Here’s another one of my Wal-Mart adventures where I’m telling on myself, but I don’t mind because it’s funny.
It was Halloween (if you couldn’t tell from the title of this post), and we were allowed to wear costumes if we wanted. I didn’t want to because I rarely wear costumes on Halloween anyways. It seemed especially wasteful to do so while at work. So there I was, wearing normal clothing, plus a blue vest and a name badge.
A long, long time ago, I used to work for Wal-Mart. I know, I know. That place is 33 grams of suck. Believe it or not though, it used to be a good company to work for and they actually paid me a decent wage. Of course, the company that I worked for is long gone, replaced by the big corporate greed machine it currently is. Treating employees like shit while under-paying them and doing it’s best to find ways to fire long-time employees who are making good money so that they can hire part-time teenagers in their place who won’t get insurance and will make less than half of what the long-time employees make. But I digress…
I was once the manager of the Sporting Goods department. One of my responsibilities in managing this department was being responsible for every single firearm in that particular store. Seriously, it was a huge responsibility. Gun audits had to be done weekly. There was even a more in-depth audit done monthly. I had to register at the local court-house and have my fingerprints placed on file. Basically, even though I wasn’t the only one who handled the firearms since I couldn’t be there 24/7, I was the one ultimately responsible for them. It was a shitty deal, and I got out of that position as fast as I could. Continue reading
I don’t talk much about my job here, but I work in Information Technology. Specifically, I repair computers. I get to tear them apart, replace what’s broken, and put them back together. It’s not a glamorous job, but I like it.
Like any other job, it certainly has its ups and downs, and its customer service fails. Continue reading
Once upon a time (as opposed to once upon no time), I was born. But that’s not what this story is about. Mostly because I don’t remember it. No, this story happened roughly 18 years afterward. Continue reading
I was having a jovially nonsensical conversation with Rutabaga the Mercenary Researcher - who has an excellent blog, by the way, and you should check it out – on my Unshitty™ Daily Prompt post from this morning when she reminded me of a story I’ve yet to tell on this here weblog (isn’t that what all the bots who comment on my site keep calling this?).
This story involves a ditzy blonde.
Is there any other kind?
Many, many years ago, in a retail store far, far away… I was at work. And it sucked. But that’s not the purpose of this story. I’m at work now and it sucks. Some things never change.
Anyhow, a coworker and I were discussing…something. I don’t remember the exact subject matter of our conversation, but the coworker expressed an opinion on something to which I replied, “I concur.”
Then, a really, really dumb blonde (again, is there any other kind?) coworker who happened to overhear our conversation interrupted us with this gem: ”Concur? Isn’t that something a doctor does?”
“Yes,” I quipped, “only a doctor can concur. Didn’t you know I run a lucrative medical practice during the day and only moonlight as a destitute retail worker?”
Here’s your sign.
From that moment on those in the know (you are now a part of this fortuitous group) always ensure that the statement, “I concur,” is followed endearingly with, “just like a doctor.” In fact, if you are in the know, it is mandatory that you retort in this fashion.
A flawless execution of the “I concur” mandate.
So you have you mission, oh faithful readers of stuph. When somebody concurs, it is your mandate to ensure they do it just like a doctor. Go forth, and spread the word.
If it seems like it’s been ages since I posted a Customer Service Fail story… that’s because it has been. However, I experienced some definite customer service suckage at the hands of Sprint about which I simply must rant.
My problems with Sprint started as soon as I switched to them. More recently, I began to have problems with their service.
During my separation, I moved in with a friend of mine, where I had absolutely no signal. I had no bars. When I did have service it was in roaming. My phone would frequently drop calls. It would take me multiple attempts to successfully send a text.
So I called Sprint and asked them to let me out of the contract without paying a cancellation fee since I had no service at my new residence. I was told, quite politely, to fuck off.
Evidently, even though I had no service, my new address was still “on their coverage map.” So since I technically lived an area that allegedly had Sprint coverage, the only thing that they would offer me was a signal booster.
A signal booster? I thought. Sweet! I’ll try it. It’s better than nothing.
Well, I was going to try it until I found out that I’d have to pay $130 for it.
(courtesy of flickr.com)
“Why should I pay $130 to get a signal when your coverage map states that I should have coverage where I am?” I not so politely inquired. ”Also, I can cancel my account and my cancellation fee will be $140. Why shouldn’t I just cancel my contract and switch to a provider who actually has good coverage and gives a shit about their customers?” I added.
I could literally hear the customer service rep scratching his head on the other end of the line.
This is the guy at the other end of the line. At least, that’s how I pictured him. (photo courtesy of sodahead.com)
“Sorry, that’s all I can offer you,” the customer service rep lamely replied.
So I cancelled the contract and jumped onto my dad’s plan. I had planned on paying off my final bill from Sprint and the cancellation fees in one lump payment, but then my wife lost her job. So I called Sprint over the weekend to see if I could arrange a payment plan to avoid getting sent to collection. Guess what I was told?
Yup.
Since I cancelled my contract they won’t let me make payment arrangements. However, if I had just completely failed to pay my bill and had my service disrupted or some other bullshit then they would have been more than willing to work with me. The customer service rep actually told me to let it go to collection since they’d be willing to let me make payments on it.
So Sprint is willing to lose money sending my account to a collection company rather than just work out an easy payment schedule that would have them paid off in a matter of months? How the hell do they stay in business with practices like this?
Oh, the customer service rep also told me I might be able to settle the bill with the collection agency for less than I actually owe, but if I ever wanted to use Sprint again I’d still be required to pay the difference. Do they really think I’ll ever be using Sprint again? With all the bullshit I’ve had to deal with since switching to them? The dishonest selling practices? The shitty coverage? I had a 4G phone but there was no 4G coverage anywhere around here besides downtown Cincinnati. How about those of us living in the suburbs? The only thing Sprint has going for it is the unlimited data, but there are so many places offering free WiFi now that it’s not really a problem.
Fuck Sprint. Fuck them up their dishonest, idiotic asses.
There. I’ve said it. I feel much better now.
Once upon a time, in a retail store not so far away, I was working at the customer service desk of a major retailer. I was a manager at the time, but the store was busy so I was helping out at the desk.
The store I was working at had just started cashing payroll checks just a few short weeks ago. A woman walked up to me and handed me a paycheck from Staples and told me she’d like to cash it.
Now, the way the check cashing worked is we had to run the check through the register so that the check reader could read the check number and determine if the check could be cashed. I have no idea what criteria were used to determine whether or not a check could be cashed. All I know is that the register determined whether or not we could.
So I accepted the lady’s check and ran it through the register. It was declined. I tried again thinking that maybe the check wasn’t read correctly. It was denied again.
I informed that lady that I wouldn’t be able to cash her check. This obviously dampened the woman’s mood.
“I’ve had a check cashed here before. Now all of a sudden you can’t cash my checks?” she said caustically.
“I apologize, ma’am, but the register has declined your check and there’s nothing I can do about it.” I explained unhelpfully. There really was nothing I could do. We were forbidden from overriding the register’s decision to decline a check.
“Is it because I’m black?” she asked stupidly.
I was shocked. She could see perfectly well that the register had declined the check because there was a display facing her that said so. I had also never been accused of racism before. I’m not racist and it would never occur to me to deny somebody service based on any physical attributes a person possessed.
“Ma’am, I assure you that the register has no idea what color you are. I apologize again, but if the register denies the check there’s nothing I can do,” I tried again.
“I wanna talk to a manager,” she demanded.
Now, at this particular time, the managers at the store I worked at had a choice between wearing a dress shirt and tie or wearing a polo shirt underneath a company vest. I hate dress shirts and ties, so I always wore a polo shirt and a vest. I can see how that might be somewhat confusing, but the name badge I was wearing clearly stated that I was a manager.
“I am a manger, ma’am,” I told her.
“No, you’re not. You’re wearing a vest. Managers don’t wear vests. Get me a manager,” she angrily declared.
I gave her a look that clearly asked, “Are you fucking serious?” but she didn’t budge. So I left the service desk and found a manager who wasn’t wearing a vest. I told him what was going on and was rewarded with the same, “Are you fucking serious?” look I had given the customer just a minute before.
“I know,” I said, exasperated, “but she refuses to believe I’m a manager. Can you go tell this woman we can’t cash her check?”
Now, this other manager was running a register because, as I said, we were busy. So I had to find someone to take over for him so he could come tell this obstinate woman that we couldn’t cash her check.
After I had found someone to take over for the other manager, we both headed back over to the customer service desk where I stood behind the other manager while I had to listen to her tell him that I was a racist. The manager explained to her that I was in fact NOT racist and offered to try to cash the check again for her. He signed on to the register and ran the check through. It was denied again. He explained to her the same thing I had. The register denied it and there’s nothing we can do for her.
So what happened next? How would this woman explode? Well, she said, “Okay,” and took her check back and left the store.
What the fuck?
That other manager was just as white as I am (I actually think he was whiter) but why was he not accused of racism?
What a bitch.
As I posted a few days ago, I used to work in a photo lab and being in there led to situations that scarred me for life. Here is one, and once again, I’m telling on myself, but I’d bet that everyone who reads this would do the same thing I did.
I had only been working in the photo lab for a few months when this happened. Back then, digital cameras were just on the verge of taking off, but hadn’t yet, so most of what we were doing back then was developing film. One day, I processed a roll and was running it through the computer. As we ran the film through the computer, we would look at the pictures to make sure the pictures took and that there was nothing inappropriate in them, that way we only printed the pictures that we would be able to sell. There was a whole lot of inappropriate in this roll of film.
Every single picture was of a woman, who was between 50-60 years old and around 100 lbs overweight, looking like she was trying out for Hustler. They were the nastiest pictures I’ve ever seen. I’m not even going to describe them to you, because I don’t want to cause you to get sick. Needless to say, we were not able to print any of her pictures. We didn’t charge her anything and were going to give her the negatives when she showed back up. The other girl who was working with me went to break and, of course, that’s when this woman shows up to pick her pictures up. If her boyfriend showed up to get them, I would’ve been fine. Since it was her, I had problems.
I couldn’t look at her. Every time I tried, I felt like I was going to throw up. She was also getting angry with me for not printing the pictures and began yelling. Normally, I would’ve been able to handle this situation, but I couldn’t this time since I was staring at the register. Not knowing what else to do, I told her that I was going to go and get somebody that would be able to help her better than I could. I went back to the break room and told the other girl that there was a customer out there that had requested her personally because she had helped that customer before. She went back out to help the Hustler-wannabe lady (not knowing it was the Hustler-wannabe lady), but I stayed back in the break room (even though it was nowhere near time for me to go to break) and smoked a cigarette, hoping that by the time I got done, she would be gone. She was.
As soon as I got back out there, the other girl started yelling at me for pawning the customer off on her and calling me an asshole. She was right to do so, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was never having to see that lady ever again, and I accomplished my goal.
Way, way, WAY back in the day, I worked on third shift for a retail store. I unloaded the trucks and then pulled the freight out to the floor so that the stockers could put the merchandise on the shelves.
Third shift, while the hours kind of sucked, was actually pretty fun. The store seldom had customers in it even though it was open, which meant we could goof off often and get away with it as long as a manager wasn’t around. Case in point, the night I threw a nerf football to one of my coworkers who was up in the steel and the ball knocked out a ceiling tile was witnessed by my boss. That didn’t go over well.
Yet third shift still presented many oddities for us to behold. Third shift is apparently when cross-dressers come out en mass to do their shopping. Let me tell you, some of these guys (heeeeeeeey!) didn’t try very hard. They would use socks as, um, boobs, while wearing skin-tight shirts, denim skirts, and combat boots. Classy.
On one particular evening, while pulling freight to the floor, I noticed a man sleeping on one of the futon displays after several trips by the furniture department. When I ran into my manager I happened to mention it to him. He asked me to come out there with him.
Now, I doubt the manager would’ve had too much of a problem with this guy sleeping on the futon display under normal circumstances. After all, the dude appeared to be homeless and just needed a place to sleep. HOWEVER, the futon display was several feet off the floor on a warehouse rack. That guy could’ve potential hurt himself getting down or rolling off the display in his sleep so we unfortunately were going to have to kick him out.
I stood at the end of the aisle while my manager walked over to him and started to speak to the “customer.” It took him several moments to wake the “customer” up, but the guy eventually woke up and sat up in a daze. My manager told him he couldn’t sleep on the futon, to which the guy responded, “I was just testing it out, man.” That drew laughter from everyone present, including me.
Sure, buddy, and I wasn't really going 97mph in a 65mph zone. Oh, wait. Yes I was.
My manager eventually convinced the guy to leave the store without having to involve the police, but in the end we all had a hilarious story to tell our friends (or to put on a blog some 15 years later).
Ah, memories.
At my current job, I don’t deal with customers all too often. That’s great for my sanity, but not so great for my blog.
As I have mentioned in the past, I work in IT. The company I work for has numerous small offices across the country and they decided it would be more efficient to have one IT location than to have one IT guy it every location. So when a machine can’t be fixed remotely they have to ship us their machine.
Obviously, the end users aren’t too happy about this, but they do it. Some people pack their machines in a box with obsessive-compulsive care. They’ll pack them in a box stuffed with styrofoam peanuts and/or bubble wrap. Hell, one I received yesterday was packed in a box, inside of an envelope, inside of another box packed with peanuts. Other people don’t pack the boxes at all. I guess they figure since it isn’t technically their machine they don’t care if it gets broken in transit.
Then, I got this yesterday.
I didn't feel like washing these clothes anyway...
This is exactly what it looked like when I opened the box. A desktop computer packed insufficiently with dirty clothes. Are you fucking kidding me? Why would you do that? It’s not like the clothes did anything to protect the machine since it was still free to move around in the box. You may as well not have put anything in the box with the computer. That would have been more sanitary at least.
Luckily, I keep hand sanitizer at my desk, although I never imagined I’d be using it because of this. We also have Clorox wipes which I used to sanitize the machine. I have no idea if this person is expecting the clothes back, but they are in the garbage now. I wasn’t about to touch them. I just tipped the box over and let them go.
I’ve seen some douchebaggery in my day, but this one surprised even me.
