OMG I wonder if there's a correlation between being old and not being able to tell if someone does or doesn't work here.
I had to run by a local sporting goods store for some kneepads for some young relatives.
I got my phone out, and I'm googling to figure out what size I need; two kids, an inch difference in height, and the taller one needs a Small while the shorter one needs a Large. They're not that different in weight, so how the hell does this sizing thing work?
This old crone walks up next to me, snorts, and says, "Well that's not very professional."
Lady, I'm decked out in Easter regalia, complete with tacky glitter covered 'easter eggs' at the end of springs on my head. If I shake my head hard enough I can get them swinging so wildly that they'll smack somebody and give them a black eye. Who the FUCK thinks I care about professionalism?
She puts her hand on my phone and tries to knock it out of my hands. "Did you hear me?! I said that's not professional to play on your phone!"
I slap her hands away. It's loud, and I know exactly how much it stings. "Lady, I'm really not interested in your opinion. Now get your hands the fuck off of me before you lose them."
"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME? YOU CAN'T TALK TO ME THAT WAY! GET ME YOUR MANAGER NOW!"
Oh shit, I think she just made every dog in the greater metropolitan area go deaf.
Me: "Denied. I don't work here."
Well she's beyond listening: she's got a rant going, at the top of her lungs.
Well somebody is aware of an altercation happening, because a manager comes bustling over to find out what the hell is going on.
I turn to him, cut the old lady off and go, "Hey bro, do you know anything about kid's volleyball pads? I'm lost here, and this crazy ass old bat isn't helping."
Her rant stops mid-screech. The gears in her head churn. You can smell the burning clutch. She finally realizes that I didn't work there, and turned purple in the face. Wasn't even red. PURPLE. I swear she was going to have a stroke.
I look at her, raise my eyebrow and make a grand sarcastic gesture at my get-up, and at the manager, who is dressed quite professionally complete with name tag.
She splutters, then flees. I told the manager what happened, he laughed.