stopped him from hurting my wife or dog.

He tried hitting my VERY pregnant wife before the neighbor tackled him. They called the police and he got arrested for stalking, assault, and attempted kidnapping. In my state, ESAs are considered people and are taken very seriously. The nerve on this guy.

This story is part of our Best Of September 2020 roundup!

Read the next story in the Best Of September 2020 roundup!

Read the Best Of September 2020 roundup!

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It’s Karen And Chad, Not Karen And Becky

, , , , , | Related | CREDIT: fredzred | September 1, 2020

I have an entitled parent story to share with you and it gives me no pleasure to say that the Karen in this story is my own mother. I have so many stories about her entitlement when I was growing up but this one is by far the most embarrassing for me. I hope you enjoy.

This happens in 2004 when I am fourteen. We’ve just moved to another country and are living in a small town of around 12,000 people. I should mention that my mother is extremely homophobic, and although there aren’t many gay people — that I know of — around town, there is one couple who doesn’t hide their relationship.

I am nothing like my mother, so although I grew up with her pushing her homophobia onto me, I’ve never shared her views on the topic. I’m actually bisexual, but at the time, I never told her because I knew what her reaction would be.

One afternoon, we go for lunch at a small cafe that serves meals. Apart from a fish and chip shop, it is the only place my choosing beggar mother ever goes to. We sit down and order our food, and while we are waiting, a gay couple comes in and sits at a table near the back. Out of the few known gay couples in the town, these two are the most out and proud of all of them — as they should be, without ridicule — much to my mother’s displeasure. She doesn’t notice them at first, but when she does, the poop storm hits the fan.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just stares daggers at them, hoping that they will leave on their own. As unsettling as my mother is when she’s giving her infamous death glare, it has a lot less power over others than she thinks it does or should; imagine an angry and red face giving an “I’m going to murder you in your sleep” staring match.

The couple doesn’t even notice her and goes on to order and chat while they wait for their meals. There are no groping or makeout sessions going on, just two grown men sitting side by side, holding hands. No big deal, right? Wrong.

When the server comes to deliver our food, my mum takes the opportunity to say something.

Mum: “Um, excuse me. Can you ask those two to leave? Or at least sit them somewhere else. I don’t want to watch them and their disgusting behavior.”

Server: “They’re not doing anything wrong, ma’am. But there’s a table outside you can sit at if you would like to move.”

Mum: “No, I’m not moving. I’m not doing anything wrong, unlike them. Make those [slurs] move.”

Server: “Ma’am, if you are going to speak like that, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Mum: “What? What did I do?”

She is getting loud and I can tell that the couple can hear what is going on but are pretending not to hear her.

Server: “Ma’am, you have three options: stay here and be quiet, or I can put your food in takeaway containers for you and you can leave. I don’t think you’ll like option three.”

Mum: *Angry and defeated* “Fine, then. I’ll stay. But I’m never coming back here after this horrible service.”

We ate our food while I desperately wanted to leave or sink into my chair out of embarrassment. Mother Dearest was glaring at them the entire time, even though they’d turned their chairs so all we could see was the back of their heads. And much to the dismay of the staff there, Mum came back many other times after that.

A few weeks after this, I ran into the couple in town and apologized to them about my mother. I made sure they knew that I didn’t think the same way as her and they were fine about it. I lived in that town for about a year after this happened and went to live with my dad. My life was much better after I escaped her entitlement and Karen-ness, and I haven’t spoken to her in over seven years. The world is better without toxic people in it.

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The Weird Boss To End All Weird Bosses

, , , , , , | Working | CREDIT: awekeinny94 | September 1, 2020

I was twenty-one when I had my first job in America. I’m Arabic, and my boss was Asian-American. I hadn’t seen The Office at the time, but I noted the absurdity of my boss and now I’d definitely compare him to Michael Scott.

He would get free potato chips from a guy in a company truck and would stuff his cheeks in the middle of telling me what to do. He always offered some.

He fired a coworker for screaming some racist stuff at me by just… yanking her out the door.

He called another coworker a cub or a baby lion because she was tiny with wild unruly hair, and he would do a mini-roar whenever she was about to report for her shift or when I mentioned her name.

Sometimes, he ran around the place with a wig on his head imitating me.

He occasionally brought his daughter to work and gave her piggyback rides in the office, and he would ask me to take videos.

He would talk to black people in a “black” way. He would say, “Wassup, shorty?” to the ladies and ask people, “What’s poppin’?” He called the guys Tyrone and would say, “Shieeeeeet,” in his most convincing “black” voice. It was actually pretty accurate.

He would ask me to teach him random Arabic words so he could yell them sporadically in the middle of the day. He always got the accent right.

He had an open-door policy and would do shots in his office.

He started a small chicken farm in the back of the building and would give out whole chickens to the staff. He had a coworker and me try to slaughter one on one occasion. I couldn’t do it and nicked it just a little bit and shrieked, spraying all three of us with blood.

He eventually received a visit from some people from the city who came to tell him he couldn’t keep chickens in back. He was rounding the main floor with a small basket of freshly laid eggs just as they were asking for him.

He did the chicken farm again the next summer, this time with a small garden growing squash, cucumber, corn, etc. to disguise the chicken coop, and he happily gave out vegetables along with chicken. He was extremely proud of taking home a tray of his own eggs to his children and ate two fresh eggs every morning.

He brought a wok to work to deep fry sausages in. Sometimes, he made lunch in the back. The entire floor would smell like food and he would round us all — three of us — to his office to eat.

He would regularly fall asleep under his desk. The snoring was so loud you could hear it in the front. Once, a client asked what that noise was. I said it was the plumbing. He usually woke up after his naps looking puffy but acting as if nothing had happened, and he would always immediately go next door for a Cherry Coke.

He would constantly eat hard candy to stay awake during the day.

He ate too many edibles at a party I hosted once and passed out.

He told me to hire someone, but when he saw the girl, he did a comical thing with his face, eyebrows raised and eyes big — think Ken Jeong — because she was having trouble fitting into her chair. She was a bigger girl. He took away chairs the next day because they “encouraged us not to concentrate on the client.” The girl was a no-call-no-show the following week.

He had a love-hate relationship with a groundhog not long into his farming venture. He never caught the guy.

He once threw a cricket at me from the very opposite end of the office floor. He and another coworker kept such straight faces as I finally convinced myself the cricket flung itself at me. I watched the cameras at the end of the day only to see them do it. I’m still traumatized.

He had a hard time growing a beard and would ask me what I thought of the progress of his “soup taster.”

He fell into a poison ivy bush once and didn’t know right away. He ran around screaming until we sat him in his office, semi-undressed, and put medicine on his wounds. He was so miserable for days; it was hard to watch.

He dove headfirst into the wall when asleep once and needed to go to the doctor and get three stitches on his busted lip. He came to work that morning with a huge lip and kept having to explain himself all day. We kept joking that his wife was beating him up. He still insisted on snacking as usual. At one point, he sipped ketchup with a straw.

He has an office to this day full of the weirdest collection of things: a few feathers from favorite chickens of his that he has since consumed, all named and dated, a rabbit paw someone gave him, a goat’s hoof, a framed quote I told him that was told to me by a very high homeless person… I don’t remember the rest. It’s just an odd place to go into.

He was the nicest boss I’ve ever had — well-meaning, if a little racially insensitive, all while being fascinated by other people’s cultures. He would buy different cuisines for us to try each week. He gave bonuses because he knew the job didn’t pay much, so that was always a nice surprise. He paid my former coworker when she had to stay home all through her husband’s bout with the recent health crisis.

He loves llamas, alpacas, and baby goats, and when I showed him how to use Reddit, he would almost always send me an alpaca photo. I still get a photo now and then.

Three years after I left the job, he still sends me photos of his illegal farm and recently asked me to post his cucumbers on Reddit.

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