Montreal native, on fun, life and more fun
I have recently discovered a phenomenon that is wildly new to me. Never has it occured to me what my foot tasted like until I said something completely crazy. Having the same problem? I can help.
Unlike most people, I try to be nice. I know this is an incredibly bold statement, however I can confidently say that I am nice because I have worked in the fast food industry. While the incompetencies of public clientele can hold its own library of blogging on it’s own, I will rehash a moment that I find vital to share.
Now, if you’re a level headed, grounded person who has at least a semi-grasp on reality then you are exempt from Foot in Mouth Syndrome every once in a while. Like myself, for instance, I consciously make an effort to treat people the way I would like to be treated. As I said before, I do believe we are allowed some free passes for FMS. Here’s why.
It was a bright and beautiful day. It was 6 am as I walked into work at my local coffee shop/fast food joint. I was chipper and ready to take on the world. Any problem that came my way, I would fix with a smile and outstanding customer service. Hello, world! Emily is here! You want a coffee? You got it, sir!
I strutted my stuff out to the front counter where I was greeted with a rush line to the door. No problem! A few customers pass and they get their orders and they’re on their merry way. Then came Betty*. (*note names have been changed to protect assholes). Betty was tall woman who looked as if she could crush me with her eyelids if she wanted to. I stood there feeling suddenly helpless behind my cash. “Hi, Bonjour,” I said. No response. “Can I get you anything to drink?” I asked again. Maybe she didn’t hear me. She finally said, “Give me a goddamned coffee and I don’t expect to wait long.”
Ok. Here’s the thing. I have a rule that I think everyone should follow. If you are ever in a situation such as this one where the customer is rude to you, try to be nice up to THREE times. If they still persist on being d-bags, you have the green light to verbally annihilate them. We will count that as Strike One.
“No problem Ma’am. What size coffee do you take?”
“I don’t really care, give me whatever, can you hurry up?.” Strike Two.
“What would you like inside your coffee? Cream, sugar?”
“I don’t know, whatever.” (We will let that one pass)
“I’ll put it on the side for you Ma’am. Would you like anything else?”
“No.” (That one’s okay too.)
Betty proceeds to wait on the side for her order. While I am scrambling to make 8 coffees at once while taking orders, I see her tapping her sausage-like fingers on the counter. I pour her coffee and say “Have a nice day, Ma’am.” And I hope to never see her again for as long as I live. But then this happens: Betty charges back inside after two minutes and her face is red. Uh oh. “Is everything okay?” I ask.
“THIS TASTES LIKE SHIT”. Betty pours her coffee into the nearby sink over the counter and succeeds in spilling half of it on my pants. Strike Three. I have never been happier minus the first degree burns on my leg.
I proceed to say: “Why don’t you make your own fucking coffee so we don’t waste each others’ time?” I said this all with a smile so sweet that it would make a serial killer rethink his life. Betty was floored, embarrassed and humiliated in one nice little package and I ignored her cursing as she walked out. I even got a few muffled giggles and looks of appreciation from the customers who got a front row seat.
FMS never felt so good. And why? Because, hey… at least I gave her three chances to be a better person about it. I think she’s the one with FMS.