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…

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.

My long-term boyfriend proposed to me and, of course, I was over the moon. It was all super romantic and sticky.

Work: “Well, we don’t think you can get a day off.”

Me: “Why? I’m asking six months in advance, and I need a day off. It’s for a wedding, and it’s mine.”

Work: “If you wanted days not previously specified, you must ask a year in advance. Why didn’t you?”

Me: “I didn’t know I was getting married!”

Work: “Why not?”

Me: “My fiance asked me in December, and I told you the day we were back from holidays. I don’t suppose he expected you to be this unreasonable?”

The wedding date was in August.

Work: “Well, next time you ‘want to get married’, tell the guy to tell us a year before.”

Me: “I quit.”

Three hours later, my manager came in and yelled so that everyone could hear: 

Manager: “Oh, no, girl, you don’t! Have what time you need! YOU STUPID FOOLS, IT’S HER WEDDING!”

I loved that manager. I took two weeks to meet the extended family, and it was no trouble.

Over fifteen years later, we’re married, sharing a mortgage, and raising a kid, who’s turning out very nice. This marriage is literally the best idea ever — literally, not figuratively.

CONTENT WARNING: Animal Injury (Results of a careless grooming job)
 

We had a horrific experience the first time we took our pup to a groomer in a pet store franchise. He’s admittedly a bit of a sensitive soul anyway and doesn’t travel well in cars, so when I collected him and he cried in the car home, I didn’t initially think anything of it, especially since they had admitted to slightly grazing one of his ears. (He’s a floppy-eared breed.)

We got home, and he immediately ran to his crate and would not come out. He even growled at us when we tried to coax him. That was not like my boy at all.

After we eventually persuaded him to come out, I looked him over, and he was covered in razor burn, grazes, and some actual cuts. The “graze” on his ear? An actual notch taken out of it. His privates were also grazed and bleeding. It took weeks for him to recover because he kept reopening the cuts.

I phoned and gave the store manager h*** over this and also reported them to their head office. After providing them photos, I was refunded the cost of the groom and offered vouchers for free cuts, but I told them that they were having a laugh if they thought I’d bring him back to them ever again.

A new store manager is going through staff scheduling with the floor managers. It’s his first time managing a store in a small town with just one high school where a lot of people know each other.

Store Manager: “Who is Milton? Why is he only ever scheduled to work the back?”

Checkout Manager: “Milton? Oh, you mean Milk. Yeah, he’s no good on checkout. We tried, but that didn’t work out.”

Store Manager: “Milk?”

Me: “Nickname.”

Store Manager: “Why is his nickname Milk?”

Me: “He got 2% on his final math test in high school, and since then, everyone’s called him Milk.”

Store Manager: “Okay, so no checkout. Got it.”