This story was originally posted on March 03, 2010

From Emoo

Hey RHU,

I'm one of the nice website stalkers you guys have. Even though I'm out of Retail Hell (temporarily--I'm getting back IN after spring break to save money for college), I have a story I wanted to share.

I worked at a quick-service restaurant where the mascot is a cow and the meat we sell is chicken. Not going to lie, I actually enjoyed my job. Managers were awesome, except the one I was terrified of, and the woman who managed it all in place of the actual owner/operator man is the sweetest woman I've ever met.

That said, even the custys weren't so bad. Most of them were your run o' the mill college town folks...minimal screaming and douchebaggery here (not counting the students of course).

HOWEVER.

I'd been working for about half a year here, gotten used to the filling of orders and where the hell everything was, and it was a busy afternoon. I should also mention that it was a football day. For my town and basically anywhere else with a college football stadium, the custys were here in full force, line is out the door.

Naturally, I'm completely freaking out on the inside (first jobs tend to make you do that), but handling it pretty well--I didn't knock anyone over that day.

So this black lady comes in, and already I smell trouble. She has the Louis Vitton-Prada-Coach-Versaille designer crap all over.

First thought: Why the HELL are you coming in here if you're so bloody rich?

Next: "Welcome to Chick-fil-Cow, how may I serve you today?"

Her order is to-go. Fine. Meal meal meal meal--meal with wacky changes that have to be keyed in by hand--what? You want FIVE shakes? Right now? To GO? AND you want five freakin' cherries in all of them? *cue panic attack* Shakes take for-bloody-ever.

Luckily, Jay, the awesome MegaManager makes four of them for me, and I just have to deal with the one (I HATE making shakes). I go back up to the register, put it in the craptastic cardboard drink holder, and get ready for the next custy. No dice.

Woman WILL NOT LEAVE THE FRONT COUNTER.

THEN, she looks at the strawberry shake, and TAKES THE BLOODY LID OFF.

To anyone who makes shakes--True or False: When you make a shake with that fancy dome lid, it tends to end up a little fuller than the lip of the cup. So naturally, the whipped cream, shake mix, and cherries start to fall out.

Bitch woman pushes it away like it's diseased (please note that she didn't even put the lid back on, so it's still oozing everywhere).

"I don't like how this one looks. Make it again."

What. The. HELL.

Your order was incredibly crazy to begin with, you make us put in 4 extra cherries--which we are not supposed to do, by the way--and then you and your stupidity ruin its "looks"--and you want me to help you more? Ugh. Have I mentioned that the line is still out the door?

I run over to the shake machine, get a weird look from Jay--til she sees the woman I'm helping. Jay pats my shoulder and makes the shake again for me. Finally the bitch leaves, and I can take care of the other, less awful customers.

I hate morons. I especially hate arrogant, rich, entitled morons who think the world revolves around them. She pretty much fits the bill.

I've got more, to be sure, but this one was my first major experience of fast food hell. Thanks for letting me get that out to someone who understands. Also, I just realized that my nickname for myself matches my place of former employment.

Til I get my next hell job (I'm actually HOPING for a retail position, isn't it funny?),

--Emoo

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