Keeping Children In Order Is A Monstrous Feet

| Woodstock, GA, USA | Right | September 13, 2016

(I am working at the deli counter with a large glass case displaying all of our products which can be cut to order. A customer places his order and, as I get to work on it, his maybe five-year-old daughter leans up against my freshly cleaned display case with hands and face against it. Nothing new to me, but perhaps I made a face about it.)

Father: *with a smile* “Now, now, don’t lean up against the glass or the nice man there is going to take you out back and chop your feet off!”

Daughter: *staring up at me then her father* “No, he won’t!”

Father: “He just might!”

Talking Udder Nonsense

| UK | Right | September 6, 2016

(A frosty customer comes in, and asks for the dairy-free brochure. I oblige and talk her through some of our more popular dairy-free dishes, sorted by meat. It’s late in the day and I’m not feeling my best; needless to say, I let myself slip a bit.)

Me: “This [beef dish] here is dairy free.”

Customer: “How can it be?”

Me: “Because it doesn’t contain any dairy products.”

Customer: “But beef is cows and cows are dairy, so how can you possibly claim that?!”

Me: “Well, as it’s beef, it is indeed cows, but it doesn’t have any milk products.”

Customer: “But all cows are dairy!”

Me: *accidentally saying with a sarcastic tone* “Only the female ones, madam.”

(At this point I think that the lady is going to have a go at me; her face is creased and her brows are furrowed. I realise instantly that I’ve said something without thinking. Suddenly her face brightens.)

Customer: “Oh, that’s okay, then; I just didn’t want any dairy.”

(She grabbed the meal and rushed to the till. Phew! I escaped that one!)

Now Go And Say You’re Sorry, You’re So So Sorry

| Ashford, England, UK | Related | September 6, 2016

(I’m at work when I overhear the following:)

Mother: *to young child of about six* “I don’t care if that lady does look like a Slitheen [a rather ugly alien from Doctor Who], you don’t go around telling people that!”

Dying To Get The Weekend Off

| NJ, USA | Working | August 31, 2016

(I am 16 and work as a cashier. My nana happened to pass away unexpectedly, so in the middle of the week I need to ask for the weekend off for the wake and funeral.)

Me: “[Assistant Manager], I know it’s short notice but there’s been a family emergency and I won’t be able to come in this weekend. I’m sorry.”

Assistant Manager: *brusquely* “This schedule isn’t built around YOUR convenience, [My Name]. There are plenty of other employees who would love to have the weekend off, too. What could POSSIBLY be SO important that you can’t come in when you’re supposed to, and you couldn’t give me proper notice?”

(At this point I haven’t slept much, I’ve been crying a lot, my usual social interaction filter is pretty much turned off, and I’m not in the mood to be jerked around.)

Me: *coldly* “I’m sorry. My ninety-three-year-old grandmother didn’t tell us she was going to DIE yesterday and we would need to attend her wake and funeral this weekend. My apologies; she’s usually more considerate about these things.”

Assistant Manager: *eyes wide, face turning grey* “[My Name], I am SO—”

Me: “Just give me my register assignment and shut up.”

(He gives me my register assignment and assures me I’ll have the weekend off. I take my till and set up at my register, focusing all my energy on pretending to be pleasant for customers. The store manager comes over, having heard part of my conversation with [Assistant Manager].)

Store Manager: *concerned* “[My Name], what’s going on? What were you talking about with [Assistant Manager]?”

Me: “I told him there’s been a family emergency and I won’t be able to come in this weekend. He got all nasty about the schedule not being for my convenience and demanded to know why I needed the weekend off, so I told him my nana just died yesterday and this weekend is the wake and funeral.”

Store Manager: *shocked* “[My Name], you take all the time you need. Take Monday off too if you want. I’ll speak with [Assistant Manager].”

Me: “Thanks, [Store Manager].”

(She walked back to the managers’ station and from a good 30 feet or so away I could hear her yelling, “What the bleeding hell is wrong with you?!” at Assistant Manager. He couldn’t look me in the eye for a week after that.)

Here We Pokémon Go Again, Part 5

| London, England, UK | Working | August 30, 2016

(I am working the customer service desk at a large supermarket. I have noticed a sudden large influx of ‘customers’ who seem to be walking around the store frantically staring at their phones.)

Manager: “Have you noticed them?”

Me: “I sure have.”

Manager: What’s going on?”

Me: “I think I have an idea. Do I have permission to use my phone?”

Manager: “Sure.”

(I open an app on my phone, and confirm my suspicions.)

Me: “There are Pokémon in here.”

Manager: “Poké-what?!”

Me: “Pokémon. Little creatures that people collect.”

Manager: “Creatures? Like… rats? Do we need pest control?!”

Me: “Uh…”

 

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