A tornado has recently destroyed a large part of my city. When the tornado warning goes off, servers and the back-of-house staff gather up everyone. The staff goes into the walk-in coolers, and the patrons go into the bathrooms.

Chaos erupts outside, but thankfully, the building stands strong. The warning is eventually over and we all come out. An inventory of people is made: everyone is safe and accounted for. No one is hurt.

Outside, part of the parking lot is a mess. Vehicles are no longer neatly parked but have been tossed around like an upended box of Matchbox cars. Across the street… there’s destruction. The tornado plowed through the town literally across the street. We, obviously, have no power.

Then, a lady pipes up.

Customer: “So, why haven’t we gotten our food yet?”

Seriously?!

Me: “Ma’am, you were in the bathroom. The staff were in the fridge. Were you not aware that the reason for this was a tornado?”

Customer: “Well, we ordered over thirty minutes ago!”

Me: “Yes. And everyone was preparing for the storm. No one was going to continue making food and risking their lives.”

Customer: “Yes, and now it’s over. I expect my meal to be comped.”

Manager: “Well, since we have no power, you’re not going to GET your order. No one is. As of right now, we’re closed. I suggest you go see if your home is even still there.”

Customer: “You are being very rude!”

Manager: “And you’re being an idiot. Now get out of my restaurant.”

Male Voice: *From the crowd* “[Customer], let’s go see if we even have a car to take us home.”

Customer: *Storming out* “My car had better be there, or I’ll sue the s*** out of [Restaurant]!”

Male Voice: “Shut up, [Customer] just… shut the h*** up.”

The crowd slowly began to sort themselves out. I think most were in shock from seeing the mess outside, but at least everyone else had their heads screwed on straight. Even though the manager promised that meals were comped today, most people paid with cash and left impressive tips.

We got a phone call later with an angry woman’s voice screeching about how rude the staff was. The manager was the same, so she didn’t get very far.

Sometime later, higher-ups got in contact with us, not to hand down punishments, but to basically point and laugh at a series of complaints. There were several complaints about the restaurant not answering phones DURING THE TORNADO and demanding that the staff be reprimanded for job abandonment. The highlight of the list was a complaint about the restaurant refusing to serve food after the power went out and the rudeness of the manager.

It just goes to show you: nothing will stop an entitled customer from throwing a tantrum, not even a tornado.

This happened in an awful snowstorm that hit the east coast of the US. I was heading home from work and needed to get something, so I stopped at a large big box store where some of my friends work, knowing from their texts that they were still at work despite the snow. I figured, “Well, if it’s really dead in there like it was at my work, I can hang around and chat with them as I do sometimes.”

I got to the place and it was a madhouse. Apparently, nobody had ever seen snow before, and folks were buying bottled water, milk, bread, and flashlights like the Apocalypse was upon us all. Bummer, can’t hang out, but I can still get some things, and I even snagged four sodas to distribute to my friends.

After going through the lines, I looked around and spotted [Friend #1], [Friend #2], and [Friend #3], but [Friend #4] wasn’t where he’d been a moment ago. Oh, well, the dude is built like a fridge, and every time a little old lady needs something huge hauled to her granny-mobile, he’s the one they get, so I went and peered through the opener-closer doors.

Sure enough, there was [Friend #4] in his bright orange hoodie, way out in the parking lot where the snowplows hadn’t even been. He was talking to someone in a car that was at the end of the most fabulous display of twisty-turny car-tire cursive I have seen this side of a “Dukes Of Hazzard” rerun. I could see from the tracks that this vehicle was likely being driven by someone really far Southern who had never seen snow before.

Being my helpful self, I started walking across the parking lot to see what was up. A couple of other people, including my dear old boss, were gathering around the spun-out car, and as I got closer, I heard them talking.

Friend #4: “Ma’am, you really need to put something in your trunk. Then you’ll be able to drive safely.”

Driver: “No, it’s a Mercedes. I just need someone to scrape this lot. Can’t you call a snowplow?”

Random Lady In Scrubs: “We only have two in town, and one’s up at the hospital clearing their lot.”

I noticed that the driver had really-far-Southern plates, and she had a sort of elderly, rich, “my husband normally does the driving” look to her.

Driver: “Well, can’t you get some shovels and clear a path for my car?”

Friend #4: “Nope. For one thing, it’s a liability issue, and for another, we sold out of shovels an hour ago. I really do think that some weight in the trunk would put it right, though.”

Boss: “Really, ma’am. My other car is just like this, and with a rear-wheel drive, you’ve really got to load the trunk down to drive in snow.”

Driver: “No, it’s a Mercedes. I’m not putting crap in the trunk. You hicks need to plow this lot!”

I walked over.

Me: “Ma’am, is there a problem?”

I used my poshest Mid-Atlantic tones — basically my “customer service” voice that covers my real accent.

Driver: “Oh, thank God! Yes! These people won’t call a plow for my car, and I need to get back to my hotel!”

That gave me time to notice two things. One, this awful Mercedes-driving lady had a rosary on her rear-view mirror, a crucifix on her neck, and a St. Christopher medal clanking against it. I have relatives on the one side who are just like her. And two, she had a small amount of animal hair on the sleeve of her oh-so-posh black coat, similar to the one that I was wearing. So, she was assuming I’d be sympathetic because I looked as glamorously freezing as she did and sounded like I’d just left the country club.

Me: “Actually, I wouldn’t try to plow around your car. I mean, supposing the plow was to skid and crash into it? Do you know how much new fenders for a Mercedes cost?”

Driver: *Clearly not having thought of that* “Oh, my God!”

Me: “Exactly! I think that’s just who we need to involve, don’t you? I’m going to tell you what Father Patrick told me for getting home safely in snowstorms; it works simply every time. What he told me to do was go to a store like this one and buy as much clay cat litter and pet kibble as you can fit in your trunk. Simply fill it up! Everything else you bought, just put it on the back seat and trust Jesus. Then, you need to say a quick prayer to St. Jerome, and you need to promise that if he gets you through the snowstorm, you’ll take the animal things to a shelter and donate them the minute the roads are clear. Your good deed for the animals will be enough to keep the car safe, really, and with the Saint’s intervention, God will get you right out of this mess. Father Patrick told us all about it in his last Advent homily; it got him back home from Alaska without a skid. Oh, and drive slowly and carefully.”

Driver: “Really?! Do they sell pet supplies here?”

Me: *Gushing* “I just bought a few myself, since it was so snowy.”

Driver: “Then that’s it! Oh, God bless you!”

And with that, she got out of the Mercedes and started slipping and scurrying over the slushy mess back into the store.

Boss: “I didn’t know you were Catholic. I saw you in church yesterday.”

Me: “I’m not. She is.”

I pointed to the rosary on the rear-view mirror.

Me: “And I’ve known enough of them to ‘speak it.'”

Boss: “So, there’s no Father Patrick?”

Me: “Well, I’m sure there must be at least one priest somewhere called that. None that I know of.”

Friend #4: “And will St. Jerome really protect her car?”

Me: “If she promises to take the cat litter she’s filled her trunk with to the pet shelter, then possibly.”

Boss: “Whoa. So, you just…”

Me: “…translated y’all’s good advice into ‘religious rich snob’ language? Yeah, pretty much. Oh, and I got you this ‘cause it was such a madhouse in there.”

I gave [Friend #4] his soda.

Friend #4: “Welp, I’d better go help her load up all the cat litter. Just sell her the heaviest?”

Me: “Whatever’s heavy and cheap. The shelter doesn’t like clumping so much as regular, but whatever she wants to buy. And maybe persuade her that the Saint will be impressed by senior and kitten chow; they cost more and shelters always need ’em.”

Boss: “I know I’m not allowed to ask, but I really have to wonder now… What are you, religiously?”

I grinned.

Me: “Isn’t it obvious, boss? I’m a crazy cat lady.”

I used to work in a restaurant, and our manager was awful. She was rude, intentionally picked out favorites and gave them presents in front of everyone (even when they didn’t like her and tried to avoid it), messed up schedules on purpose for people she didn’t like, etc. She was the worst manager ever.

There was a huge storm coming in, and people were really worried about it. The news was telling people to stay home, other businesses were closing, etc., so it was up to [Manager] to either keep our store open or close it. Of course, she kept it open.

Because schools closed, only half of our scheduled employees showed up. The rest called in, and [Manager] called her favorites and told them they didn’t have to come in. As the five or so of us who showed up were standing there, watching out the front windows — there were zero customers — [Manager] started yelling at us, threatening to write us all up, and so on. We tried telling her that no one was there, all the work was done, and we were watching the wind bend trees over and worrying about whether we were safe and would be able to get home.

Right about this time, we heard a super loud crashing noise: KACHUNK! KACHUNK! KACHUNK! KACHUNK! WHAM!

The industrial air conditioner on top of the building got blown off! It rolled along the roof and then went flying into the parking lot… and right onto [Manager]’s car.

It was so perfect it was surreal; it landed dead center and smashed her car flat. If [Manager] had been in it, she would have died. And it only happened because she parked right up by the building where we had specifically been told not to park. All our cars were out in the farthest corner of the lot.

We later found out that [Manager]’s car wasn’t paid off, it was some stupidly expensive BMW or something, and her insurance didn’t cover the damage because it was an “act of God”.

This happened in the late 1980s. A heavy blizzard was on its way, and management announced that the office would be closing early so that we could get home before the roads became hazardous.

[Coworker] went out to the parking lot and started his car to give the engine time to warm up. When he came back into the office, he realized he had locked his keys inside the running car.

His wife had a spare key, but she was forty miles away. He called the Automobile Club, but they were overflowing with calls and wouldn’t be able to get there for at least a few hours.

Someone got a wire hanger from the coat room and bent it into a hook. Those of us who hadn’t left for home yet took turns going outside in pairs, one person prying the top of the driver’s door just enough so that the other could slip the hook through and try to pull up the lock button. But the button was tapered, and there was no place for the hook to grab it.

Still, we persevered for over an hour. But the snowfall was getting heavier, and [Coworker] resigned himself to waiting in the office until the car ran out of gas and/or help arrived.

Just as we were about to give up, I noticed something.

Me: “Did anybody try the back door?”

[Coworker] looked in the window and then looked at me.

Coworker: “It can’t be that easy.”

Not only was the lock button on the back door NOT tapered, but it also had a hole in it. The hook slipped through the hole, and the back door opened right up.

I haven’t seen [Coworker] in years, but I hope he’s invested in a remote starter since then.

I work in southwest Florida on the beach. Right now, we are closed, as the hotel is completely unlivable due to a hurricane. However, I’m working overnight security, keeping the riffraff away.

I’m sitting in my “guard shack” watching a movie, and a car drives up. That’s not unusual. It’s midnight, but there are still a lot of FEMA workers, state, county, and city officials, police, and contractors running around. The person in this car is none of the above.

Tourist: “Hi, I’m looking to check in.”

Me: “You’re kidding, right?”

I’m hoping this is a FEMA guy messing with me.

Tourist: “I have a reservation.”

I look back at the ruins of the hotel.

Me: “Ah, we canceled all reservations before the storm. Hotel’s closed.”

Tourist: “But I have a reservation.”

Me: “Sir, I don’t care. The building is unsafe, and even if it was safe, I have no way of checking you in.”

Tourist: *Getting angry* “I have a reservation; you have to check me in! I want to speak you your supervisor.”

Me: “No, sir. I’m just gonna call a deputy to escort you off the island if you don’t leave.”

Tourist: “Fine!”

He proceeds to sit there. I call for a deputy, who shows up right quick; they’re crawling all over the island looking for looters.

Tourist: “He won’t check me in!” *Points at me*

Deputy: “Sir, are you stupid? You’re not even supposed to be allowed here. You’re either going to follow me out or I’ll arrest you for trespassing.”

Long story short, the tourist didn’t argue with the sheriff’s deputy, although I kind of wish he had; I kind of wanted to see him get tased. The tourist begrudgingly followed the deputy away.