Rude folks are a dime a dozen but its always a treat to see one get put in their place. These customers share the moment a rude patron got what they deserved!
Don’t Think He Made Par For The Course
“While working on a golf course as maintenance staff, I was mowing the banks surrounding the greens with an old riding lawn mower.
As I mowed, some golfers were on their approach to the green and one hit a wedge that landed in what would be my next mower pass. I rounded the green and as I approached his ball, I swerved the mower deck around his ball and then cut back into my original course.
As the irate golfer ran up to me yelling, I throttled the mower down so that I could hear him.
‘You ran over my ball!’ he yelled.
‘No, sir, I did not. I went around your ball,’ I responded calmly.
‘Look at where it is. It’s right behind the mower!’ he yelled while pointing at his in-tact ball.
Now, I’d been driving this thing for a couple of summers and I was really good. His ball was lying behind the left mower deck, but only because I had expertly cut around it.
He continued. ‘You ran over my ball! You owe me a new one!’
‘Sir, I didn’t mow over your ball. If you look, the grass is still long where your ball sits. I did not run over your ball.’
‘You did, and I want to talk to your manager!’ he wouldn’t give up on it.
‘Very well, I’ll be happy to let you talk to him, but first, let’s demonstrate what a golf ball looks like when I actually run over it, shall we?’ I throttled up the mower again to full.
I proceeded to back the triplex up, running over his ball. The high-speed rotary mower blades diced the ball into nothing but a pile of shredded plastic and rubber bands, which ejected like a pile of spaghetti.
‘For the record, sir. That is what it looks like when I run over a golf ball.’ I said while pointing at the rubber confetti.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a relatively new golf ball, and tossed it to him before continuing mowing around the green.
He didn’t talk to my boss.”
Don’t Mess With This Missus
“Right out of high school I was working for a big-box retailer. I had only been working there a couple of weeks when I saw this happen.
I was working as a cashier and this little old lady (around 80 y/o) came up with her items – and she had quite a few of them. She was walking with a walker and moved pretty slowly.
We had just opened the doors for the day, so it was around 7 am and there were only two of us, so pretty barebones staff. The rest of the staff would be in about an hour later – and this lady had been waiting at the door when we got there.
Just as she finished putting her items on the counter, this guy in a business suit comes up to the counter and asks me if I could ring him up really quickly – he was in a real rush.
I told him that was up to the lady who had just finished unloading her cart.
She said no – she was late for an appointment herself and he would have to wait.
He cut her off and INSTRUCTED me to ring him up right then. I said no. He then told me to get another cashier upfront, right this dang minute. I told him the only other person working the store at the moment was the receiving guy and he was unloading the truck – and couldn’t use the registers anyways as he didn’t have the codes to the registers. I was the only cashier and would be until 8 am.
He got really irate – I’m going to call the manager, etc. He kept raising his voice until he was almost screaming. Other customers started to gather to watch.
When he finally got to the question of ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ The little old lady yelled back at him – ‘Yeah, you’re a little prissy prick so shut the F up before I ram this walker where the sun doesn’t shine.’ She also said some other very choice words to him, but it’s inappropriate to post here.
He was just shocked by this little lady. He was so embarrassed, that he left his stuff in the basket, dropped it on the floor and left.
Turns out, this little old lady was in the Marine Corps Women’s Reserve during World War II. As the women’s division equivalent of a drill sergeant. She had been married to a USMC drill sergeant and her two kids became USMC drill sergeants.
She didn’t take trash from anybody.”
They Asked Her To Do WHAT?!
“OK so here’s a story from my time as a McDonald’s employee.
It was during the week around 8 pm, and the restaurant was quieter than usual, so a few people had been sent home early, and others given extra breaks.
I was on the front counter by myself, when in walked this group of guys all around their mid- 20’s, and I could straight away tell that they were going to be a test on my patience. Instead of talking to each other, they seemed to prefer to half-shout, with the odd swear word thrown in for good measure. One of the guys leaned halfway across the counter to read my name badge, and then kept unnecessarily saying my name throughout his order.
(‘Hello Bridie, can I have a Big Mac meal Bridie. But with no pickles Bridie. With a Coke please, Bridie … etc.)
His friends all seemed to find this hilarious. Furthermore, nearly all the items they ordered were customized somehow. (Seriously, all McDonald’s workers hate this.)
When I asked them to find a table and sit down as their order would take a while, they started kicking up a fuss. I explained that whilst the restaurant was quiet, the drive-thru was still fairly busy, and custom orders had to be cooked from scratch which can take a fair few minutes.
One of the guys leered at me, commenting that they would all go and sit down if I would ‘suck them off.’
I snapped and loudly informed them that they had no right to speak to me that way. Who the heck do they think they are?
I was fuming, and what made it worse is that they all laughed, commenting:
‘Oooh! No need to get your panties in a twist.’
Meanwhile, having heard my raised voice, the store manager came out of his office. He walked up to me, and put his hand on my shoulder, leading me away from the counter asking if I was OK.
‘No, I’m not serving them!’ I replied ‘They can’t speak to me like that. They’ve been pricks this whole time, and one of them asked me to suck them all off! They—’
‘YOU F**KING WHAT!?!?!’
The next thing I knew, my 40-something-year-old manager had jumped over the counter and started chasing these guys out of the restaurant and down the street. All the while shouting that they couldn’t ‘speak to [his] staff that way!’ and that he was going to ‘f**king kill [them]!
He returned 5 minutes later, rang the police, gave them a description of the guys and got them banned from the premises.
He then offered me some free food and told me to take the rest of the evening off.”
Sorry Your Wife Left…Loser
“When I was 16-years-old I got my first ‘real’ job, working for Sears. They hired me for the Christmas rush and kept me on in the New Year. My manager, John, was the country’s top housewares manager. He was a terrific guy and a great manager.
One evening, a customer called in looking for replacement parts for his Weber grill. He was extraordinarily rude. As I spoke with him, I learned that the reason he needed replacement parts was that his wife had left him and had taken the Weber accessories, although not the grill itself. I tried my best to be calm and courteous and to help him, but nothing I did was satisfactory to him. I looked around for help, but everyone else in the department was busy helping customers. I don’t remember just what it was he said that I couldn’t handle, but I know what I said: ‘Excuse me, sir, but it’s not my fault that your wife left you.’ And then I hung up on him.
Shortly after that, the store manager came down to the floor. This was a very, very big deal because that young man NEVER came down to the floor. All we knew about him was that he was a young hotshot. My boss was not young at all. He had grown old as a housewares manager because he had no education beyond high school, and so Sears would not promote him beyond the department manager role.
Well, it seems that the customer had reached the store manager and DEMANDED that I be fired. I don’t know what transpired between the store manager and my boss – that conversation took place behind closed doors – but I know that John stuck up for me, a 16-year old part-time high school kid.
After the store manager left to go back to his office – without ever saying a word to me – John took me into his office, sat me down, and explained to me, ‘The customer is always right.’ He said, ‘Even when the customer is wrong, they are right. You need to know that, and you also need to know when a situation is too much for you and you need to ask for help. If anything like that ever happens, then interrupt me if I’m there, and if I’m not, get Marge.’ Marge was also a character.
I’ve never forgotten that John stuck up for me in that situation. I was wrong, and he gave me a second chance.
I wish I could remember John’s last name. He was an education. He used to send me on spying missions to other retailers, to see how much they were charging for specific products (John was persona non grata since they all knew him). And I remember him giving me another mission, to demonstrate Weber grills inside the store by grilling a chicken or ham (it was a BIG store – we would light the grill outside, then wheel it carefully in). People would follow their noses to see what was making that delicious smell, and I would lift the cover and say, ‘Have you seen the delicious chicken we are grilling today?’ and tell them all about Weber grills. I knew just about everything there was to know about that product because John was adamant about knowing your product. He used to demonstrate that Corelle does not break, by dropping it from a height of four feet. Unfortunately, he always chose the same plate to drop from that height, and there did come a day when the plate had had enough and did break. We did not get that sale, and all of us were kind of relieved that it was John who broke the plate, and not one of us. He shook his head at himself, and talked for years about how he had lost that sale.”
“I’ll Give You Five Minutes To Make Me Look Good”
“I worked at a cosmetics store where we provided complimentary makeovers to anyone who asked for it.
One day, a woman came in and sat down on an empty chair and gestured to her face, ‘I want to have foundation.’ So I went through the routine of questions. ‘What is your skin type? What consistency do you prefer? How much coverage?’ She promptly cut me off, and simply said, ‘Too many questions. I’ll give you five minutes to make me look good.’
I was getting slightly annoyed, but I figured she was maybe just trying to get some makeup done before meeting someone. So, I went with the safe bet: a popular foundation that is highly recommended for sensitive skin (I didn’t want to accidentally break her out.) Anyway, I started to apply, and she stopped me and began to raise her voice.
‘What are you doing?! I just want to cover this one spot.’ By the way, she didn’t mention this at all and if she had I would have applied concealer, which was what she was looking for.
‘Take it off and do it over,’ she demanded.
At this point, I sat down all of my brushes and said, ‘You can say that nicely.’
She stared at me in disbelief, but after about 10 seconds, began to stammer, ‘No… no… I just meant…’
My manager ran over and asked if I wanted my break, and took over. I seldom lose my temper, and I guess she knew that so I never got ‘in trouble’ for it. I certainly was not paid enough (or will ever be paid enough) to be made to feel less of a person.”
Her Teenage Son Knew More Than This Fool
“One afternoon, my oldest son and I were at Whole Foods, waiting in line at the butcher counter. My son was about 17 at the time. The lady in front of us is screaming at the man behind the counter that she wanted ‘grass-fed, vegetarian chicken’.
So a bit of background… we have had chickens for most of my kids’ lives. They’re fun pets and breakfast producers. So, my son knew chickens and they are anything but grass eaters. They are feathery miniature t-rexes when it comes to eating.
As she was getting more ticked off and the man was trying to explain they had grass-fed beef, but not chicken. My son couldn’t keep his laughter quiet anymore and he let out a big guffaw that led to a few minutes of serious laughter.
The woman turned around and in the same condescending tone she was using with the employee, shouts at my son, ‘what’s so funny?’ And he says, ‘You! Chickens are far from vegetarian and there’s no way they would be able to live eating grass.’ And kept laughing. He couldn’t help himself. Honestly, it was all I could do to stifle my laughs.
She then turned on me asking if I was going to make my son apologize. Oh, no honey. I gave her a quick lesson on chicken digestion and that even the grains they get in the prepared feed are pretty much just used as more grit in their gullet. And proceeded to tell the story of one set of young hens we had that would play keep away with field mice until they’d finally eat them. And toads, frogs, insects, whatever they could get their beaks on.
She got really incensed and stormed off. The butcher was so pleased she was gone he gave us a discount on the meat we were getting.”
All This Over .37 cents?!
“In college I worked at the front desk of a large hotel on Capitol Hill in DC. We were usually quite full. At least half of our guests worked for the government, receiving the government-negotiated rate.
Quick aside: rates at hotels can be flexible, depending on occupancy. You can always chat with people at the front desk about your rate, and if you’re friendly about it, they might find you a better rate, if they can. But the government rate is non-negotiable – if the guest hopes to be reimbursed, they must book their room at the govt rate).
So: It’s 7AM and I have been at the front desk for about 30 minutes, still a bit sleepy. The lobby is full of business travelers and regular guests, who have all come by here and there for a chat, or picking up a paper etc. since I came on the desk.
This woman, who is so angry that she seems to be vibrating at frequency of anger that I’ve never seen before, rushes to where I am prepping the morning’s arrivals, check-outs and completing housekeeping reports. She throws her suitcase down with an Angry Flourish and SLAMS a piece of paper on the counter right in front of me. She pounds her other angry little clawed fist on the counter. She spits at me: ‘WHAT THE HECK IS THIS GARBAGE?! YOU’RE FREAKING CHEATING ME, YOU DANG PRICK! YOU BETTER FIX THIS RIGHT NOW!’ No ‘Good morning, my good and helpful human being. The bill slid under my door seems to be incorrect, can we take a look at this, and maybe come to an agreement as to how we may fix this? Thank you so much!’
The lobby goes silent. Everyone is utterly captivated by this out of her gourd escaped mental patient/woman screaming at me (honestly if I were a guest witnessing this in the lobby, I totally would be too).
I’m just sort of stunned, as it’s fairly rare that a guest screams for any reason other than imminent death by defenestration, fire, or rodent infestation (which never happened at our property, nooo). And I’ve never, EVER, been called the C-word, EVER in a customer service setting. I shouldn’t have dealt with her. But I did.
I’m afraid to look at her bill but I pull it toward me, and I notice she had been staying at the government rate. The rate is definitely slightly higher than usual; but just as we’d been informed earlier in the week, the government rate had gone up slightly, about $0.37. I’m not sure of the exact figure anymore, so I will just use $0.37. This is not a rate we set at the hotel, nor can we adjust; and I explain this to her as calmly as possible.
‘Ah, yes.’ I say, as I point to the rate on the bill. ‘I’m not sure if your booking agent informed you, but the government rate went up $0.37 per night since you made your reservation. That’s a negotiated rate between the government and the hotel – it’s nothing I can adjust here, unfortunately. You might need to inform your travel management desk that the rate has changed. Would you like to leave the bill on the credit card on file?’
I thought being calm and rational would calm her down a bit and ease the violent shaking, seeing as the rate change wasn’t $37 a night, but $0.37. But no. The vibrations went up in frequency, and her face took on these quite alarming shades of purple and red. Spittle. Claws. Apoplectic rage. I’ve never seen anyone this angry, ever. It’s paralyzingly terrifying and also infuriating to be at the brunt. About now I’m also getting that little adrenaline spike that makes my hands shake like they’re going to pick up the letter opener riiight over there and…no. I’m a professional.
She continues to spew invective at me: ‘Listen you stupid prick. You’re gonna tappity tap with your fat filthy fingers, and change this stupid rate, and give me a new receipt while I sit here and make sure you freaking do it. So flipping do it, you ugly loser piece of trash, working a trash job! You should be kissing my butt…’ She went on, in a similar vein, questioning my legitimacy, my weight, my perceived lack of education…again, I should’ve just walked away and gotten a manager, but I was just stuck in this swirling miasma of anger like an insect that sees the spider coming but is trapped in the web…and they don’t cover this level of abuse in any training manual I’ve ever seen. When you’re at the receiving end of such hatred, vitriol and a level of mean that I can’t quite possibly convey in mere words? It’s: Paralyzing. Heart-crushing. Soul-killing. I was literally gobsmacked.
And add in there a lobby of frequent guests, all of whom I quite liked and highly respected – witnessing this horrible tirade.
I never said a word during her obscene rant. Honestly, I was just frozen, in both anger and astonishment. When she finally stopped for breath the third time, I took about a buck seventy from my drawer, slapped it on the counter, pointed at the doors and said, ‘Here’s the difference. Now get the heck out of my hotel, you miserable wench.’
She just gasped, purple-faced and speechless, as the entire lobby broke into applause, cheers, and a lot of cheerfully vulgar sendoffs. She grasped the money in her mean little claw, grabbed her luggage, shot off a final, weak, ‘Get lost, stupid chick,’ and stomped her little cloven hooves on her way out.
She later called the hotel general manager and gave him an earful. She also called our corporate offices. Unbeknownst to her (or me), several of the regular guests in the lobby wrote letters to the hotel general manager, and also to the main corporate management team of in support of me and what I’d endured. By the time she complained, they’d already heard all about it.
I still received a reprimand, but it was worth it.”
Learn To Wait Like An Adult Please
“I worked in a cafe for four years.
During those four years, I would always work Christmas Days because they always had double pay and I was on holidays so I would work the whole December period. It also meant that December periods were often busy.
I was good at my job. I’m good at all my jobs, and I know it.
So in this particular job at the cafe, it was a Saturday, peak hours and super duper busy. It was the kind of busy where customers would have had to wait up to 15–20 minutes just for their drink, hot or cold.
I was doing the hot beverage section and was in full blown drowning in orders after orders. There was a timer on the screen that showed the orders and it up already up to at around 20 minutes waiting time at average.
Customers were mostly waiting patiently because they weren’t blind, they could see it was busy.
And then suddenly, one particular customer come up to me and says:
‘Hi, is my drink ready?? I’ve been waiting a long time!’
I stop what I’m doing and ask for her receipt because there was a possibility that I may have missed out on her drink and served other customers that came after her.
She was still a long way behind my list of orders, probably by like four or five people.
So I hand her the receipt back and tell her politely, ‘Your drink is still going to be made soon but you’ll just have to wait a little longer because I have other customers’ drinks who came first to make.’
She frowns and gives me an irritated look.
‘I have been waiting for 30 minutes! Why am I made to wait this long?!’
What lies, there’s a timer on my screen and she’s been waiting 18 minutes.
I’m irritated with her now because she’s holding up my line, orders and I can’t make drinks while talking to her entitled self so I just snap at her.
‘And there are customers who have waited FAR longer than you but they’re not complaining are they?’
Boom, she realizes how stupid she sounds to be complaining and steps back fuming.
My manager was present but couldn’t give more than two f***s because she knew it was busy and couldn’t be aksed to fire me for something like that.”
Take Your Photos And Leave
“I worked at a photo store where we did one-hour development, a customer came in to pick up his pictures and I asked him what name they were under. He told me ‘Smith’, and I found his packet and rang him up.
The next day he stormed in cussing about I had given him the wrong pictures, that the packet I gave him wasn’t his. I apologized profusely and asked him what name was on the film he had given to us for developing, to which he replied ‘Jones’.
I remembered him telling me ‘Smith’ when I gave him the pictures, and I explained to him that it was an honest error on my part because he had asked for ‘Smith’ and that was what I had given him, I found his ‘Jones’ pictures and apologized once again about the mix-up – even though I wasn’t at fault.
He kept on and on about what a mistake I was, and what a lousy service we provided, etc, etc, and I kept apologizing for the mix-up and misunderstanding. He kept on and on being belligerent and abusive to me until I’d had enough. I told him ‘Look, I ASKED you what name they were under, YOU told me ‘Smith’, I GAVE you ‘Smith’. I have been trying to be nice, I’ve apologized many times for something that I didn’t do wrong in the first place, but you just want to be a prick and act like a moron. If you were too stupid to know your own name, that isn’t MY fault, you just want to act like an idiot to cover your own stupidity. You don’t want an apology, you just want to complain and complain at me for it. Forget you!’
At that point, he shut up, took his pictures, and left.”