I have the misfortune of having a disgusting pervert for a coworker; he’s the kind who grabbed onto the phrase “locker room talk” and ran an Olympic marathon with it. As a fellow man, I have been an unwilling audience to his BS.

One day, I was in the break room with earbuds in, happily enjoying the latest video of the Puppy Bowl, when [Coworker] flumped down at the table and complained.

Coworker: “Look at this! Isn’t this just sick?!”

I was then treated to his phone, opened to a chat window, and shoved in my face. My puppy-endorphined brain got whiplashed by not one, but two d**k pics.

Me: “Dude. Bruh. Why are you…?”

Coworker: “Some chick sent them to me!”

Now I paused, a little intrigued and a lot amused. As stated above, [Coworker] is known for his shenanigans, and the idea of any woman turning the tables is enough to catch my attention. I paused my video, popped out my earbuds, and engaged in this conversation.

Me: “A woman sent you d**k pics?”

Coworker: “Just read it!”

I took his phone and scrolled. This was the text conversation, roughly, expanded from the typical chat abbreviations.

Coworker: “Hey, beautiful!”

Woman: “Hey.”

Coworker: “What are you doing?”

Woman: “Nothing at the moment. I have class at 11:00, but that’s it. How about you?”

Coworker: “Lying in bed, but I should be doing you. You’re so f****** hot!”

[Coworker] sent a d**k pic.

Woman: “Thanks.”

The woman replied with what I would guess was a Googled d**k pic from another man. Hilariously, it appeared to be larger than [Coworker]’s.

I struggled not to burst out laughing as [Coworker] promptly went off the rails in text.

Coworker: “WHAT THE F***?! WHY WOULD YOU SEND ME THAT?!”

Woman: “Because you sent me one. I mean, it’s only polite to send one back, right?”

Coworker: “I don’t want to see another man’s junk!”

Woman: “Well, why would you send me one, then?”

Coworker: “I thought you would like it!”

Woman: “Why? I never asked for one.”

Coworker: “Because women are [insult for promiscuous women] for my d**k on the Internet.”

Woman: “As demonstrated, I can find better.”

Then, there was a notification that the woman had blocked [Coworker].

I’m pretty sure my own eyebrows had been scorched by that sassy lady’s burn. I sat back and struggled not to laugh myself into a stitch in my side while handing the phone back to [Coworker]. 

Coworker: “What’s so d*** funny?”

Me: “She got you good, man. If you don’t want to get d**k pics, don’t send them out in the first place. And if you don’t want to be insulted that hard, definitely don’t give her an opportunity by bragging about your own.”

My break was now over, but somehow, I didn’t feel like it had been wasted. Despite the eyeball bleach that I may need later, it was worth it to read that exchange.

[Coworker] sulked for two whole days before returning to normal. I doubt anything was learned.

I work with the Girl Scouts. A troop mom comes by who is usually a rude and problematic customer.

Troop Mom: “I need a box of badges — the hundred box since my girls are doing so much better than all the others, as usual.”

Me: “Okay… I’ll go check the back for the larger boxes.”

I go to the back room to see my manager shaking up the box I need.

Manager: “Every time she comes in, she wants to show off and bring everyone else down. That’s not the Girl Scout way. So, I make sure to shake the bag real good and get those badges all mixed up and out of order. Now that’s the Girl Scout way.”

For whatever reason, in the early 1990s, all of the fast food places in our town were in one short strip of the main street which, of course, got dubbed “Fast Food Alley”. I worked at a Wendy’s, directly next door to a Taco Bell. I had been working there for nearly a year and was so over their crap, and I was just counting down the days until I could start college.

One day when I was working in the drive-thru, we got a man on the speaker who was obviously trying to order Taco Bell menu items.  

I turned to my coworkers as I handed out a different order.

Me: “Dude’s in the wrong drive-thru.”

Manager: “Don’t tell him that! I’ll handle it. We can’t turn away a sale.” *Over the speaker* “I’m sorry, sir, were you looking to order a taco salad?”

Confused Dude: “No, I wanted…”

I can’t remember exactly what he wanted, but they were all Taco Bell items, at least one of which was a taco.

Manager: *Over the speaker* “I’m afraid we don’t have any of those. The closest I can offer is a taco salad. Would you like to order one of those?”

This went on for what felt like ages, with the manager just offering other menu items, and the guy in the drive-thru getting more confused and agitated with each exchange. I finally lost my patience, and I had run out of other orders to hand out while I bit my tongue.

Me: *Over the speaker* “Sir, I apologize for my manager, but you’ve entered the wrong drive-thru. You’re at a Wendy’s; the Taco Bell you’re clearly looking for is next door. And again, I’m sorry for the confusion.”

The guy shouted obscenities at the speaker for a few seconds as he put his car into gear and tore out of the drive-thru.

Manager: “Why on earth did you do that? I had it handled!”

Me: “No, you absolutely did not. You were riling him up by trying to sell him something he clearly didn’t want. There was no way that was going to end well.”

Manager: “We can’t turn away a customer!”

Me: “He wasn’t our customer. And now that you’ve pissed him off, he probably never will be. What was your goal there? Piss him off so he can abuse me at the window?”

Manager: “I should write you up for this!”

Me: “You can, but I won’t sign it. Deceiving customers, even by omission, is terrible customer service. If you’d gotten into the wrong drive-thru, wouldn’t you want to be told about it rather than baited with other non-related food?”

She grumbled something at me that I didn’t catch because the chime went off indicating another customer. She never did write me up, probably because I’d butted heads with managers on frivolous write-ups before and won, and a few weeks later, I left for college.

I do not miss working in fast food.

Related:
Sir, This Is A Wendy’s…

Back in the days of cable TV and satellite dishes (the early 1990s), I am a tech who is usually called to handle the more complicated issues. I get a call from a manager who works with my direct manager, who is retiring.

Manager: “We need you to do a hard reset on [Customer]. [Call Centre Manager] left a note on the account to specifically call you.”

I log in and see that it’s full of notes of the worst kind about this customer. Over the years, he has been abusive, racist, and sexist, but mostly homophobic. Every time he gets a male worker at the call centre, he calls them homophobic slurs of the vilest kind. How this customer’s account hasn’t been closed by now is beyond me.

Me: “Why? What happened here? His account is a mess.”

Manager: “It was [Call Centre Manager]. He seems to have… been creative on his last day before retirement last week.”

As I am friends with that old call centre manager, I call him and ask for an explanation.

Call Centre Manager: “I totally did not remote into a customer’s cable box with a generic tech support password, put in a parental lock, hide all channels except for a very nice adult entertainment channel, and then leave.”

Me: “I see. So, you absolutely did not leave this homophobic customer’s cable service locked into only, and absolutely only, the gay adult channel?”

Call Centre Manager: “I absolutely did not do that. No. See you at my retirement barbeque on Saturday?”

Me: “I’ll be there!”

Many years ago, I was in band in high school. We were raising money for a trip to play at a festival at a famous theme park by selling chocolate bars.

I stopped by the house of a family friend, and the woman agreed to buy a few. Her young daughter, around three or four years old, happened to witness the transaction and, having found a dollar bill lying around the house somewhere, insisted on giving that to me, too. 

Nothing Mom or I could say would dissuade her from her newfound mission of handing the dollar bill to me. I didn’t want to put Mom on the hook for any more chocolate than she’d already agreed to buy.

Suddenly, inspiration struck!

I gave Mom a knowing look and accepted the money, thanking the girl. Then, I reached back into my pocket and pulled out a different dollar bill. “Here’s your change!” I told her, offering it to her. She took it happily and toddled back off into the house, presumably to wherever she’d found the money in the first place.