This story reminded me of when I was working on an educational software product circa 2008 that was a children’s typing tutor. The company owner decided we needed an accompanying game for very small children to teach mouse skills. I concocted something a bit like whack-a-mole but involving mice appearing in the holes of a giant Swiss cheese wheel. The owner decided that he was going to write the educational copy to explain the game.

This might sound reasonable, but the better choices were his own three daughters who were all elementary school teachers. He made the unfortunate choice of repeating the phrase “cut the cheese” in the game instructions.

At a company meeting including his daughters and me, he read the document he had worked so hard on. It was met by immature giggles from both his daughters and me. One finally said:

Daughter: “Dad, you can’t just use the phrase ‘cut the cheese’ with kids.”

He naively asked why not. After some explanation from his daughters, the job fell to me to write the script.

I guess the silliest part about the whole thing is that the owner was my age. I’m not sure how he grew up and missed “cutting the cheese”.

Related:
Sometimes Learning Slang Really Stinks

About fifteen years ago, I was working in a call center for a Very Big Cell Phone Company. This VBCC had call centers all over the USA. I happened to be working in one in the Midwest on the swing shift.

It was near the end of my shift one night, so almost 1:00 am, and things were winding down. My last call beeped through, but the customer’s account didn’t automatically pop up on the computer screen. This meant one of two things: either this wasn’t an actual customer (yet), or it was a customer with a lost or busted phone. I was hoping for the first but, sadly, it was the second.

So, I girded my loins, steeled myself, and prepared to do what I could to help. I got her cell number so I could pull up her account, and I saw that she had wisely purchased the replacement insurance. I used my best, Compassionate Customer Service Voice™ and assured her that she would get a replacement phone in five to seven business days.

She was not happy about this, and I get it. But there was nothing else I could do.

Customer: “I want my phone now!”

Me: “I understand. And I empathize, but the replacement phones are sent through the mail. It takes five to seven business days for it to arrive. I’m sorry.”

Customer: “No! You will give me my new phone now! I’ll pick it up at the store!”

Me: “Ma’am? You’re in New York. It’s 2:00 am there. There isn’t a store open, and even if there—”

Customer: “Then wake someone up, and make them open the store for me! I need this phone, now!”

This conversation went round and round in circles for about five minutes. It had been a long day, it was the end of my shift, and at that point, my friends were waiting for me so we could all go to a local twenty-four-hour breakfast place and blow off some steam. (It’s Tulsa, Oklahoma; there wasn’t anything else open at that time of night.)

I kept trying to explain to her the simple fact that I couldn’t instantaneously get her the replacement phone, and she kept interrupting me, demanding she get it RIGHT NOW!

I was starting to get pissed, and I was about to sacrifice my job if I heard the word “NOW” one more time.

Customer: “WHY WON’T YOU GIVE ME MY PHONE NOW?!”

And there it was…

I took a deep breath, found my center, and then, with a firm but calm tone to my voice that belied the fury boiling inside of me, I said:

Me: “Ma’am, I sincerely apologize, but all of our transporters have been infected with a computer virus. You don’t want me to beam you a mutated phone that would bite off your ear and then embed itself into your brain, now, would you? No, you do not. So, you’ll just have to wait patiently while we use twenty-first-century technology to get your replacement phone to you in five to seven business days. I am ending this call, now. Thank you, and good night.” *Click*

I logged off, grabbed my coat, and stood up, ready to finally leave…

And there was my supervisor, standing in her cubicle, giving me the stink-eye. She gestured for me to come to her, and like a dog that knew it had done a Bad Thing, I slunk across the call center.

Supervisor: “You do understand that I’m going to have to write you up for that, right?”

I nodded.

She looked around, and no one but my friends were looking in our direction. Then, she reached down and tapped a key on her keyboard. Then, she tapped a second one. Then a third. Then, she looked up at me, and a smile twitched on her lips.

Supervisor: “We’re just going to pretend this never happened, okay?”

Me: “Ma’am?!”

Supervisor: “Yeah, you lasted longer than I would have.” *Chuckles* “And I have to admit, that was a pretty creative comeback.” *Becomes stern again* “But never, ever do that again.”

Me: “Yes, ma’am. No problem!”

That was not the first time — nor would it be the last time — that my smart mouth overruled my idiot brain when dealing with an Entitled Jerk. I’m honestly surprised I’ve never been fired for it. I’m retired now, so I beat the odds.

I should’ve used my luck on the lottery, instead.

My neighborhood grocery store is part of a chain. In any of the stores, you sometimes find something out of place that someone changed their mind about — often something like a package of cookies left among the bread.

The one nearest me has this to insane levels: cooked deli items in with the bread, ice cream with the flour, and on my most recent visit, a package of batteries in the fridge unit with single sodas. I keep hoping to catch one of these nitwits doing this, and I came close with the fridge.

Just as I was noticing the batteries, a twenty-something woman walked past me and set a big convenience store soda cup on top. I had seen her crossing back and forth near the checkout without adding anything to the collection of things in her other arm.

As I watched her retreat in the other direction, I contemplated saying something, but I wasn’t sure what. Then, I saw her reverse and come back my way again. As she was just about to pass, I said:

Me: “Excuse me! I think you forgot your drink.”

She gave me a blank look, grabbed the drink without a word, and then kept walking. Then, she suddenly turned into one of the cashier aisles that was, momentarily, without staff. She was there boldly shoplifting. Apparently, she had it down to an art.

Thanks, “lady,” for being one of the reasons we pay more for our things.

When I taught computer programming years ago, I had an assignment involving calculating interest on a bank loan. A student came to complain about the assignment.

Student: “This assignment wasn’t fair. It was about loans and interest. I’m only nineteen. How should I know about loans and interest?”

I wasn’t at all short of things to say to him. At eighteen, people can legally take out loans, get credit cards, etc. I suppose I could have roasted him to his face, but that’s not my style. But to some extent, I began to see how the twenty-first century has infantilized adults.

Me: “You’re over eighteen. This is something you should know. I’m not sure what else to tell you.”

I wish this story had a happier ending, but Not Always Right does have a series of “This Is Why We’re In A Recession” stories, and it’s at part 113 as of this submission.

Related:
This Is Why We’re In A Recession, Part 114
This Is Why We’re In A Recession, Part 113
This Is Why We’re In A Recession, Part 112
This Is Why We’re In A Recession, Part 111
This Is Why We’re In A Recession, Part 110

I’ve been a professional computer programmer since 1978. I did programs for the first IBM PCs when they came out.

Around 1986, my wife got a job as a Gal Friday for a chiropractor. He was quite proud of his office computer for managing his practice. Since he knew I was a computer professional, he asked for my help with something.

When I sat at the computer to help, I noticed that there was a numbered menu on the screen and a standard DOS prompt to enter a command. I realized immediately that his “fantastic” office management program was just a collection of hastily-written little batch files, each of which would do its thing and then clear the screen and show a new list of numbered commands to use.

I typed “DIR” to see what was on his computer first. The doctor suddenly freaked out.

Doctor: “What did you do?! It’s all messed up now! You’d better get that back to normal.”

I patiently ran the initial batch file and the screen cleared up.

Doctor: *Suddenly quiet* “Oh.”

Me: “Just let me do my job, okay?”