Well, thanks to my hatred of customer service, and humanity in general, I have something to say again.
The other night this anorexic fop bought a quarter-keg of Bud Light or Miller Lite or Coors Light or whatever pussy-ass taintwater people of his ilk drink. He stood there and watched the cashier ring everything up without saying a word. Then he got the receipt and IT BEGAN.
Fuckhead: "Whoah, wait just a second. I called here and they told me over the phone that the keg would cost $37."
He thrust the receipt at me. The keg had rang up $51, because THAT'S HOW MUCH THE FUCKING KEG COSTS.
Me: "I'm sorry, but that's the right price. A keg of (insert cunt beer name here) costs $51."
Mancunt: "Well, I was told $37, and I don't think I should have to pay $51. You guys are giving out bad information. I..."
At this point I stopped listening to him. I'm sorry if he was given the wrong price, but I really had no proof of this other than his word, which meant as much to me as a pile of dog shit. What I really didn't like was the tone taken by this over privileged 22-yr-old, with his faux-vintage Abercrombie plaid shirt and $100 Zac Efron haircut. He was giving me the manufactured retail outrage so common among upper-middle-class twits. I'm sure he learned this maneuver from years of watching his prick mom and cunt dad berate clerks, waiters, and other service industry peon. Well, this was one service industry peon who wasn't falling for it.
I guess I could have calmly explained to him that we only make a few dollars of actual profit on a keg, and that it's ILLEGAL to sell alcohol for less than you pay for it. But I already tried reasoning with this little shit, and he wouldn't stop repeating, like an overly manicured parrot, the same "I shouldn't have to..." line of horseshit. At this point I wanted to punch his fucking face in.
Me: "Do you want the keg? If you don't want it, we'll refund your credit card."
Sniveling weasel: "Well, I shouldn't have to..."
Me: "Would you like to speak to a manager?" I was FUCKING DONE by this point.
Rat-faced bastard: "Well, uh...I shouldn't have to..."
He was rattled. He couldn't believe that the whiny repetition that had served his mommy so well when brow-beating country club busboys was failing him here.
Me: "That was a 'Yes or No' question. DO. YOU. WANT. TO. SPEAK. TO. A. MANAGER?"
Nearly-reduced-to-tears nancy boy: "Uh, yeah..."
I called a manager over and - surprise - the manager told him he could pay the $51 dollars or get a refund. He took the keg, because if he went back to the Chachi circle jerk without beer there would be heck to pay.
Well obviously I'm sick of dealing with the general public. Hopefully, his dad is someone powerful enough to get me fired. I'd love to spend the holidays sitting around collecting unemployment checks.
The other night this anorexic fop bought a quarter-keg of Bud Light or Miller Lite or Coors Light or whatever pussy-ass taintwater people of his ilk drink. He stood there and watched the cashier ring everything up without saying a word. Then he got the receipt and IT BEGAN.
Fuckhead: "Whoah, wait just a second. I called here and they told me over the phone that the keg would cost $37."
He thrust the receipt at me. The keg had rang up $51, because THAT'S HOW MUCH THE FUCKING KEG COSTS.
Me: "I'm sorry, but that's the right price. A keg of (insert cunt beer name here) costs $51."
Mancunt: "Well, I was told $37, and I don't think I should have to pay $51. You guys are giving out bad information. I..."
At this point I stopped listening to him. I'm sorry if he was given the wrong price, but I really had no proof of this other than his word, which meant as much to me as a pile of dog shit. What I really didn't like was the tone taken by this over privileged 22-yr-old, with his faux-vintage Abercrombie plaid shirt and $100 Zac Efron haircut. He was giving me the manufactured retail outrage so common among upper-middle-class twits. I'm sure he learned this maneuver from years of watching his prick mom and cunt dad berate clerks, waiters, and other service industry peon. Well, this was one service industry peon who wasn't falling for it.
I guess I could have calmly explained to him that we only make a few dollars of actual profit on a keg, and that it's ILLEGAL to sell alcohol for less than you pay for it. But I already tried reasoning with this little shit, and he wouldn't stop repeating, like an overly manicured parrot, the same "I shouldn't have to..." line of horseshit. At this point I wanted to punch his fucking face in.
Me: "Do you want the keg? If you don't want it, we'll refund your credit card."
Sniveling weasel: "Well, I shouldn't have to..."
Me: "Would you like to speak to a manager?" I was FUCKING DONE by this point.
Rat-faced bastard: "Well, uh...I shouldn't have to..."
He was rattled. He couldn't believe that the whiny repetition that had served his mommy so well when brow-beating country club busboys was failing him here.
Me: "That was a 'Yes or No' question. DO. YOU. WANT. TO. SPEAK. TO. A. MANAGER?"
Nearly-reduced-to-tears nancy boy: "Uh, yeah..."
I called a manager over and - surprise - the manager told him he could pay the $51 dollars or get a refund. He took the keg, because if he went back to the Chachi circle jerk without beer there would be heck to pay.
Well obviously I'm sick of dealing with the general public. Hopefully, his dad is someone powerful enough to get me fired. I'd love to spend the holidays sitting around collecting unemployment checks.
Labels: fuck retail, fuck the holidays, fuck this guy, just...fuck
2 Comments:
Ubermilf! How offensive! This is 2009... almost 2010. Please get with the times.
They prefer to be called African-Americolored.
I've always said, I'm good at customer service. I JUST HATE IT.
But you are far better than I am.
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