This one's from the archives!
When I was younger (think early high school age), I had a part time job at the local branch of a chain of very popular ice cream stores. Part of the initial training / orientation period involved seemingly endless hours of scooping various flavors of ice cream and then weighing them on a digital scale to ensure that I could scoop uniformly. I'm not joking. I couldn't make this crap up if I tried.
After about 2 days on the job, a blind monkey with no arms could probably correctly dole out a 2.5 (kids) or 4 oz (regular) scoop of ice cream. (The fact that I still even remember this junk is a testament to how many times I was forced to repeat this mindless activity.) I never thought I would be tested on such useless knowledge, but apparently people are VERY sensitive to their ice cream needs.
One slow afternoon, a very nice, typical suburbanite mother came into the establishment and ordered 3 scoops. She appeared to be alone both in the store and the car as well, not that I'm judging her caloric intake in any way, shape or form. I could care less. She paid for her three scoops, walked outside and sat down on a ledge in the front of the store to consume the goods.
A short while later, she rips open the door and storms into the store like a bat out of hell. She stomps her way up to the counter with so much authoritative force that she seemed less like a 95-lb suburbanite mother and more like a Vera Bradley / Vineyard Vines / J. Crew clad rhinoceros. After slamming her nasty bowl on the counter, she pointed her finger at me and proceeded to do a "come hither motion" as if she were motioning to a dog. Clearly amused, I smiled at her and proceeded to continue what I was doing (which was nothing).
That's when all hell broke loose.
Vera Bradley freaked the hell out and started screaming at me because "she ordered three scoops and the scoops were too full because they don't even fill the whole bowl up, yadda yadda yadda...". She proceeds to shove said bowl into my unwilling hands, where to my surprise I discover that she has eaten almost the entire thing. Torn between whether to laugh directly in this strange woman's face at the ridiculous nature of the situation or try to assuage the situation through diplomacy, I chose the latter.
Here's a rough reiteration of the conversation:
Me: "Well ma'am, all of our scoops are standardized to 4 oz each. There is no way that 12 oz of ice cream would fill up the entire bowl, as each bowl is the equivalent of 24 oz of liquid."
Vera Bradley: "WELL THEY AREN'T BIG ENOUGH."
Me: "I'm sorry that you're so dissatisfied with your purchase, but since it appears that you have eaten more than half of your ice cream and the rest has melted in your cup, there is really nothing I can do about the situation. If you were not satisfied with the amount of ice cream you received, you should have said something when you received it. There is nothing I can do now for you, period."
Vera Bradley: "THIS ICE CREAM WAS FOR MY KID WHO HAS CANCER! ARE YOU REALLY SUCH A HEARTLESS BITCH?"
Right after she whipped out the cancer card, I laughed right her face. I clearly DID NOT just watch her devour the ice cream right in front of my face. Nope. It was all an illusion. Stupidity is truly boundless. What does one even say to such an absolutely false, absurd statement? This was my best shot:
Me: "Ma'am, I just watched you sit outside for 15 minutes eating that ice cream by yourself. If we're going to resort to calling each other names, you are not only a liar, but in fact, the WORST liar I have ever encountered. I am giving you 30 seconds to take your melted ice cream and leave this store before I call the police and have them personally escort you off the premises for harrassment."
Luckily, she turned around and stormed out, but not before flipping me the bird. Classy.
After recounting this story for my boss on the phone, I got a raise and was promoted to night shift manager at 16 years old.
Regardless, they still don't pay me enough for this.
Shoe Spaz
Kids are a continuing theme in this blog, mostly because a) they're annoying and b) they incorrectly believe that the world must always bend to their will. Maybe your parents buy that, Buster, but not me! I'm gonna do my best to make sure that you and your 10-year-old, overprivileged, iPhone-toting self have to follow the rules just like the rest of us.
The perfect example of why parents need to discipline their kids at an early age walked itself into the restaurant a few days ago. 3 boys roughly middle-school aged rolled up on bikes (which they promptly dismounted and left strewn across the busy sidewalk, naturally) and walked into the store. They seemed normal enough, but given the amount of kids that usually come in and the high percentage of annoying inquiries that inevitably follow, I was very skeptical. The middle school versions of Manny, Moe and Jack walked up to the counter ready to place their order and that was when I saw it: one of them had no shoes or socks on.
Obviously, because the place I work is an eating establishment and not the Jersey shore boardwalk, I had to tell the kid to put shoes on. The "conversation" went something like this:
Me: Hey, do you have shoes?
Moe: No...<30 second pause> Do I need them?
Me: Yeah, this is a restaurant. You can't be in here without shoes on. It's a law.
Moe: (screaming at the top of his prepubescent lungs) WHAT THE FUCK?!?! This is BULLSHIT!!
(Moe storms out, slams the door and continues to scream to himself outside.)
Manny: Yeah, our friend's kind of a spaz. Sorry.
This whole situation was very puzzling and bizarre because apparently Moe left his house and rode his bike without shoes, all with the intention of coming to our lovely establishment to eat. Also, I feel it's important to note that Moe was approximately 12 years old, 100 pounds soaking wet and sounded like Alvin the chipmunk when he yelled.
He finally managed to find some shoes, though I have no idea where, and marched back into the restaurant on a mission. Seems like the mission was to "avenge me" because he attempted to shoot me "death glares" every time he passed by. Mostly it just looked like he had something in his eye.
They don't pay me enough for this.
The perfect example of why parents need to discipline their kids at an early age walked itself into the restaurant a few days ago. 3 boys roughly middle-school aged rolled up on bikes (which they promptly dismounted and left strewn across the busy sidewalk, naturally) and walked into the store. They seemed normal enough, but given the amount of kids that usually come in and the high percentage of annoying inquiries that inevitably follow, I was very skeptical. The middle school versions of Manny, Moe and Jack walked up to the counter ready to place their order and that was when I saw it: one of them had no shoes or socks on.
Obviously, because the place I work is an eating establishment and not the Jersey shore boardwalk, I had to tell the kid to put shoes on. The "conversation" went something like this:
Me: Hey, do you have shoes?
Moe: No...<30 second pause> Do I need them?
Me: Yeah, this is a restaurant. You can't be in here without shoes on. It's a law.
Moe: (screaming at the top of his prepubescent lungs) WHAT THE FUCK?!?! This is BULLSHIT!!
(Moe storms out, slams the door and continues to scream to himself outside.)
Manny: Yeah, our friend's kind of a spaz. Sorry.
This whole situation was very puzzling and bizarre because apparently Moe left his house and rode his bike without shoes, all with the intention of coming to our lovely establishment to eat. Also, I feel it's important to note that Moe was approximately 12 years old, 100 pounds soaking wet and sounded like Alvin the chipmunk when he yelled.
He finally managed to find some shoes, though I have no idea where, and marched back into the restaurant on a mission. Seems like the mission was to "avenge me" because he attempted to shoot me "death glares" every time he passed by. Mostly it just looked like he had something in his eye.
They don't pay me enough for this.
Obama May Want Change, But I Sure As Hell Don't
I would like to take the opportunity in tonight's blog to discuss the various merits of petty change in the United States currency system. There are none. Here's why:
Every few days (generally only when I am working), the two most clinically annoying children wander their way into my place of employment. I know you're probably thinking "Wander? Really? Is that really the best choice of word here or is this person just trying to sound intelligent?" First of all, suck it, and secondly, I kid you not-- these two kids walk around like they are in some sort of functional coma and suffer from perpetual loss of purpose.
Anyway, these two kids always come in together and stand in front of the menu for about 15 minutes, which is coincidentally just about as long as it takes to accumulate a pretty decent number of lucid customers. After they decide on 64 different combinations of food, the two walk up to the counter and proceed to ask me the most asinine questions, such as: "How much is a cheesesteak and a soda?". Because clearly the prices are not printed on the fucking MENU YOU JUST STARED AT FOR 15 MINUTES! At first, I will humor their ridiculous incompetence, type the items into the computer and, in the most sardonic attitude I can muster, tell them that it would be "$7.25".
Here comes the second part of the daily charade: Now kid 1 must converse with kid 2, and naturally neither of them remembered to bring enough money, so then they proceed to ask me "How much are two slices and a soda?". Meanwhile actual paying customers that aren't illiterate (but are in fact quite impatient) are lining up behind Beavis and Butthead fiending for their pizza fix. At this point, I just point the ignorant doofi (plural of doofus) to the 4 very clearly printed menus hanging directly above my head, while praying silently that one may swing loose from its hinges and knock some sense (or out cold and unconscious-- both outcomes are interchangeable in preference) into these kids.
Another 10 minutes goes by and the concussed nerd herd re-approaches the counter after finally deciding to order two sodas and an order of fries...the same thing they get EVERY TIME they come in. I total their check up and tell the kids the total. In response, Beavis whips out a coffee can full of change and proceeds to dump it on the counter. At this point, the steam is starting to come out of my ears and I'm becoming fearful for any living thing in a 2-mile radius.
"You're joking me, right?" I ask. Apparently the joke's on me. Both Beavis and Butthead begin to count what could only be all the change they've accumulated over the past 2.5 years so slowly that I begin to wonder if I'm on that MTV show "Boiling Points". I half expect Ashton Kutcher to yell "YOU'VE BEEN PUNKED" and pop his goofy head out from behind the walk-in fridge. But no.
Finally, I reach over the counter, swipe the money out of their barely-penetrable cloud of stupidity and tell them to PLEASE take a seat. As in, "Kindly go fuck yourselves, please."
And that's how I learned that $4.60 was 92 nickels.
They don't pay me enough for this.
Every few days (generally only when I am working), the two most clinically annoying children wander their way into my place of employment. I know you're probably thinking "Wander? Really? Is that really the best choice of word here or is this person just trying to sound intelligent?" First of all, suck it, and secondly, I kid you not-- these two kids walk around like they are in some sort of functional coma and suffer from perpetual loss of purpose.
Anyway, these two kids always come in together and stand in front of the menu for about 15 minutes, which is coincidentally just about as long as it takes to accumulate a pretty decent number of lucid customers. After they decide on 64 different combinations of food, the two walk up to the counter and proceed to ask me the most asinine questions, such as: "How much is a cheesesteak and a soda?". Because clearly the prices are not printed on the fucking MENU YOU JUST STARED AT FOR 15 MINUTES! At first, I will humor their ridiculous incompetence, type the items into the computer and, in the most sardonic attitude I can muster, tell them that it would be "$7.25".
Here comes the second part of the daily charade: Now kid 1 must converse with kid 2, and naturally neither of them remembered to bring enough money, so then they proceed to ask me "How much are two slices and a soda?". Meanwhile actual paying customers that aren't illiterate (but are in fact quite impatient) are lining up behind Beavis and Butthead fiending for their pizza fix. At this point, I just point the ignorant doofi (plural of doofus) to the 4 very clearly printed menus hanging directly above my head, while praying silently that one may swing loose from its hinges and knock some sense (or out cold and unconscious-- both outcomes are interchangeable in preference) into these kids.
Another 10 minutes goes by and the concussed nerd herd re-approaches the counter after finally deciding to order two sodas and an order of fries...the same thing they get EVERY TIME they come in. I total their check up and tell the kids the total. In response, Beavis whips out a coffee can full of change and proceeds to dump it on the counter. At this point, the steam is starting to come out of my ears and I'm becoming fearful for any living thing in a 2-mile radius.
"You're joking me, right?" I ask. Apparently the joke's on me. Both Beavis and Butthead begin to count what could only be all the change they've accumulated over the past 2.5 years so slowly that I begin to wonder if I'm on that MTV show "Boiling Points". I half expect Ashton Kutcher to yell "YOU'VE BEEN PUNKED" and pop his goofy head out from behind the walk-in fridge. But no.
Finally, I reach over the counter, swipe the money out of their barely-penetrable cloud of stupidity and tell them to PLEASE take a seat. As in, "Kindly go fuck yourselves, please."
And that's how I learned that $4.60 was 92 nickels.
They don't pay me enough for this.
Somebody Get This Man A Microwave
Today I answered the phone at the restaurant a few minutes after the lunch rush finally dwindled down. An elderly old man on the other end sounded pleasant enough, and that's precisely how I knew I was in for something bad. Here's the gem of a conversation that followed:
Me: Hello, how may I help you?
Old Guy: Yes, hello. I was just in your restaurant picking up a few slices of pizza about 20 minutes ago, I'm sure you remember me. (Yes clearly, because the line of customers wasn't out the door and the phone wasn't ringing off the hook at the time either. I had more than ample time to commit your name, voice and face to memory)
Me: Oh....
Old Guy: Well, it's just that I wanted to call back and tell you that when I got home, the slices were cold. I didn't think you left them in the oven long enough when I was there, and I almost asked you if they were ready but I didn't. You didn't cook them all the way (They're precooked) and they were hot on the surface but ice cold in the center. You know if you don't heat something up long enough it's cold. (No, really? Is that really what happens? I guess I should have watched more Bill Nye The Science Guy when I was a kid). My wife was very upset and she said it was the worst pizza she's ever had.
Me: Oh, I'm really sorry to hear that sir. Would you like me to credit your account with the cost of the slices?
Old Guy: Oh no, that's okay. I just wanted to tell you because if no one did then you would be giving lots of people cold pizza and I'm sure a lot of those people wouldn't come back.
Me: Well, I appreciate the heads up. Thank you.
I cannot figure out, for the life of me, what type of person in the 21st century (land of microwaves and ovens) CONTINUES to eat a slice of cold pizza, when they could EASILY place it in some kind of heating device, wait a few minutes and then they could have the hot pizza they so desperately desire?
Also, how is this at all my fault? I just take your effing order. Do not call me back and give me a 5 minute lesson on the thermodynamics of your $1.75 pizza slice. Get off your soapbox, utilize a few brain cells and maybe figure out how to work that gosh-darn, newfangled microwave device of yours.
They don't pay me enough for this.
Me: Hello, how may I help you?
Old Guy: Yes, hello. I was just in your restaurant picking up a few slices of pizza about 20 minutes ago, I'm sure you remember me. (Yes clearly, because the line of customers wasn't out the door and the phone wasn't ringing off the hook at the time either. I had more than ample time to commit your name, voice and face to memory)
Me: Oh....
Old Guy: Well, it's just that I wanted to call back and tell you that when I got home, the slices were cold. I didn't think you left them in the oven long enough when I was there, and I almost asked you if they were ready but I didn't. You didn't cook them all the way (They're precooked) and they were hot on the surface but ice cold in the center. You know if you don't heat something up long enough it's cold. (No, really? Is that really what happens? I guess I should have watched more Bill Nye The Science Guy when I was a kid). My wife was very upset and she said it was the worst pizza she's ever had.
Me: Oh, I'm really sorry to hear that sir. Would you like me to credit your account with the cost of the slices?
Old Guy: Oh no, that's okay. I just wanted to tell you because if no one did then you would be giving lots of people cold pizza and I'm sure a lot of those people wouldn't come back.
Me: Well, I appreciate the heads up. Thank you.
I cannot figure out, for the life of me, what type of person in the 21st century (land of microwaves and ovens) CONTINUES to eat a slice of cold pizza, when they could EASILY place it in some kind of heating device, wait a few minutes and then they could have the hot pizza they so desperately desire?
Also, how is this at all my fault? I just take your effing order. Do not call me back and give me a 5 minute lesson on the thermodynamics of your $1.75 pizza slice. Get off your soapbox, utilize a few brain cells and maybe figure out how to work that gosh-darn, newfangled microwave device of yours.
They don't pay me enough for this.