The fifth winner of the weekly contest is Derek-Mother-Fucking-Klein and here is his story:

I used to work at a nation-wide retail box, and did so for nearly 3 years. A common practice for most retail stores is if you don’t have a receipt when you attempt to return merchandise it is allowed, within reason, and normally the customer is given store credit. Our system was simple:

Receipt + Garment = Cash.

No Receipt + Garment = Last/Lowest Sale Price.

It was a slow evening on a weekday and I was the only one working at the Men’s Department. Pretty usual stuff. In front of our counter was a large entryway and from which stroll in two women who make 2 a.m. Wal-Mart shoppers look clean. The oldest woman looked to be in her mid-50’s and the younger one in her late 30’s. They storm up to my register:

Younger Bitch: “I want a refund on this damn shirt. Its dirty! And stained!”
Older Bitch: “She just bought it here week.”
Me: “Okay, ma’am.”

So here is where I stick my hand into this filthy fucking bag and pull out a Southpole t-shirt, XXL of course. Most likely stolen for her 15 year old son. It reeks of cigarettes, has a bleach spot on the front and spots of bleach all over one side. It’s wrinkled and has obviously been stewing in this bag for a minute or two.
Me: (Looking right at the Younger Bitch) “You…want….you want to return this?”
Younger Bitch: “Damn right! That shirt ain’t supposed to look like that!”
Me: “Then why’d you buy it?
Younger Bitch: “I thought it was like that on purpose!”
Older Bitch: “She just bought it here last week.” (This bitch never said a useful word)
Me: “Do you have a receipt?”
Younger Bitch: “It’s in the damn bag.”

I again look into the dirty bag. No receipt.

Me: “Look lady there isn’t a receipt, any tags, the shirt is dirty as hell and obviously been worn, and to top it off, I’ve worked here for three years and I know for a fact that this shirt is at least two years old. I will not give you a refund.”
Younger Bitch: “Who the hell do you think you are! You little fucking shit! You cant talk to me Im a fucking customer!!”
Older Bitch: “She just bought it here last week!”
Me: “Look here you fucking white trash bitch. Take your shit and get the fuck out of my store or I’m going to give you a hysterectomy with a fucking shop vac!”
Younger Bitch: “I…I…I demand to talk to your manager!”
I do a 360 and proclaim, “Hi, I’m Derek-Mother-Fucking-Klein. I manage the Men’s Department. Now get the fuck out of my store, you stupid cunt.”

Long story short, I lasted about three more weeks at that shit hole.

Again, anyone with stories should submit them to iserveidiots@gmail.com and I’ll put each week’s winner up on the site every Monday.

The fourth winner of the weekly contest comes to us all the way from Portland, Oregon. She asked me that I not say her name as she has co-workers that also read the site and she’d rather they not read this as they are (and I quote from her email) “stupid bitches that have tried to get [her] fired several times before. If they knew I wrote this, they’d show my boss and I might be let go.”

The kicker was when she mentioned that it’s not her fault that “their anger probably stems from the fact that I [objectionable sexual act omitted] better than they could ever dream.” Way to go, Ms. Oregon. Here’s her story:

So it’s 8:30 on a rainy Friday night. I should have been let go, but one of the girls had recently slept with the shift manager that for that night, so naturally, it was me who had to stay on.

Typical.

I was real testy that night. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was the fact that I’d forgotten my cigarettes at home in my other purse, maybe it was the fact that the balding man at Table 9 kept looking at me as though he were undressing me with his eyes…hell, maybe it was a combination of all of those things. The only thing I know is that I was ready to explode at the slightest touch.

And then Mr. Fucked-In-Half-Drunk walked in. “Good,” I thought. “At least he wouldn’t remember the amount of bitch I was about to unleash on him.”

Him: “Yes, I’d like a bottle of your house Merlot and an appetizer menu. Pronto.”

I thought they only said “pronto” in sitcoms and cartoons. Suppose not.

So I get him his menu and his bottle of wine and get his dinner order. He also ordered appetizers. Now, our dinners come with some soups, some with salads, some with both. He ordered a dinner with both. To spread out all the stuff he was getting before the dinner, I had to give him his soup before his appetizer and then round everything out with the salad. In a perfect world, as he finished the salad I’d bring him his entree and he’d be as happy as a clam.

In a perfect world.

As I gave him his soup, his face turned beet-red and he exclaimed “Excuse me!”

Me: “Is there something wrong, sir?”
Him: “Tell me something, girl. When do the appetizers usually come out?”

Rule #1 when speaking to women. Don’t call them anything except for their first name and/or “ma’am” and always, always, ALWAYS make sure to speak politely or else be prepared to wake up without an appendage.”

Me: “They usually come before the meal, sir. Usually.”
Him: “Well, this looks like my meal.”
Me: “Unless you ordered a soup as your meal, sir, it is not. In fact, your meal, in case you forgot, is a…”
Him: “I know what I ordered. You may leave.”
Me: “I may leave?”
Him: “Yes.”

And here’s the kicker.

Me: “Oh, thank you, oh exalted one! I shall be back with your appetizers at once!”

His ladyfriend laughed and I’m guessing the twenty-spot that was left in the checkbook (after the tip line had a big zero on it) was from her. Thanks, ma’am. Sorry you’ve got an appetizer-Nazi as a companion.

Again, anyone with stories should submit them to iserveidiots@gmail.com and I’ll put each week’s winner up on the site every Monday.

The third winner of my weekly contest is an ex-car salesman and a woman. Weird combination, eh? Her name’s Sarah Slabaugh and this story is from when she used to sell cars. From the way her co-workers described her in her story, she must have sold them well. Phenomenally well.

I don’t have a fear of heights, I simply have a problem with my personal space being invaded.

For two days we are having one of those godawful little teamwork building seminars. You know, when you sit around and talk about how to improve the company. You congratulate each other on your various strong points. You reinvent the wheel. And you also have those fun little exercises where you are supposed to learn to trust and love your co-workers. Stuff, The Office, was based on.

The first clever execise was jumping off a ladder into the outstretched arms of our co-workers. Mind you, most people were scared at the jumping off the ladder bit. Personally, I have no problem with heights, it was the touching and groping of my ass that I had a problem with. I am SO not a touchy-feely person. Handshakes are the extent of it. Occasionally, a super happy customer decides to hug me as a sign of their extreme gratefulness. Well. That’s what I think it is. (Another co-worker posed the possibility they are simply trying to cop a feel.) In any event, I am not terribly comfortable with touching of any kind. This could be because I work in the car business which is a cesspool of germs, STD’s and creeps. So, I think my fears are rather justified.

However. This exercise was for me/us to fall ass-first into the outstretched hands of co-workers. Not to mention, you had to stand on a ladder with you ass facing them so they could stare at it until you gathered the courage to fling yourself into their outstretched and rather eager palms.

For those of you who might like to argue that it was better than falling on the concrete. Don’t. Because I’m not to sure about that. I managed to get through it with minimal ass-gropage, but was horrified to realize, as someone told me later, apparently the top of my thong was peeking out above my pants. I SO did not want to go there.

I was trembling in the terror of what the next’s day’s exercises held. Snuggling? Group spooning?

It went bad to worse. I don’t know if you’re paticularly familiar with the activity where you have wire stretched across a frame forming impossibly small holes that you are supposed to hoist impossibly fat people through–without touching the wire. (It basically looks like a spiderweb, made out of rope.)

Our fearless leader did a very careful job of painting a rather vivid picture of the spider web we were passing our team members through. We were in the Amazon. If we touched the web, the giant spider would come down and eat us. (Er, excuse me, is this kindergarten all over again?! Are we truly supposed to be terrified by imaginary animals?) In any event, we were to work as a team. They refused to face the fact most of us would have rather picked a team member to sacrifice to the “spider” so we could kill it and thereby skip the exercise entirely. (Realism wasn’t too high on the list of priorities, apparently.)

Since we had plenty of strong/fat/huge guys willing to prove their strength, all this particular challenge required for me to do was stiffen my body and allow eight men to grab various parts of my body and pass me through the “web”. As soon as the exercise was announced I shrank to the back of the group and began furiously praying we would run out of time before it would be my turn. Ah. No such luck.

One other fellow I work with also has the same negative feelings about being touched. We were trying to give each other moral support, but kept imagining even worse scenarios for one another. He won hands down when he began pointing out that he was sure there would be no shortage of volunteers to try and tuck by perky boobs through. You know, just to be sure they didn’t touch the wire. Thanks, man. THANKS FOR MAKING ME WANT TO RUN TO THE BACK OF THE ROOM AND VOMIT.

After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, it was my turn. I leaned back into the arms of eight sweaty men and stiffened my body. Part of being able to fit through this narrow space was the raising of my hands above my head. Do you realize just how prominently perky 34D boobs are when your body is perfectly straight AND your hands are above your head? Of course this was the day my jeans were slightly too big and this revealed the edge of my lacy underwear. There I am. Arms above my head. Defenseless. Boobs pointing skyward. Toes pointed. Body stiff. Eyes narrowed into slits of death. Mouth bitten into a firm, hateful line.

I lay in their arms dying on the inside. Absolutely dying. Envisioning the hot, hot shower I would be taking as soon as I got home. They passed me through, s-l-o-w-l-y. Let me assure you, I was liberally manhandled. Wait! NO! SOMETHING TOUCHED THE WIRE AT THE VERY END. I had to go again. This time, I must be stiff and perky, but twist and writhe to get through correctly. By the time I was properly passed through without touching, I was shaking with the sheer desire for it to be over. Once my feet were on solid ground, I slunk to the back and whimpered like a dog that had just been violated by the neighbor kid.

You think this would be plenty of touching for everyone. Lots of touching. Touch, touch, touch. Apparently not. APPARENTLY OUR COMPANY ENCOURAGES SLEEPING TOGETHER. At the end of our exercise we had to form a tight shoulder to shoulder circle whereby we all turned to the right and gave that person a backrub. A BACKRUB! Thankfully, on my one side was my cohort in personal space advocation, my friend who was hiding with me earlier. We gingerly tapped each others backs. But to my other side?

Hah.

Luck doesn’t always favor me.

The new guy who is the very personification of sketchy. Overly gummy smile. Slight receding hairline. Oily sheen on his too tan skin. Very, very sketchy. I was trying to give him a very vague sort of back rub. But we were having quality control inspections by leadership. Dammit! And then, when he had to rub my back, I could feel his fingers creeping downwards, past the back. Someone please, shoot me now.

Once it was all over and I ripped myself away from all this creepiness, he sidles up to me and tells me that the back rub I gave him was. pause, wait for it–phenomenal.

phenomenal.

Not just phenomenal, but said in the tone solely reserved for bad sitcoms after the couple has enjoyed some cheesy and experimental sex. You know, when the guy rolls over and breathlessly says, “That was phenomenal”. Yeah. That tone. Not particularly the tone I enjoy hearing from my coworkers.

I wouldn’t have been all that surprised if they then proposed a group orgy–togetherness, right boys? But they ended it simply with a group sing of Kumbaya.

I shit you not. I wish I was.

And the winner is…

A guy by the name of WILLIAM JOHNSON! Here goes his story:

A quick bit of background on my story. I am in the quality assurance department of the company I work for. I listen to calls that different work at home agents take for various companies and grade them accordingly to how well they follow that company’s phone policies.

Here is one such call I had to screen:

Agent: “Thank you for calling (major toy store brand). How may I help you?
Woman: “Yes, I was wondering if you carried miniature versions of appliances that really work. I want to teach my four year old daughter how to cook. Do you have a gas oven (a fucking gas oven?) I could buy for her or perhaps a real working smaller blender (with actual fucking blades?) she could use?”
Agent: “Uh…we carry the Easy-Bake-Oven that cooks food with a light bulb. Will that do?”
Woman: “No. I was really hoping I could find a real working version of larger appliances for her. Oh, I know! Do you have an iron her size that would work like the real thing?”
Agent: “No. I’m sorry. We don’t.”
Woman: “Okay. I just thought I’d try and see what was out there. Have a nice day!”

Somebody call Child Protective Services. Here’s a woman that wants to have her FOUR! YEAR! OLD! play with a GAS! oven, chop up her hand in a blender with REAL! working metal blades, or BURN! the crap out of herself with a clothes iron. What the HELL?!

I guess it takes all kinds to move the world. Hopefully she gets ground up by the gears.