Ah, my brief stint as a waitress. There's three weeks of my life I'm never getting back.
And yes, I said "waitress". I know the term now is "server", but I'd prefer to be known as a "waitress". I don't care what anyone says - "server" sounds so much more demeaning.
Dear customers -
See the caption on the photo of the steamed vegetables in the menu? See where it says "enlarged to show detail"? Yeah. It's enlarged to show detail. I don't think cauliflower grows that large without genetic modification. I don't think that would be something I'd care to eat, but that's just me.
I don't know how many times I need to say this - you aren't entitled to free shit because you're fucking stupid. You bitched to the manager enough that you got a second bowl of vegetables. You don't get a free rack of ribs because you have no common sense. Obviously, you are not a vegetarian, and you better not have any dietary issues if you're demanding free pork. Why you're going to a fucking steakhouse for steamed vegetables is beyond me.
Signed,
Your disgruntled waitress.
Showing posts with label former jobs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label former jobs. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Great moments in work history - Crackers in bed.
I seem to be working on my whole damn resume here.
This one goes back to my days of living in the flaccid penis of America - Florida. I was there for a short stint, and in this time, I worked in a tattoo parlour. Florida seemed to have an abundance of morons...and drunks on bicycles.
I think I want to call this particular customer "Chuckie". The reason will be abundantly clear soon.
Dear Chuckie -
Sometimes, people regret tattoos some time after the fact. You get a tattoo of the name of your significant other. You break up. You're young and stupid, and you get something that reflects that. I see it all the time.
Sometimes, though, even I have to ask, "What the fuck, dude?"
You work with a bunch of black guys. Okay. They keep calling you a "cracker". Considering the fact that you look like Jim Henson's visualization of Charles Manson, and that poor, dumb girl you're fondling looks like she might be your sister, I'm not surprised. However, this isn't exactly something that I think one would want to advertise.
And yet, you have made a conscious - and inexplicably sober - decision to get a tattoo of the word "Cracker". On your neck. Good job, pal. Now I'll be able to identify you when I see you on America's Most Wanted.
Signed,
the apprentice.
This one goes back to my days of living in the flaccid penis of America - Florida. I was there for a short stint, and in this time, I worked in a tattoo parlour. Florida seemed to have an abundance of morons...and drunks on bicycles.
I think I want to call this particular customer "Chuckie". The reason will be abundantly clear soon.
Dear Chuckie -
Sometimes, people regret tattoos some time after the fact. You get a tattoo of the name of your significant other. You break up. You're young and stupid, and you get something that reflects that. I see it all the time.
Sometimes, though, even I have to ask, "What the fuck, dude?"
You work with a bunch of black guys. Okay. They keep calling you a "cracker". Considering the fact that you look like Jim Henson's visualization of Charles Manson, and that poor, dumb girl you're fondling looks like she might be your sister, I'm not surprised. However, this isn't exactly something that I think one would want to advertise.
And yet, you have made a conscious - and inexplicably sober - decision to get a tattoo of the word "Cracker". On your neck. Good job, pal. Now I'll be able to identify you when I see you on America's Most Wanted.
Signed,
the apprentice.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Great moments in work history - The eight year itch.
About 10 years ago, I had a job in a housewares store. As is the case with virtually all retail establishments, the customers do stupid shit, ask stupid shit, and of course, try to return stupid shit.
Dear customers -
I don't know how many times I have to day this. I really don't. Certain things are not meant to be returned. If an item is damaged, of course, return it - within a reasonable amount of time.
Let me put this into simpler terms...a day, a week, hell even a month - this is a reasonable amount of time. More often than not, you need to present your original receipt at the time of the return. If you come to me with a basting brush with a retail value of $8.00 - not exactly a great expenditure here - that you purchased eight fucking years ago, fuck you, you don't get a refund. Yes, I see that it has exactly four bristles left. You admitted that you bought it eight years ago. After that amount of time, that basting brush doesn't owe you a fucking dime, and neither do we.
And no, you can't exchange it for a new one. We don't even carry that one anymore. No, I don't know why. Maybe because the bristles spontaneously fall out after eight years. Either we stopped carrying them, or you bought it someplace else. That would be my guess, but that's just me.
Signed,
Your disgruntled retail associate.
Dear customers -
I don't know how many times I have to day this. I really don't. Certain things are not meant to be returned. If an item is damaged, of course, return it - within a reasonable amount of time.
Let me put this into simpler terms...a day, a week, hell even a month - this is a reasonable amount of time. More often than not, you need to present your original receipt at the time of the return. If you come to me with a basting brush with a retail value of $8.00 - not exactly a great expenditure here - that you purchased eight fucking years ago, fuck you, you don't get a refund. Yes, I see that it has exactly four bristles left. You admitted that you bought it eight years ago. After that amount of time, that basting brush doesn't owe you a fucking dime, and neither do we.
And no, you can't exchange it for a new one. We don't even carry that one anymore. No, I don't know why. Maybe because the bristles spontaneously fall out after eight years. Either we stopped carrying them, or you bought it someplace else. That would be my guess, but that's just me.
Signed,
Your disgruntled retail associate.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Great moments in work history - I believe the children are our future(Darwin Award winners).
I've had a number of different jobs over the years. I've sold everything from rubber dicks to women's shoes, and I have plenty of stories to tell about these jobs as well. Right now, I'm thinking that weekends may need to be devoted to letters to the patrons of these former places of employment. It can't hurt to change things up a little here and there.
Today, we have a letter to the customers of a craft store I worked in a number of years back. I visited one the other day, and sadly, this letter is still applicable.
Dear customers -
I can't stress enough the importance of supervising your children when you venture out into the world. They're kids. Kids have a tendency to do stupid shit. It is your job as parents to teach them not to do stupid shit, and not merely expect the employees of whatever retail establishment they happen to be terrorizing to do it for you.
What it all boils down to is this - the fake fruit we sell? Yeah. It's fake. I know it looks yummy, but it's not food. Every single night that I clean that particular section of the store, I find at least half a dozen pieces of plastic fruit sporting teeth marks. It never fails. I'd tell you to feed your damn kids before you leave the house, yet for some strange reason, I get the feeling that they don't do this at the supermarket. You've taught them not to eat things there, but not at the craft store. There's something wrong with this picture. Just because it looks like food doesn't mean that it's food. Have fun when your little bastard poops out a bunch of plastic grapes.
Signed,
Your disgruntled retail associate.
Today, we have a letter to the customers of a craft store I worked in a number of years back. I visited one the other day, and sadly, this letter is still applicable.
Dear customers -
I can't stress enough the importance of supervising your children when you venture out into the world. They're kids. Kids have a tendency to do stupid shit. It is your job as parents to teach them not to do stupid shit, and not merely expect the employees of whatever retail establishment they happen to be terrorizing to do it for you.
What it all boils down to is this - the fake fruit we sell? Yeah. It's fake. I know it looks yummy, but it's not food. Every single night that I clean that particular section of the store, I find at least half a dozen pieces of plastic fruit sporting teeth marks. It never fails. I'd tell you to feed your damn kids before you leave the house, yet for some strange reason, I get the feeling that they don't do this at the supermarket. You've taught them not to eat things there, but not at the craft store. There's something wrong with this picture. Just because it looks like food doesn't mean that it's food. Have fun when your little bastard poops out a bunch of plastic grapes.
Signed,
Your disgruntled retail associate.
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