Unfiltered Story #182281

, , | Unfiltered | January 14, 2020

Neanderthal Hillibilly couple who may also be first cousins
(Man and women each have a purchase of their own)
Female specimen:(puts mop two inches away from my face) can you scan this so I can put it back in the cart
Me: uh um o-ok(finishes purchase hands her receipt rings up Neanderthal man
Female specimen: the hummus was supposed to be 2.50 they say 2.99 on my receipt (she has two, so yes 98 cents)
Me:ok you’re gonna have to go to guest service I can’t do anything about it now here at the register
Neanderthal: put those items in a separate(he meant to say different) bag that one has a hole in it (I proceed to do so)no why would you put those cookies with the fruit just put it in a different bag
Me: there’s no need to be rude sir
Neanderthal: no yur da one dats bean rude you told her to go to guest service instead of helping( me in a state of stress puts items back into torn bag) why are you doing that
Me: you need to be civil
Neanderthal: no you be civil I’m the customer YOU have to be nice to ME[condescendingly reads my name off name tag while insinuating that I must be nice to him under any circumstance whatsoever] so relax
Me:,:0 it’s not that I’m being rude I just can’t give the refund over here I’m not able to
Female specimen:why do I have to wait for the stores mistake
Me: we’ll I’m sorry but I CAN’T fix the problem here( both go silent I give them receipt and point them to cust. service. Minutes later I go to take a break and I see they are at cust. service yelling at the coworker and I go over and try to help eventually manager comes over and gives them their 1 dollar, technically 98 cents, and he demands the store managers number and claims he’s going to call. Best part is that later on my coworker said that he told her “go f#%* yourself” flashback-I’m the customer YOU have to be nice to ME
While I clearly just proved I really don’t although I wasn’t not being nice I also wasn’t exactly kissing a#%, they need to make stricter laws on incestuous relations otherwise this is what happens! we climb back down the evolutionary latter.

Unfiltered Story #182279

, , | Unfiltered | January 14, 2020

(I’m at a yard sale with a friend who I work with. At one table, we find a small plastic organizer. It’s marked at 10 cents.)

Friend: *picks it up* “Oh, this would be good for our pens and pencils and stuff at work! You want to go halvsies on it?”

Me: “Sure.”

(I get out a nickel and hand it to the guy.)

Friend: *gets out her money* “Oh shoot, I don’t have a nickel. Do you have change?”

Guy: “No, sorry.”

Friend: “I think I have one in the car. I’ll be right back.”

(My friend proceeds to walk all the way back to her car–which is pretty far away–get a nickel, and bring it back. We take our item and continue on to the next table.)

Friend: *thinks for a second* “Wow, that was so cheap of us. We should have just paid him a quarter!”

Me: *laughs* “I wonder what he’s thinking of us right now!”

(The next time we were at work, we told all of our coworkers about how cheap/stupid we were that we couldn’t pay an extra 15 cents for a used office organizer. I still like telling that story to new people we get, even though she’s a little embarrassed by it.)

Unfiltered Story #182277

, , | Unfiltered | January 14, 2020

(We used to carry reptiles in our shop, but we stopped about a year or two ago for financial reasons. We now only stock a limited amount of supplies as well as feeders, and we also do boarding.)
Customer: You don’t have reptiles anymore?
Me: No, we stopped selling reptiles over a year ago. We only sell some supplies now.
Customer: Oh, it’s been forever since I’ve been here. [Old manager] used to work here.
(The old manager has not worked here while I’ve been here, which is at least five years, and is in fact dead.)
Me: Oh, yes, that was a while ago. She actually died.
Customer: Oh, yeah. So where is all your reptile stuff?
Me: In the aisle where it was before.
(Customer goes to aisle and shortly shouts over to me.)
Customer: You used to have a big rock!
(I approach the aisle.)
Me: This is all that we have in the way of reptile supplies, we don’t carry a lot.
Customer: Yeah, but you had a big rock–
Me: As I said, this is all we have.
Customer: Are you the only one here, or is there someone who can actually help me?
Me: What is it you need?
Customer: You used to have a big rock with a hole on the side, it was well-made.
Me: How long ago was this here? We sometimes can’t actually get certain products anymore.
Customer: Yeah, it was like a year ago.
(I highly doubt this since he told me just moments ago he hadn’t been in the store in forever, and when he had the old now deceased manager was here.)
Me: As I said, this is all we have, there is nothing out back, we aren’t ordering any new products. I’m sorry, but that’s all we’ve got.
(He proceeded to mope and tried to get me to sell him tanks and equipment that we use for boarding. Funny how forever can turn into one year.)

Unfiltered Story #182275

, , , | Unfiltered | January 14, 2020


Of all the monosyllabic morons I’m forced to tolerate during any given day, nothing compares to the unbridled treat of getting to wait on the guy who expects the restaurant he’s visiting to transform itself into his personal dining room.

I had the privilege of enjoying a family of these retards the other night. They consisted of Papa Bear (Captain Hemorrhoid), Mama Bear (From Mom to Bitch in the Flick of a Switch), Brother Bear (Dudebro) and Sister Bear (Emo Chick Bravely Enduring the Overwhelming Angst of Life).

I approached their table with my usual “Good evening everyone, may I bring you something to drin…”

“Bro, change the TV to the Lakers game,” Brother Bear interrupted.

“Yeah, why are we watching hockey when Kobe Bryant is playing,” Papa Bear chimed in, apparently scaling the curiosity summit one perilous step at a time.

“I’ll talk to the bartender about it,” I answered while considering buying a semi-automatic rifle online to use on my intestines. “Until then, may I offer you something to drin…”

“What kind of ice do you use in your iced tea,” Mama Bear shot me in the gut with instead.

“I believe it’s the frozen kind,” I responded as I silently comforted myself by envisioning Freddy Krueger having his way with her.

It should be noted that Sister Bear sat with her head buried in her folded arms on the table. Apparently the oppressive weight of her fourteen years on the planet had taken its toll, and she found herself crumbling under the burden of basic socialization.

“Well, we use one inch cubes at home with little holes in them so the tea gets super duper colder, which is the way we like them,” Mama Bear enlightened me with all the charm usually found by someone being repeatedly stung by a hive full of bees.

“Gee, that sounds really neat-o,” I countered while trying not to throw up in my mouth. “Though I’ve never measured them, I’m pretty sure we use the same standard ice cubes you’ve probably encountered in most restaurants that have had the privilege of serving you.”

After a few more minutes of navigating our way through the various ways our beverage selection paled in comparison to the way they normally enjoyed Pepsi (in lieu of the Coke we serve) in the comfort of their home, I returned with four glasses of water, no ice, lemons on the side.

“Have you decided on what you would like for dinne…”

“So Bro, who picks the music around here anyway, ‘cause it really sucks,” Brother Bear asked in his best thespian recitation.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Papa Bear confirmed with all the warmth one normally associates with Indianapolis in January. “And it’s way too loud as well. I can hardly hear myself think in here!”

I looked at them with the look you give someone after they’ve just hit you upside the head with a two by four. “I’m pretty sure the music is selected by the owner. And he’s pretty specific about the volume we keep it at, Bro. Have you made any decisions regarding what you might like for dinne…”

“I’ll take your Island Burger,” Mama Bear announced to anyone who gave a rat’s ass, which most certainly didn’t include me. “No Island Dressing. And you can give my pickles to someone else. We also don’t make our burgers at home with lettuce, so you can leave that off too. But I’ll take cheddar cheese. And American. Both kinds, don’t forget. And just a drop of Dijon mustard, but not too much ‘cause it overpowers the taste of the meat. And I need the tomatoes on the side, but we don’t like them to touch the bun. Oh, and the bun. We don’t eat sesame seeds. Or onions. So make sure the bun doesn’t have any of those. And we like it toasted, but not too much. Just enough. And we like our French fries cooked just until they turn brown but not too brown and no salt. And we’ll take barbeque sauce instead of ketchup.”

Sister Bear lifted her head and rolled her eyes heavenward, though whether her disdain was with her mother’s diatribe or the hopelessness of existence which had her firmly in its grasp was beyond me. She let out a huge sigh before returning to her hunched over state, as if she had exhaled her very soul in the process.

The rest of the orders followed suit, with each entrée taking on more modifications than a typical Orange County housewife’s surgically-altered face until what was inevitably brought to the table resembled the original menu description about as much as what was going to be left of my sobriety in a couple of hours.

After their food had been delivered, I checked back with them to make sure everything was exactly the way they were used to having it at home.

“Bro, it’s awfully cold in here, man,” Brother Bear clued me in on, while the sound of his voice actually sent waves of frost down my own spine. “I mean, I’m all for bein’ chill and stuff, but this is ridiculous.” He chuckled at the amazing subtlety of his undoubtedly unintended double-entendre and waited for me to bask in the endless trough of his wit as well. I instead went to my happy place, conjuring images of him choking on a spork.

“I absolutely agree,” Papa Bear agreed, as I looked around the floor for where he might have possibly misplaced his brain. “We keep our house at a constant ambient seventy two degrees, and this sure feels colder than that!”

I assured them I would adjust the air conditioning, which I didn’t. However, I did check back with them a few minutes later to inquire whether my non-adjustment had made a noticeable impact on their dining experience.

“Oh my god, it feels so much better in here,” mumbled Mama Bear with a mouth full of chopped cow as a droplet of grease made its way down her chin. “I thought I was going to melt from the cold!” If. Only. That. Were. Possible.

Sister Bear, on the other hand, had wrapped herself in the sweater she had brought in tow for just such an occasion as she obviously had been down the ambient road before, and was looking to radically announce that she was on the opposite side of the familial thermostat coup. That, and the added vampirific countenance it added to the dour cloud hanging over her head emphasized the impending Armageddon she was inches away from perilously falling into.

After they had consumed everything in front of them but the table cloth and their plates had been cleared I approached the table, dessert menus in hand. But before I had the chance to describe the overpriced and mostly mediocre sugar-laden confections, Brother Bear jumped in and saved me from the faux pas I was unknowingly about to commit. “Come on now, Bro. We don’t do the dessert thing.” Silly fucking me.

“Uh, yeah. We’ll just take the check,” Papa Bear chimed in with a tone insinuating that I had disappointed them for the final time.

After they paid their bill and left and I had pocketed my ten percent tip, I knew what had to be done just so I’d have a puncher’s chance of getting through the rest of the night. So I popped a Vicodin and ordered myself a dirty Grey Goose on the rocks.

Just like I do at home.

– Jeri Velgreen

Unfiltered Story #182273

, | Unfiltered | January 14, 2020

*I was cashing out someone’s coffee order when I overhear my co-worker at the register next to me talking to a customer*

Customer: *Orders coffee and adds…* Can you warm up the milk packets for me?

Co-worker: Warm up the milk packets?

Customer: Yes. Put them in the microwave for 20 seconds and warm them up.

Co-worker: I’m sorry ma’am but I don’t think I’m allowed to do that… it’s not really safe for the plastic to be warmed up…

Customer: I don’t care it’s fine. I’ll take it at my own risk, just do it!

Co-worker: Are you sure we can’t just.. warm some milk up for you in a mug? Then you can put it in your coffee.

Customer: NO. I want you to warm up the actual packets. Let me speak to someone else.

*Assistant manager comes in and 5 minutes pass of her trying to explain how warming up the milk packets are hazardous for her and us as well – you can’t put plastic in a microwave DUH*


Assistant Manager: I am sorry but it goes against the health and safety rules we have to follow.

*10 more minutes go by as she threatens to report the assistant manager and how she doesn’t care if it’s not safe and blah blah. Eventually someone gave in and did it for her.*

Customer: SEE THAT WASN’T SO HARD WAS IT? *Leaves*

Me: *Quits job*