One Flu Over The Breakfast Bar

, , , , , | Working | March 28, 2019

(My coworker is a very nice guy, but he sometimes puts his foot in his mouth. Today he’s working the register and making small talk with the customers while I prepare the orders. He’s just handed off the cups for drinks to me when the customer asks how he’s doing today.)

Coworker: “Well, I’m doing all right, but I’m just getting over the flu.”

(The customer gets a deer-in-the-headlights look and freezes.)

Me: “And I’ll be the one making your food today.”

I Think I’d Just Hold It

, , , , | Working | March 26, 2019

A few years back my dad and I stopped at a popular burger chain so he could grab some lunch. I’ve always liked their competitor’s food better, so I excused myself to use the restroom while he ordered.  

The ladies’ room was fully decorated in twenty-year-old wallpaper and faded tiles, complete with grime and dust bunnies. But I decided any port in a storm, and I had just finished washing my hands when I noticed I wasn’t alone. A very large, cockroach-type creature was trying to crawl up a tile lining the gap between the walls and the flooring. I could only watch, horrified, as the dark brown insect suddenly shuddered, fell to the floor, and flipped over on its back. It didn’t move at all, and by this point, I was fairly certain it was dead. This wouldn’t have been as terrifying if the restroom had had any sort of insect poison hidden behind the toilet or the trash can… but nope, nothing was visible.  

So, I hastily dried off my hands and scurried out to the table where my father was happily eating his meal. I didn’t want to put off his food, so I waited until we’d left to explain why I’d answered, “NO!” so quickly when he’d asked if I wanted anything.

The last time we went past that particular location, the restaurant was closed. But I’m still haunted by the question of what killed that massive bug. Was it a very well-hidden poison? Or was it the cooking?

How To Make Smelling Nice Gross

, , , , , , | Related | March 24, 2019

I am standing in a long line for a roller coaster on a hot day. A lady takes an object out of her purse and passes it to her teenage son, who uses it, passes it on to two teenage daughters, and then to the husband, who each use it in succession. Finally, it goes back to the wife and back into her purse.

It’s a deodorant stick.

With Those Dirty Hands, You’re Only F****** Yourself

, , , , | Right | March 20, 2019

(I bag groceries at a local supermarket. I am taking a bathroom break when I notice a customer walk in, use the urinal, and head straight for the door.)

Me: “Uh, sir, please wash your hands.”

Customer: *looks at me like I’m a moron* “F*** you!”

Me: “Sir, we touch that door handle and then we touch people’s food.”

Customer: *apparently only knows two words* “F*** you!” *walks out the door without washing his hands*

(Sadly, this a common occurrence. We work with food, people; show some decency!)

What A Total Blood Bowl

, , , , | Right | March 12, 2019

(I have just sold a large “fishbowl” vase to a customer, who declined to have it wrapped since it would only fit in one of our largest bags. I check out another customer after she leaves, and right after I finish, she comes back in.)

Customer: “Hi. Um, this just broke as I was bringing it to my car. I promise I didn’t drop it! There was a crack in the side, and I pushed on it and…”

(She holds up the vase, which does indeed seem to have simply cracked in place and fallen to pieces. No evidence of being dropped.)

Customer: “Can I just get a replacement with no cracks?”

(We will pretty much never turn down requests like this, so one of the other cashiers goes to get one. I notice a small smudge on the vase. Looking closer, I realize it’s blood!)

Me: “Ma’am, are you bleeding? Did you get cut on the vase?”

Customer: “Oh, a little; it’s fine.”

Me: “We have bandaids back here. I can get one—“

Customer: “Oh, that’s not necessary; it’s not bad.”

(She says this, but now that I’m aware of the problem I notice that she is bleeding quite profusely onto the counter. I offer several more times to give her a bandaid and begin rummaging around in the cabinet for one, while she continues to insist she doesn’t need one. The other cashier comes back with the replacement, and she takes it and leaves with an airy, “Thank you!”)

Me: “Don’t pick up that vase yet; she bled on it.”

Coworker: “WHAT?”

(She had bled on the counter, which dripped down the front of it onto the floor… and of course all over the broken vase, which we threw out carefully. We had just gotten the old beige counters replaced with new white ones, as well!)

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