I’m seventeen, and I recently got a job bussing tables at a small mom-and-pop restaurant near my house. The job is awesome. I get paid amazingly, and everyone there treats me with dignity and respect. When I applied, I was told my responsibilities included bussing tables, bringing guests drinks, and checking that the bathrooms were clean once or twice a shift. This includes cleaning the mirror, making sure toilet paper is stocked, checking soap levels, cleaning wet floors, etc.

Three days ago, a mother and father with two boys, one aged around five and the other ten, came in to eat. They were very respectful and polite to the waitstaff and didn’t seem to be a problem at all.

Halfway through their visit, my manager requested I check the bathrooms, and as I entered, I saw the ten-year-old straight-up s***ting in the urinal. To be honest, I was flabbergasted and had no idea what to do at the moment. I just kind of made eye contact with him, turned around, and walked right out. I went directly to my manager in the kitchen and told him what I had seen.

My manager was less than amused and told me to go clean it. I protested that I didn’t want to.

Manager: “It’s your responsibility to clean.”

And he handed me some cleaning supplies. As I walked back to the dining area, I saw the little s***ter walking back to his family. He made direct eye contact with me and had a sly grin on his face. This was it for me.

I was like, “F*** this. I’m not cleaning this mess. I’m telling this kid’s parents what he did.”

I started walking to his family’s table, and his grin turned to absolute mortification. I reached his mom.

Me: “Your son just pooped in the urinal, and my manager is telling me to go clean it. Would it be possible for him to do it himself?”

The kid literally burst into tears, but his mother had none of it.

His parents were outright humiliated, and their faces turned bright red. His mother yanked him up by the arm, and I led her to the bathroom, where she made him clean the s*** on his own. She apologized profoundly, and they left a huge tip on their bill.

I heard that she called the restaurant later to apologize again. A different manager picked up the phone and then called me, absolutely livid that I would make a guest clean the urinal. She told the boss, and today, I got a message telling me to not bother coming back.

I responded:

Me: “Okay. I’ll be sure to visit soon and take a nice big s*** in the urinal. Have fun cleaning it up! [Smiley Face]”

No matter how tempting, I’m obviously not going to do that. I just thought it would be a funny retaliation.

This was several years ago, back when I was around eight and very shy. I was at a local Mexican restaurant when I decided to fill my drink. I had gotten a water cup since I had a drink in the car. As I filled my drink — the station was right next to the ordering counter — all of a sudden, one of the workers yelled out to me loudly.

Worker: “Hey! You ordered a water cup.”

I panicked, having been lost in thought, still with my hand on the seltzer bar.

Me: “Uh… Yes.“

Worker: “No soda in the water cups!“

The seltzer bar was built into the Sprite compartment on the machine. I have no clue if these are still used, as where I live, I only really see the Coke Freestyle machines.

I completely forget the word for seltzer. In a moment of clarity, I realized the lever was labeled, so I blurted out what I read.

Me: “I know! I’m just getting soda!“

The worker then gave me a glare and repeated, “Water next!”

I’ve never lived this moment down. I wish I had shaken myself out of it and just told him what I had meant, but child me just ran back to my parents’ table and refused to tell them what had just happened. To the guy behind the counter, I swear I only got seltzer!

It took me six years to go back there, and I was very careful to get a soda cup!

I’m a waitress at a restaurant in a fancy golf club in the early nineties. The clientele is mostly older rich men who come in together and can act pretty sleazy. Most of us younger female waitresses have to put up with quite a lot from these guys, mainly because they’re high-paying members of a fancy club and management will usually side with them instead of us. Also, tips are pretty good, and I know that’s no excuse, but this was over thirty years ago and it seems like a different time.

We are hired young to keep costs down, and we are told to always be pleasant and make small talk. I see now that in the minds of some Neanderthals, this is mistaken for “flirting” or “being okay with it”, but there are ways for us to use this to our advantage.

One of our new teenage waitresses comes up to me looking pretty upset.

Waitress: “That group of… gentlemen… over there are saying some super creepy stuff!”

I look over and recognize their ringleader almost immediately. He’s one of our worst.

Me: “I know them. I’ll take over their table if you take over table seven for me, okay?”

I go over to the table and introduce myself as their waitress for the afternoon.

Ringleader: “Ah, much better! You look like you can handle the desires of a real man!”

Me: *Fake laughing* “I do my best, sir! Can I get a tab started for y’all? You look like a group of men who can handle a real man’s lunch, and we have some amazing bourbon at the bar.”

Ringleader: “That’s what I am talking about! Take my card, sweetheart.”

Me: *Looking at his card* “Oh, wow, you’re a Horace! That’s my dad’s name!”

It’s not, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Ringleader: *Grimacing* “Uh… yeah.”

I take their drink orders and bring them back to them. I am making small talk.

Me: “Do you have any children, Mr. [Ringleader]?”

Ringleader: “Uh… yeah.”

Me: “You should bring them to the club some time!”

Ringleader: “Girls aren’t interested in golf! Besides, they’re too busy!”

Me: “With work?”

Ringleader: “How old do you think I am?! They’re in high school!”

Me: “Oh, awesome, me, too!”

To be honest, I had just graduated, but they didn’t need to know that. As soon as this sleazy a**hole realized that I was the same age as at least one of his daughters and our dads had the same name, he was suddenly well-behaved, and so were his friends.

And the tip was even bigger than usual!

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I’m an American, chatting with my Canadian friend.

Me: “So, 100 billion yen would be… what, 750-ish million freedom bills?”

Friend: “Your calculator is off. That’s one billion in Canadian dollars.”

Me: “I said freedom bills, not maple leaves.”

I work at a fine-dining steak restaurant. One evening, I get to serve Mr. Charcoal — not his real name, obviously, but read on.

Customer: *Snapping his fingers as I walk past* “Excuuuuuuse me! I asked for my steak well done, and this is practically bleeding!”

The steak is very much well done, but hey, the customer is always right and all that crap. I bring the steak back and it’s fired up to what our chef calls “very well done.” I bring it back out, and Mr. Charcoal stabs it with his fork.

Customer: *Snapping his fingers even though I am standing right there* “Excuuuuuuse me! Is this some kind of sick joke? This is medium-rare at best! Do I need to speak to a manager?”

Apologies and whatnot. I bring the steak back, and this time it’s fired up to the point where it’s on the verge of being burnt. I bring it back out. No dice.

Customer: “That’s it! Get me your manager now!”

The manager is called and immediately recognizes Mr. Charcoal. He’s a problem customer, apparently.

Manager: “Mr. Charcoal, what is your problem this evening?“

Customer: “Your chef is mocking me! I asked for a well-done steak, and I get this! What is this?!”

Manager: “That looks like a piece of charcoal to me.”

Customer: “This is an insult! I insist you fire your chef!

Manager: “No, sir, I will not be firing my chef.”

Customer: “Why not?!”

Manager: “Because that man has been making me quality steaks for years, and the only thing you have been making me for years is questioning why, oh, why, out of the billions of sperm that made it, it had to be you.”

The customer made a complaint. My manager told the owner what happened. The owner said that, since we were a steak restaurant and the customer wanted something three levels past the point where it stopped being a steak and became something more like jerky, there was nothing he could do.

I love both of them.

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