My company delivers food for local restaurants. We’re a small company; we pay good salaries, social insurance, etc. Our most popular places are pizza joints, but today, this ABSOLUTE GEM of a human ordered from an Indian restaurant. He demanded free samosas and threatened to cancel his order if he didn’t get them. Naturally, the Indian place said no. He bombed me with so many emails, calling me a whore, saying that Indians are useless, calling the restaurant staff racial slurs, and so on.

After I told him they said no the first time, he ordered again an hour later with a note, and the following exchange of emails ensues.

Customer: “Hi. Need free samosas or please cancel, thanks.”

Me: “You’re still not getting free samosas, and I’ve declined your order as requested.”

Customer: “Tell those rude, ignorant little f*****s that they don’t get many customers these days, so they should be f****** grateful! If not, I won’t order again, [slur] scum! And please deliver my message exactly like that.”

Me: “Hi, [Customer]. I absolutely will not be relaying your racist messages to them. In fact, I have sent out my whole flock of messenger pigeons to gather my army of Indian and Pakistani warriors, and tonight we shall feast on samosas in your honor. Have a great evening. [My Name].”

I deleted his account and told him not to contact us again. He was the first customer I’ve ever banned. Also, we’re in Thailand, so the owner of the restaurant is Thai and all of the staff are Thai and Burmese. Now, I’m just hoping that he posts a review somewhere so I can screenshot all of his racist bulls***.

A few years ago, I tried online dating. I started talking to a guy who portrayed himself as being fairly wealthy, with pictures of sports cars, beach houses, and mountain resorts filling his profile page. I tried asking him a few times in our online chats how his family earned their apparent wealth, but I never got a straight answer from him.

After chatting through the site for a few weeks, we agreed to go out to dinner. Our server was super friendly and entertaining, and every bite of food was delicious. When the servers asked if we’d be paying together or separate, I tried to say separate, but my date interrupted and insisted that he would pay for everything. I initially protested, but I remembered all the signs of wealth from his dating profile and gave in and let him pay.

When he filled out the payment slip, I noticed that he only added about a 3% tip; he just rounded up to the next whole dollar and called it good.

Me: “Hey, you should leave more of a tip. She was awesome tonight, and our food was great.”

Guy: “Nah, that’s plenty. Come on, let’s head out.”

I ended up leaving a $20 bill on the table while my date was walking out. We went our separate ways after leaving the restaurant, and after stewing over it for a few days, I decided to message him on the dating site to tell him that I didn’t think things were going to work out between us.

Guy: “Why not? I really like talking to you, and we had fun on our date, didn’t we?”

Me: “Yeah, it was fun, but honestly, you leaving such a small tip kind of stood out in a bad way. I worked as a waitress in high school and college, and if I got that small a tip on such a great meal, I would have felt terrible.”

Guy: “Look, I’ll be honest. I was kind of short on cash that night, so I couldn’t afford a bigger tip. I wasn’t trying to stiff her or anything. I would have left more if I knew it would be that big a deal for you.”

Me: “If you were short on cash, I could have paid for my own meal. I let you pay because you insisted on it, and you have all those pictures on here showing fancy cars and vacations, so I thought you had plenty of money.”

Guy: “Those are all photoshopped. I couldn’t get any girls when I had regular pictures, so I had to do something to get dates. And I know what you’re going to say, but we had so much fun talking and everything. Just give me a chance to show you who I am, and I know we can make this work.”

Me: “Okay, now we’re definitely done. Bye, [Guy].”

I blocked him immediately and ended up deleting my account on that site a few weeks later. I started questioning every guy’s profile that I saw and couldn’t get over the idea that they might all be lying just to get a date.

I work in a fast-casual restaurant that mostly serves soups, salads, and sandwiches. Only cold sandwiches by themselves come with pickles unless they are otherwise requested.

I see a ticket order for a hot sandwich, with a note that says, “No pickles, allergy.” Okay, easy enough. I can follow the allergy protocol. But then, I realize it’s the BBQ sandwich, and our BBQ sauce is vinegar-based, so I need to know if her pickle allergy is to the cucumber or the vinegar. I call the customer up to the counter. I’m not a manager, but my general manager is listening to this conversation while working in our drive-thru.

Me: “Excuse me, ma’am. I see there’s a pickle allergy on your order?”

Customer: “Yes, your cashier said it doesn’t come with pickles, but all sandwiches have to have pickles and I’m just allergic.”

Me: “Okay, ma’am. Just so you know, only our cold sandwiches come with pickles, and this is a hot sandwich. But I’ll do my best to have nothing with pickles touch your food. I do need to ask, though, is the allergy to cucumbers or vinegar?”

Customer: “Just to the whole pickle. It doesn’t matter what part. Just don’t get anything pickle near my food and it’ll be fine.”

Me: “Ma’am, if the problem is with vinegar, then I can no longer in good conscience make you this sandwich as it is, and neither can any of the staff, as our BBQ sauce is completely vinegar-based. So is the allergy to cucumbers or vinegar?”

Customer: “Just make my sandwich with everything on it the way it’s supposed to be and don’t give me a pickle! How hard is that?! I’m not allergic to them at all; I just hate pickle juice making my toasted sandwiches all soggy!”

Me: *Twitches* “I’ll have that ready for you in a minute.”

I turned around to make her food and internally screamed.

Related:
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 19
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 18
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 17
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 16
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 15

I have very thick hair. My mum likes to joke that I can tie down ships whenever I have it in a plait.

I am working one night and I serve a lady and her family their food. I feel there’s something off about her. Her smile looks too forced and her voice drips sugar when she speaks to me.

Customer: “Thank you, and I love your hair, by the way. You have to tell me who did your extensions.”

It honestly takes me a second to process that part.

Me: “Thanks, but I don’t have any extensions in my hair. It’s just really thick.”

Customer: “No! No, it’s not. No one’s hair is that thick.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but this is my natural hair.”

I swear I see her eye twitch slightly as she continues smiling. I turn to walk away when I feel a really sharp tug on my head. I yelp in pain and turn around to see that the customer is trying to rip out my “extensions.”

Customer: “DON’T LIE TO ME, YOU LITTLE B****! NO ONE’S HAIR IS THAT THICK! DON’T YOU DARE LIE TO ME! TELL ME YOU’RE WRONG!”

This lasted about ten seconds until her husband pulled her off me and made her sit down. I hurried away, about to cry. I grabbed one of my managers and told them what had happened. I went upstairs, and from what I heard later on, my manager kicked them all out, banned the customer from the restaurant, and notified the police. I got to sit upstairs for half an hour. My head’s still a little sore, but I definitely won’t forget that encounter.

For the first time since last March, I am going to an indoor restaurant with my family. There’s a wait, and I’ve been put in charge of the buzzer that lets us know when they’re ready to seat us. After about forty minutes, the buzzer goes off, and I hand it to the hostess at the front.

Hostess: “Go right on in. If the girl seating you asks for your buzzer number, you’re number thirty.”

We go in and are greeted by a smiling waitress. I am somewhat hard of hearing in loud locations, and this place is as packed as it can get with social distancing still enforced. She asks me a short question I can’t quite make out; I only hear the sound “-ty”, so I assume she’s confirming our buzzer number.

Me: “Thirty.”

The waitress’s eyes widen, and it takes me a moment to realize she hadn’t said THIR-ty, but PAR-ty.

Me: “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. Five. Party of five.”

I’m sorry, dear waitress, you did not just get a party of thirty dropped on you, just a dolt who’s forgotten how restaurants work after a year.