- McJobs and Workers -

'Thick' and tired of it all!

Posted by: Hugh Morris ( Hank the Angry Drunken Dwarf for President, USA ) on February 27, 19100 at 16:56:49:

In Reply to: dont yau jist hat beeing spocken to like your thick posted by kes on February 18, 19100 at 20:21:40:

Kes: I have quite a good working environment, i get on with the store manager and other managers and the crew are all pretty cool but one thing that really pisses me off about the job is rude abrupt and damn anoying customers. I can put up with the long shifts,shitty jobs,that ongoing beeping coming from the kitchen and the scabby uniforms but customers with attitude really get on my tits.

Morris: All my customers made me happy; some when they drop by to visit, but most when they leave! Most of the coworkers I've had were pretty bright, but some are really dim bulbs. As a result, the customers I had would assume they were dealing with a retard, and speak to me accordingly. Fortunately, though, instead of seeing customers as adversaries, I had some fun with them, and you can, too!

All you'll need is a condescending customer (there are plenty of these), and some rudimentary acting skills and sense of comic timing. For instance, a disgruntled customer was only given 11 tacos instead of the 12 he ordered. A simple statement like, "I need another taco; I only got eleven" would have sufficed. He could have even peppered it up with some obscenities. Instead, he set the bag on the counter in front of me and barked: "Count these!"

All right, a game! They've gone over this in school, just in case this situation ever comes up. Perhaps I'll win a prize if I get this right. I emptied the bag, placing the contents in a discheveled pile. Then I arranged the tacos into a row, which were getting quite cold by now, since the waxed paper in which they're wrapped is worthless as insulation.

"W-W-W-W-...One!" I declared, holding up my index finger. I moved onto the next. "T-T-Two." I counted aloud in my usual semi-conscious monotone, fumbling with my fingers, until I got to five. At this time, I ran out of fingers, slapped my forehead in frustration, and had to start over. "One. Two. Three. Five. Six." I remembered having five additional fingers, so I moved on, fumbling with both hands. A good ninety seconds later, as the other customers in line were becoming agitated, I had the correct answer. "Ell-ven!"

Undaunted, he heached into his pocket, but instead of the prize I was hoping for, out came a cash register receipt. "I ordered twelve!"

I fumbled around with my fingers again, counting backwards, and declared, "That would be a difference of... one."

Not knowing I was making fun of him, the pompous bastard simply agreed, "Right."

He got his twelfth taco. placed it in the wrinkled bag, placed the other eleven on top, and went away happy. And I was happy, too, keeping everyone's expectations low.

Hugh Morris

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