Blackout: The Movie

, , , , | Right | August 1, 2018

(I work as a library page at a few different libraries around the county. The power is out throughout the city; fortunately, we are able to remain open as some of the staff have been trained to do “paper checkouts” for the books. Unfortunately, we can’t check out DVDs, as they are kept in an electronic sorting tower. We put signs up everywhere explaining this, but some patrons refuse to comprehend the problem. One man fills his basket up with DVD cases — you scan the case and the machine spits out the discs — then spends ten minutes staring at the machine.)

Me: “I’m sorry, but we can’t check out DVDs because the power is out and the machine isn’t working.”

Patron: “Can’t you just turn it back on?”

Me: “Sorry, no. The power is out.”

Patron: “Just turn on the machine and get my DVDs.”

Me: “I can’t do that, sir. The power is–“

Patron: “This is ridiculous! You should be able to get my movies! You people are way too dependent on technology these days. These things wouldn’t happen if you just had books like the old libraries did!”

Me: “Well, fortunately, we can check out books for you. The people at the front desk would be happy to help–“

Patron: “Oh, so, you have books, but no movies?”

Me: “Well, our staff is trained to check out books using a paper system. Unfortunately, the movies can’t be checked out, because they are stored in the machine, which isn’t working because the power is out.”

Patron: “Then turn it back on!”

Me: “The power is out for the whole town, sir. I’m sorry, but I can’t just turn it on.”

Patron: “You don’t have to get smart with me! I think I should talk to your supervisor.”

Me: “All right, but I’m sure she’ll tell you the same thing.”

(I get her. She reiterates what I’ve just told him.)

Patron: *angrily throwing down his basket of DVD cases* “Ridiculous! I’ll take my business somewhere else. I’m never coming back here again.” *storms out*

(I don’t think he understood that he’d have a tough time finding FREE movies anywhere else. Oh, well. His taxes still pay to keep the library in business, anyway.)

Catching Fire

, , , | Right | July 31, 2018

(I have recently been promoted to manager at a popular theater chain. It’s the opening weekend of “The Hunger Games: Catching Fire,” and we’ve been slammed all day. I’m folding kid’s meal trays at the concessions counter with only ten minutes left of my shift when I’m approached by a guest.)

Me: “Hey, did you need some help?”

Guest: *very stern* “Theater one is stiflingly hot!”

(Our auditoriums’ heat and AC units are set on a timer that we adjust. Most of the time, the last shows of the night are less occupied, so we pump the heat to make up for the lack of body heat. This showing is sold out and we have forgotten to adjust the heat, which is our fault.)

Me: “Oh, I’m sor—”

Guest: *pointing finger in my face* “WHY DIDN’T YOU DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT?!”

Me: “I’m really sorry about that; that’s an oversight on our part. Just out of curiosity, did you see the usher enter the theater at any point?”

Guest: “Yeah.”

Me: “If anything’s ever disrupting the film in any way, feel free to flag him down and let him know. That way, you don’t have to miss the feature t—”


(As soon as he says that, I no longer have any sympathy for him.)

Me: “Again, I’m really sorry about that. I’ll adjust the heat right now.”

Guest: “Oh, never mind. The movie’s already over!” *walks away*

(Five minutes later, I’m approached by two other guests.)

Other Guests: “Excuse me, sir. The heat in theater one was really high.”

Me: “I apolo—”

Guest: *walks up from behind the guests, splits them aside, and points a finger at me* “I TOLD HIM ABOUT IT AND HE SAID HE COULDN’T DO ANYTHING!”

Me: *patience all but gone* “Do you want a readmission ticket? Is that what you want?!”

Guest: “Well, yes! I think I deserve one! And so do these people! Everyone in auditorium one should get one!”

(Luckily, all 160 people from theater one weren’t standing in the lobby, or I would’ve had to give them all one. So, I left and grabbed three readmission tickets. I handed the man one and he headed for the door, still complaining loudly as he left. A couple minutes later, I was approached by yet another group of guests, who were also upset about the heat, but voiced their concerns in a calm, rational manner. I gave them three readmission tickets a piece just for being human beings about it.)

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I Swim Like A Girl? Thanks!

, , , , , | Right | July 30, 2018

(At the pool where I work, 90% of the staff are women. We have “parent-teacher conferences” twice during our lesson sessions to tell the parents how the kids are doing. The two kids involved in this are brothers, and the oldest is very clearly hydrophobic. After three days, he finally gets in the water, and I consider it a huge victory. The kids are brought to each lesson by their dad.)

Me: “[Student #1] is progressing well, but [Student #2] finally got in and swam a little today, instead of just putting his feet in! I’m very proud of him for working through that so quickly; he—”

Dad: *interrupting* “He wouldn’t have taken so long if he wasn’t such a girl!”

Me: *at a loss for words, considering I’m a woman* “I… That’s not the issue here.”

Dad: “Yes, it is! You need to just throw them in the deep end and let them figure it out! I tried doing that already and he almost s*** himself!”

Me: “Sir, this is a family environment; please don’t swear.”

Dad: “I’ll do whatever I d*** well please! If my kids weren’t such little b****es, this wouldn’t be a problem!”

(At this point, the dad is looming over me, with only the bar of the pool separating us. I’m an almost six-foot-tall woman, but he still has a few inches on me, and I’m starting to feel unsafe. One of my coworkers notices and comes to stand next to me. This coworker is also a woman, but 6’4″, and she was a state champion thrower for our high school track team, and has maintained the arm muscles after graduating.)

Coworker: “You do realize you’re yelling at a state champion swimmer, right? Saying your children swim like ‘girls’ is a compliment around here. See that board?” *points at the school record swimming board on the wall* “See that name that’s on there a half dozen times? That’s your kids’ swimming teacher. Now, lower your voice, or I will remove you myself.”

(My coworker doesn’t wait for an answer and just leaves.)

Dad: *much quieter* “I’m sorry for yelling. What were you saying before I interrupted you?”

(I never had an issue with the dad again, and just recently, my boss from the pool emailed to tell me the eldest son has joined the swimming team, because he wants his name on the board “with his favorite teacher.” Glad to see the kids didn’t get their dad’s s***ty personality!)

Unfiltered Story #117782

, | Unfiltered | July 30, 2018

This story happens two years ago when I first started my current job.
At the grocery store where I work we offer motorized scooters with attached baskets for shoppers who have limited mobility. Whenever a customer finishes shopping and drives the scooter out into the parking lot it is required one of the courtesy clerks (fancy name for baggers) has to accompany them and drive the cart back in.
On this fine and lovely day I was bagging for a rather infamous duo. These two regulars- father and son- have the reputation for being the smelliest customers to ever shop at our store. To be fair, they both are senior citizens, so I shouldn’t bash them for personal hygiene as I have first-hand experience through helping my grandparents that bathing is not an easy task, but these two could put a clogged truck stop gas station toilet on a hot and humid summer day to shame.
Anyways, as the cashier finishes up the transaction I, the lucky bagger that day, try to breath as little as possible while loading their groceries into their scooter’s basket. The father, being older than the son, always rode it as the son helped grab things off the shelf. For some odd reason, though, today the father insisted that his son drove the scooter to the car while he hoofed it with his cane. As the dad slowly picked himself up off the chair he bent over just far enough to reveal his adult diaper sticking out of the top of his britches. Like a train wreck I knew I should look away, but my eyes were drawn to it. I saw, much to my abject horror, that there was a brown skid-mark neatly drawn down the middle. As we started out slow, agonizing walk to their vehicle I began to dread what would come next. We reached it and I helped load the groceries into the trunk as the son helped his father into the passenger seat. After I finished the son turned and thanked me, to which I smiled and nodded as my eyes watered from both the stench that surrounded me and the knowledge of what I was about to do; a final surprise waited for me, however. As the son stepped into the driver’s side his shirt rose just enough to reveal he too wore an adult diaper, sporting-you guessed it- a wonderful brown line right back and center. My eyes turned to the cart’s seat, which for the past hour or so had been occupied by both men.
Now, you must understand that our carts were designed with “safety first” in mind. In the padding of the chair is a simple pressure switch. It acts as a fail-safe, immediately shutting down the scooter if it doesn’t have a rump placed firmly on top of it. I cursed the designer of that safety measure with every fiber of my being as I rode that foul scooter back to the store.

Unfiltered Story #117780

, | Unfiltered | July 30, 2018

I am the customer. It is the day after I turned 54. Late on the evening of my birthday, I had fallen over an uneven sidewalk, resulting in scrapes and bruises. While I did not hit my head, I think trauma from the fall is my only excuse for what happened here.

As I’m checking out, I notice a sign about how age 55 and over get a discount on the first Tuesday of the month and comment that in a year, I’ll have to start shopping on Tuesday. The cashier mentions that, during the holidays, the discount is every Tuesday. My response: “That’ll be especially good in years when when Black Friday falls on a Tuesday!”

(Maybe I was thinking of the day after Christmas?)

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