Now I Want One Of Those

, , , | | Right | May 24, 2018

(I am sixteen years old, and I just moved from New York to South Carolina. I still have a heavy New York accent, and I’m a fast talker. I work in a restaurant with coupons for free souvenirs: a cup, a lighter or a koozie.)

Customer: *with heavy southern accent* “This coupon here says I get a free gift. What’s my free gift?”

Me: “A cup, a lighter, or a koozie.”

Customer: “What’s a cupalighter?”

Me: “No, a cup, a lighter, or a koozie.” *trying to speak slower*

Customer: “I know what you said; what’s a cupalighter?”

Me: “Sigh. A cup. OR a lighter. Or a koozie.”

Customer: “Oh! You ain’t from around here are you?”

Me: “No.”

Not Feeling That New Menu Item

, , , , , | | Right | May 21, 2018

(I am at the first window of a popular fast food restaurant, taking orders for people who are in the drive-thru and taking money from those who have already ordered. As soon as a car comes to the speaker, a chime from our headset will let us know. As soon as she pulls up to the speaker, before the chime could finish:)

Customer: “Hello! Hello! HEEELLLLLOOOO! I am ready to place my order, please!”

(She continues to scream for another ten seconds, and then she finally quiets down. I am actually taking money from the customer who is currently at the window. They are speaking to me, as well. She finally stops.)

Me: “Hi, thanks for holding. May I take your order?”

Customer: *very loudly* “Let me get a ‘Feel It’!”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, a what?”

Customer: *louder* “A ‘FEEL IT’!”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you are referring to.”

Customer: “A ‘Feel It’! A ‘Feel It’! A ‘FEEL IT’!”

(We get new items quite often, and I think I might have missed a new item, so I’m scrambling to find the item on the register.)

Customer: “A ‘Feel It,’ ma’am, a ‘FEEL IT’! The number twelve! The ‘FEEL IT’ FISH!”

Me: *looks at number twelve* “Ma’am, do you mean the filet fish?”

Branching Into Ridiculousness

, , , , | Working | May 13, 2018

(I’m working on a programming project with my uncle, and we’re using a program which neither of us is very familiar with. The details of how the program works aren’t important, but it involves creating and editing “branches” with different versions of a project.)

Uncle: “Were you able to make that new branch I asked you about?”

Me: “No, I got an error message saying I didn’t have permission. I think you need to invite me to join.”

Uncle: “But then you’d be able to change my branches, too, and I don’t want you to do that. Do you know how to make it so you can only edit certain branches?”

Me: “No, but I’ll research permissions and see what I find out.”

(The next day, he calls back and I walk him through protecting a branch so only he can edit it.)

Me: *after hanging up, to my stepdad* “Did he just delegate, to me, the job of protecting his branches from me?

The Quality Of The Front Will Send Them To The Back

, , , , , | Working | May 4, 2018

(I am 19 and have bought a truck that is about ten years old. It looks bad on the outside, but I know it is sound mechanically. I take my mother with me to pick it up. On the way home, she insists on taking it to a national chain oil change store where she will pay to have it done, even though I already know my way around cars, and have done major engine work on previous vehicles I have owned. I think she just doesn’t want to take the chance I will spill oil on her new driveway. While in the waiting room, the mechanic comes up to us.)

Mechanic: “Okay, I am very glad you brought this in. It is in bad shape. It is not safe to drive.”

(My mother is visibly upset.)

Me: “Excuse me. What are you talking about? It is fine mechanically.”

Mechanic: “Listen, son. I know my business.” *he turns to my mother* “This thing is a death trap. I am surprised it even got here without crashing. The front end is totally shot. Your steering—”

Me: “Hold on. I do know quite a bit about cars. I have been working on them with my father since I was old enough to hold a wrench, and there is nothing wrong with the front end. It drives just fine.”

Mechanic: *ignores me and continues talking to my mother* “Listen. If you want to endanger your son’s life, you go right ahead and listen to him. I can give you a great deal and redo the front end for around $700. Be a mother and protect your son.”

(At this point, I about lose it. My mother is about to do it when I tell her they are lying. I tell the mechanic the car is in my name and I refuse to allow them to do any work on it. We pay for the oil change and leave. My mother is terribly upset, so I drive out of my way to a mechanic’s shop that is owned by a man I know my mother would trust. I do not tell him about what we were told, but ask him to do a quick check on the lift.)

Friend: “Oh, man. You got a good deal on this. She looks great underneath the hood.”

Me: “How about the front end?”

Friend: “Oh, it looks great. I can tell it was rebuilt less than three or four months ago. You really did good with this.”

(The other business closed within a year as their reputation quickly spread through the town for being dishonest and continually — accidentally, of course — leaving the oil caps off the engines after oil changes. You would think a national chain would be smarter and more careful in who they hire; guess not.)

I’m All Out Of Pot-Lucks To Give

, , , , | Right | May 4, 2018

(Black Friday at [Bookstore] is never very crazy, because we don’t usually do special deals or anything. All the employees bring food for a potluck dinner on Black Friday so that we don’t have to brave the crazy streets to get lunch. Out of the ten years I have worked there, they have only done an early bird special one year. The first 100 sales of a particular ereader are to be heavily discounted. We open at seven am and I am scheduled to come in at six to help open the store. When I get there at 5:50, there is already a line of about 30 people standing outside and waiting so they can get their cheap ereader. I walk up to the front door, wearing my name tag and carrying a crockpot full of food for our potluck. When I knock on the locked door for someone to let me in, a customer steps out of line and loudly clears her throat.)

Customer: “Um, excuse me. They aren’t open yet, and the line is back there.” *points to the back of the line of people*

Me: “Yes, obviously I need to get in the back of the line, because I just wear this name tag because it’s pretty. And this crockpot full of food? It’s a snack for later on.”

Customer’s Husband: “Um, honey? I think she works here..”

Customer: *blinks* “Well, there’s no need to be rude about it. I would like to speak to your manager, young lady. Your smart a** will be fired by the time I’m done with you.”

(My manager has unlocked the door to let me in and has heard the majority of the conversation.)

Manager: “I’m her manager, ma’am, and I’m sorry, but there is absolutely nothing I can do about what an employee says when they are off the clock.”

(She then let me in and closed the door in the customer’s stunned and offended face. Guess who ended up ringing the same customer up for her purchase later that morning? I was very pleased to tell her that she had misunderstood the ereader sale. It was the first 100 ereaders purchased that were discounted, and that the first 100 people in the store were not guaranteed a discounted ereader. I had sold the 100th ereader to the person in front of her in line.)

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