17 Pissed Off Employees Share The Absolute Worst Thing They’ve Done To A Rude Customer

It's never a good idea to tick off the people serving your food, bagging your groceries, or delivering your pizza, but some people never learn. It might be petty, somewhat illegal, and even gross, but karma always finds a way to bite back, especially with the help of these pissed off workers.

No Tip? Have Some Free Doughnuts!

“Not proud of it. Back when I was delivering pizzas. Got a call right before we closed, someone wanted a delivery well out of our delivery area. Said they would tip the driver well to make it worth his while. Greedy b—— that I am, I took the order. Delivered the pizza. Teenagers had a party while parents were gone. Gave me a 65 cent tip and got a good laugh about it. When I left, I did multiple doughnuts in the yard, tearing it up pretty good.

On the drive back, realized how much of an idiot I was. Fully expected police to be called or at the least a complaint to the manager. Never heard anything about it.”

| Text Source

Following Orders To A “T”

“I used to work at a Kosher pizza shop when Ms. B—-face comes in. Well, long story short, after she was done b—-ing, she ordered a pizza with green olives and swore to high heaven she would tear the place apart if she found any black olives. My buddy, who was spinning pizza that day, mumbles to himself about role reversal and starts making the pizza. I was halfway into making a sandwich when I noticed him hiding a black olive under each green olive with such care that not even CSI could zoom in on that s—. I confronted him and told him, ‘We need to respect the customers.’ We subsequently broke out into laughter and tossed the pizza in the oven. She never noticed.”

| Text Source

Spite Is A Powerful Emotion

“Long ago when I worked at a home improvement store, old people with brand new Cadillacs would always want something inherently messy loaded into their cars. You’d try to be polite and tell them that bags of cow manure, sod grass, topsoil, or mulch may leak and ruin their interiors. Sometimes they would agree and call a friend with a vehicle better suited for the job. But every once in awhile, you’d get some cocky, crotchety old f— who insisted that, ‘You load it, and make SURE it doesn’t damage my leather seats!’ Well. F—. You. I’d make sure the bag ripped open on the trunk latch or press my hand through the bottom so that a modest amount would fall out all over their precious interior.

Even worse were the truck freaks who bought the biggest, baddest, most powerful truck known to man- then wimped out whenever it came to doing anything ‘dirty’ with it. ‘Don’t scratch my bed with those concrete blocks.’ F— you…scccccrrreeeeeeeeech.”

| Text Source

How Would A Piece Of Glass Survive A Blender?

“I work as a bartender in a restaurant in Georgetown, DC. Anyone who comes out should be expecting to spend money. Every f—ing day, someone tries to get their check comped. I had this customer come up to the service bar and slam his drink down, demanding an explanation as to why there was a shard of glass in his drink. He was threatening to call the cops and screaming for a manager. I look at his frozen drink and see this large piece of blue glass…we have no blue glass behind our bars. Furthermore, he had a frozen drink which means I personally blended it. How the f— does a piece of glass survive a Blendtec blender?

So I say, ‘I’m so sorry sir. But we have no blue glass back here, but, because I assume you’re an honest person and would never lie to STEAL food from us, let me check my blender.’ At this point, I take the blender, which is full of frozen rum runner, and dump it all over the bar counter. Sending frozen drink all over (and in) his beautiful leather shoes. My final words before my manager stepped in were: ‘I see no blue glass, but you’ve got some s— on your shoes.'”

| Text Source

Doggy Do’s And Don’ts

“I worked at a pet store for a few years. One pet peeve I always had was that customers who brought their dogs in would almost always leave any of their dog’s poop and not bother to pick it up. However, worse than that were the customers who saw their dogs take a dump and then run to get me and ask me to clean it up.

Once a customer was walking (dragging) his dog over by our fish wall. The dog at one point starts taking a dump and the customer sees this and continues to drag his dog down the entire side of the fish wall. I approached him and said, ‘You need to clean that up, sir. I have some paper towels and cleanup spray in my podium that you can use.’

The customer looks at me, then down at his dog, who still has bits of s— hanging from his a–, and says, ‘My dog didn’t do that, I was watching him the whole time.’

The guy had the balls to walk away, steaming s— following his dog in a trail. So now I am super pissed at this point and my coworker and I clean up the line of s— by the fish wall and then stuff it into a plastic bag. We handed the bag over to our cashier and told him to make sure to put it in the bag of the customer. I watched as he did so later, and I’ll admit that gave me some sick sense of satisfaction.”

| Text Source

His Just Desserts

“Until last month, I worked at a small pizza shop in Houston. I was a cook, however, there was no wall separating the kitchen from the front of the restaurant, so I was able to see and hear all of the customers. We had overpriced food that catered to yuppies, and most of our customers were douchebags.

One guy, however, was off the douchebag scale. He wanted to use his Discover card to pay for his order, and when the extremely polite and shy 17-year-old cashier girl informed him we don’t take Discover, he started yelling, saying things like she was stupid and incompetent, she was lying, etc, etc. He started yelling about how he owned a restaurant and it was an outrage we didn’t take Discover like that would somehow change the situation. The cashier was almost in tears by the time the guy cooled down, and I knew I had to do something.

One of the items on his order was our ‘hot wings,’ which we used Frank’s hot sauce on. On his, I decided to substitute it with a quarter bottle ‘Da Bomb Ground Zero’ hot sauce we had for our own use. Fifteen dollars a bottle and three drops will make a large bowl of chili almost inedible. The spiciness filled the air and burned our sinuses as the wings slowly worked their way through the conveyor oven.

He sat down at a table in the front and took a huge bite of a wing, got a blank expression on his face for a couple seconds, then spit it out and let out a loud, ‘Aaagh!’ as he shook his hands back and forth blowing air into his mouth. In doing so, he managed to splatter some of the sauce in his eye, and within 10 seconds, he was on his knees on the floor yelling for tissues and crying.

After that, the guy was almost polite, and my manager found the whole thing hilarious.”

| Text Source

The “Magic Olive” Trick

“I worked at the Olive Garden, and other servers would give a–holes/douchebags the ‘Magic Olive.’

To put it bluntly, it was an olive that was placed in someone’s butt crack and walked around for a few minutes in that sweaty dank dungeon of disgust. It was then placed on top of Olive Garden’s famous large bowl’o’salad and taken to the table. Once there, the staff would personally serve the offending patron a portion of the salad with the Magic Olive. I witnessed this several times, and it never failed that the person would end up getting physically sick. It happened to a regular once, and he was back in the restaurant a week later talking about how he had gotten sick, but that the food here was too good to pass up.

I never did the ‘magic olive’ to anyone, but I sure did mind f— an a–hole one night. He pulled all the normal bulls—, saying one thing and then getting mad when I brought what he asked, claiming he asked for something different. He dumped out a drink on the ground, claiming that there was too much ice and threw some bread sticks at me, claiming they were cold. I went back, made him a new drink, got a new basket of bread, and brought out the salad.

I placed everything on the table and told him that I was sorry for messing up, but that I had taken extra time to make these especially for him to make it up to him. I then personally plated up some salad for him and told him that I put some extra toppings on it while no one was looking and that I hope he enjoyed it. I then asked him to go ahead and taste everything while I was here to make sure that it was as he liked. He hadn’t caught the tone or inflection in my voice by this time, so when he took a bite of salad, I let a big grin slowly spread out over my face, and asked if it tasted as good as it looked. He just stopped chewing. He didn’t say anything. He just stood up and walked out of the restaurant and spit out the salad on the sidewalk never to be seen again.

This once again proves the old adage, ‘Never F— with the people who handle your food.'”

| Text Source

That’s Probably Not The Extra She Was Looking For

“I worked at Roy Roger’s. It was a summer job and I hated being a cashier but since I spoke English (at least better than the rest of the staff) they put me up front. So one day, two girls I knew came in trying to buy some fried chicken meals, but together they only had enough for one meal.

I knew one of them well and her parents have always managed to fall on hard times, both working two jobs each, so I knew she did not have money and was probably hungry. So, I charged them for one meal, but gave them two and threw in some fries. Before they could correct me, I signaled that they should just move along and they did.

All is well, except the old lady behind them (who was a known trouble maker), now tells me that unless I give her something extra, she will tell the manager. I really don’t think she had a case but didn’t want trouble, so I took a small bucket, went in the back, took the chicken that fell on the floor that day out of the garbage can and gave it to her as an extra she demanded.”

| Text Source

Always Keep An Eye On Your Belongings

“Working at a coffee shop in the skyway downtown. Two minutes after closing everything down, register drawers are all pulled, physically no way that I could help a customer. Even if I wanted to work something out, it is still against the store’s policy.

So I’m cleaning up, getting everything else shut down and some guy in a suit from the Marriott next door comes up, accosts me for being closed, says that he NEEDS something to eat and coffee. Blah blah blah, you’re just a loser working at a coffee shop, I work for a hedge fund, blah blah blah- you have to give me something because I want it and you’re still in the store, DIRECT QUOTE: ‘That’s how customer service works, you idiot.’

I explain to him that it’s not possible and that I would be penalized or could lose my job. He huffs and puffs and walks away a bit, shouting about how he deserves respect and this city sucks. So I turn my back to continue dumping the coffee and get the keys to pack up the bakery.

My back is turned for probably 30 seconds, when I return, the guy has his hand down into the bakery case and grabs a bunch of muffins, biscotti and manages to steal a bottle of Coke. He leaves no money, he just leaves the case open as I yell at him, gives me the middle finger as he strides off, going on about how I need to change my attitude.

Initially, I’m really pissed off, I call security to get on the guy, tell them what happened. While I’m on the walkie with the security desk, I see the guy left his set of room keys for the Marriott and a set of car keys with the rental tag/company fob attached as well. The guy’s from out of town with a rental car. So while I’m talking to security, I palm his things in a towel as I ‘wipe down the counter’ as a cover for anyone that might have seen me.

As I leave, I see some security guards and the d— yelling and arguing about things. The man is unable to get back into the Marriott from the skyway. I punch out and start walking home. As I round the corner and begin walking over the nearby bridge, I throw his rental keys and hotel cards into the water below. F— him.”

| Text Source

Careful, Or You’ll “Fall Down” Again

“I work at a local restaurant and bar and sometimes the manager has me throw on a security shirt when it gets crowded. Usually, it’s boring and uneventful, but there was one night when I thoroughly enjoyed it. A guy at the bar started making passes at one of our attractive servers. This is not unusual, but when she didn’t jump into his lap, the guy got bitter and started verbally harassing her. At this point, we were ready to kick him out and were getting permission from the manager when he really crossed the line. When she walked by next, he grabbed her with both arms, dragged her into his lap, and tried to kiss her. The three of us waiting for permission to kick him out immediately grabbed him and freed the server. The guy then said, ‘What?! Any girl who works that job is a w—- anyway,’ and picked up his drink like nothing had happened.

My coworker jerked the high stool out from under him, sending him to the floor with his drink all over his face and chest. We then all three grabbed him by both arms and legs, carried him to the door and pitched him seven feet to the sidewalk. As he came back to yell at us, my manager walked out with his credit card and tab. In response to his complaints, my manager said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, it looks like you’re drunk and fell down. Now here’s your bill and you should probably leave a tip for that server to keep from falling down again.’

Cheers from the locals when we re-entered the bar.

Was it wrong? Yes. Was it extortion? Yes. Was it awesome? H— yes.”

| Text Source

“Make Him Suffer”

“I have been in kitchens for several years now and only once have I ever manipulated a customer’s food. I’m not proud of it, but the poor chap got what was coming to him.

I used to work at a pretty well-known sports bar chain with a menu mostly consisting of a variety of wing sauces and other fryer-friendly items. Being situated in a upper-middle class neighborhood, we would always get the little 15-year-olds with Ed Hardy shirts and mommy’s money acting like little children in our fine establishment. Being a line cook, I never really had interaction with these little crotch spawns, but one day I’d just had enough.

It started with a group of four Tapout billboard fifteen-year-olds strutting through the front door and immediately berating one of the waitresses I liked. She promptly got their drinks, but apparently, it wasn’t fast enough. They called her slow, stupid, and asked how she ever got a job waitressing. ‘Sarah,’ as I’ll call her, came back to the kitchen almost in tears. I comforted her and sent her out to take the table’s food order. That’s when the leader of the bunch made a very grave mistake.

Just like a few other wing-centric restaurants we had a ‘challenge.’ Eat twelve of our hottest wings in six minutes and you got a t-shirt and your photo on a hall of fame. The nozzle of the douchebags decided to show off to his friends and attempt this seemingly easy challenge. Sarah came back to the kitchen with a grin and gave us a simple order, ‘Make him suffer.’

We proceeded to throw every possible molten thing we could onto these wings. The hot sauce, vinegar, jalapeno juice, jalapeno seeds, habanero seeds, and a few shots of Tabasco would assault his palate like a freight train from h—. Being somewhat of a showman, I found a doctor’s mask and put it on. With the mask on, I proceeded to take a sauce bottle, and in full view of Mr. Macho, inject every flat wing with sauce until it blew up like a balloon. Satisfied with my work, I sent out the wings.

As told by Sarah, he made it through one wing. If he had chosen a drumstick, he mostly likely could have had the satisfaction of two wings. But egged on by his friends he chose a hot sauce injected flat. When the stopwatch started, he took the biggest bite he could. The wing exploded like a poultry Pompeii, leaving behind the shallow husk of a man. He quit after that one and was quiet the whole night as his ‘friends’ called him out for being a wimp. Sarah got a nice 25% tip off the table and I got a small bit of satisfaction in a business that can seem so dark.”

| Text Source

Guess The Missus Didn’t Know About THAT

“I managed a computer repair shop, sort of like the Geek Squad, but cheaper and with some excellent techs. We had an offsite laptop repair, so when a customer brought in a laptop that needed major internal hardware work, we’d pack it off to be fixed.

One day, a gentleman rolled in with his family and a broken laptop. He said it was just over a year old (out of our warranty) and that it was no longer working properly. He further claimed that it had not worked properly since we last worked on it (over a year ago…?) and that he was just now bringing it in. Right. Well, to avoid conflict, I offered to waive the diagnostic fee and just ship it off so the laptop guys could have a look. The customer was happy enough with this, so we shipped.

Fast forward a week: laptop returns. The motherboard is fried according to our repair center. They had called the client and, per his instructions, put his HDD in an external enclosure. The enclosure itself was the only charge: $0 for labor, $0 for diag, $25 for the enclosure plus tax. They explained the pricing to him. Pretty dirt cheap, considering that he’s outside the warranty, right? I call the customer to let him know it’s ready. He hears the price tag (again) and flips the f— out. I was a bit stunned. I reminded him that although he was not in the warranty, we weren’t charging him for the diagnostic OR the labor, such as it was, only for the enclosure.

This was an outrage, to hear him tell it. We were obviously trying to steal all he holds dear, and he would come to our store and take his machine. Uhh, ok guy. ‘After all, it hadn’t worked since the last time you worked on it!’ I didn’t ask why he then brought it back to us, but I decided to check that a bit. I told him I’d ask my boss, and instead, we hooked his HDD to the data transfer kit and had a look. Sure enough, timestamped cookies right up until two days before he brought it to us. These were some pretty impressive cookies. I didn’t know that massiveblackd—.com had its own cookie. There were MANY more in that…err…vein. I called the customer back.

This time, both he and his wife were on the line. Both didn’t let me get five words out before starting in with the screaming. They threatened to sue me, kill me, have me fired, find out where I lived, and burn down the store. Comprehensive! I let them get it out, then interjected something along the lines of the following: ‘I’m really sorry that you’re so upset! I have good news for you, though. The computer worked better than you think for that year.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, someone was using it. For example, on [date,] the computer went to the following sites: horsec—destruction.com, worldsdeadliestballs.com, etc.’

Stunned silence.

‘Don’t worry, I have literally hundreds of more entries to read to you. On [date,] someone was apparently interested in…’ and then the screaming started. Not them at me….them at each other. Oh, glorious. It was a symphony of hate. Eventually, the wife hung up.

The husband, who sounded like a broken man, mumbled something like, ‘…now my wife is going to leave me.’ I told him that wasn’t my business, but if he’d like the hard drive enclosure, it would be $25 plus tax. He never showed up to buy it. Imagine that!”

| Text Source

Bratty Behavior Will Get You Nowhere

“I work the night shift at a motel, and for the most part, our guests are pretty cool, respectable older people. However, once in awhile, we get these d— ‘cool to be ignorant’ young teenage a–holes who want nothing more than to be complete douchebags and disrupt the sleep of everyone around them. I’m usually not much of a troll when it comes to dealing with other members of my species, however, there’s something about these, ‘YO DAWG LET’S GO PARTY AT THAT MOTEL AND F— SOME S— UP!!!’ c—suckers that really gets on my nerves.

One of the things I love about my job, is that both my managers and myself agree that the best policy when dealing with these festering piles of human trash is upon the first noise complaint: kick them out, keep their money, and make every effort to mess with them so they don’t come back. Which brings me to one of my favorite stories:

About a week ago, this older woman rents one of our rooms for her 3 kids (ages 13-17). For obvious reasons, we require an adult to stay in the room with anyone under 18, but she takes off even though we warned her. Just as I’m clocking in on my shift at 11 PM, I look over at the room and see all 3 kids outside yelling, hanging off the second-floor railing, and SLAMMING the door repeatedly with the deadbolt engaged so that the impact shakes the entire building. They all had large bottles of alcohol in their hands, and one was even berating this super-sweet 72-year-old woman I had checked in the other day, who had just gotten back from a late dinner with her son (who she makes a trip once a year to see). She had one of the most heartbreaking looks on her face I had ever seen as she stood there stunned, watching them as all of her faith in humanity was shattered. If I had one regret in this entire situation, it was that I hadn’t arrived 10 minutes earlier so that I could have prevented that from happening to her. F—.

Anyway, I went in the office, brushed past my clueless (‘Dude, what’s going on?’) coworker and called the cops, who arrived about five minutes later and kicked them all out, but for some reason let them all go free with a warning even though they were underage (cops in my town hate paperwork, I guess). But here’s the kicker: about six hours later the little b—— who was yelling at the old woman (I recognized his voice) calls me up and is like, ‘Hi, I think I left my phone there. Can I come by and get it?’

I respond, ‘No, the room is “locked out” and you’ll have to wait until housekeeping goes through it to retrieve any lost items. Call back later this afternoon and we’ll tell you if we found anything.’ Of course, immediately after he hung up, I go up to the room to search for the phone, and lo and behold, a brand-new Droid is tucked underneath one of the pillows. What should I do with my brand-new Droid? That last question was rhetorical. I’m going to call people on it, I suppose.”

| Text Source

A Little Too High And Mighty For Their Liking

“My company repaired a very specific $42,000 piece of equipment used in a certain auto dealership service bay. It was used heavily, and many repairs could not be attempted without it. One of my tele-support girls got a call from a Service Manager and had to endure his rants and abusive language, to the point where she was almost in tears. She got really mad and came to me with the details of the call. I called the guy back and told him we would no longer do business with his dealership until the Dealer Principal (The Actual OWNER) called us back to apologize to her for his boorish behavior.

Turns out that the douche that called in for help was not actually the Service Manager, but a Master Tech that was sitting in for his boss, while his boss ( the real service manager) was on vacation. The real Service Manager called us and begged us not to make him go to his dealer owner to make the call. We said, ‘Nope.’ The owner called us back and tried to bully us into feeling bad for getting him involved, threatening to call ‘corporate’ if we didn’t fix his tool. I told him that he no longer had to worry because we were removing his dealership from our customer list, and I’d save him the trouble of calling corporate by calling my contact (big-wig name drop) to let him know the specific reason why. NO SOUP FOR YOU! Did I mention that we were the ONLY company with parts and expertise to fix this tool? He was forced to turn away certain types of repairs, which surely hurt his business…”

| Text Source

Captain Redneck Strikes Again

“I worked at a small movie theater a few years ago. A man came in with four kids and his wife. They were coming to see ‘Pirates of the Caribbean 2.’ I sold him his ticket and said (as I do to everyone) ‘Here’s your ticket. This also considered your receipt.’ The tickets we had were the ones you get at carnivals…it pops out of the machine, I rip it in half, so I have half and the customer has half. To issue a refund, I need both halves.

Well, Captain Redneck threw all the tickets away. He went into the movie and he came out about 5 minutes later with everyone and said, ‘The theater is old. I want my money back.’

After talking with my manager, we agreed that in this case, we would refund him. So I ask for the tickets, which is policy. I knew the guy bought a ticket but still asked for the stub. He FLIPPED out. Started calling me homophobic slurs and slamming his fists on the counter. Then he goes to the garbage can where he threw the tickets away and kicked it so the garbage went all over the floor.

I called the police, and they came and arrested him in front of his family. The best part is he kept resisting, so the cops had to kneel on him…and it wasn’t a very civil arrest. And the family didn’t get their money back.

What’s funny is, if he would have just been reasonable about it, I would have just written the numbers from the stubs on a scrap piece of paper, and everything would have gone fine.”

| Text Source

Don’t Touch Me!

“An older lady at one of my tables had cold pasta. She wanted me to feel it. I said I believed her, but she took my wrist and rammed my hand into the food. I was pissed. I never, ever spit in anyone’s food at my restaurant. However….

The lady continued to be a douche long after her food was fixed and the manager told her it was on the house along with a free dessert. Check time came and the lady whips out a gift card to pay for everyone’s food (she was with 3 of her friends, ~$55 bill). I take it, pretend like I’m off to cash her out, but switch her $50 gift card with an identical card that was never activated. I tell her there isn’t any money on her card. The manager has to double-check. He confirms the card was never activated. Now, she is pissed.

I did give her back the original card. I said she could ask the person who got it for her about it. Maybe they had a receipt. The point is, people treat me like s— at work enough as it is, but touching me? Demeaning me by taking my wrist and putting it into cold pasta? I wanted to make her look bad in front of her friends and I think I succeeded. She had to get money from her friends to cover the check.”

| Text Source

When A Trip To The Deli Lands You In Jail

“I used to work in a Safeway Deli. Horrid job. Anyways, one day, a guy that looked like he was trying his da—dest to be a gang banger, but failing horribly, comes in. I thought nothing of it, this is Portland, I see stranger s— every day. Anyways, a buddy of mine (let’s call him Dario) was helping this guy. Now, Dario used to be majorly depressed. He is an immigrant from eastern Europe, and has had a hard life. As a result, he used to self-mutilate, so he has scars up and down his arms.

Well, it was hot in the deli, so his sleeves were rolled up and the scars were visible. This wannabe gang-banger, completely unprovoked, started ridiculing Dario about the scars, calling him insane, crazy, etc. Now, Dario used to be a Thai-boxer, and has a bit of a temper, so I tell him to go into the back, cook some food, and I’ll handle this.

The dude was a complete prick. Like 11/10 on my rage scale. So he orders 1 1/2 lbs of Mac n’ Cheese. I ‘tripped’ and spilled it all over the floor. Last of the Mac. Same story with the Jo Jo’s. And the Mac n’ Beef, except most of it went in his lap. So now this guy is screaming at me, looking like he is going to jump over the counter at me, so I call my manager. Manager came over, tells the guy to leave. Guy won’t leave. We called the cops. Guy gets dragged out of the building. Turns out, he had stuffed a bottle of $75 wine in his jacket. Busted. Also, he ‘assaulted an officer by thrashing around and pretty much head butting her. It was nice to see him get slammed into the wall.

Few weeks later, I got subpoenaed to be a witness against him in court. Manager filed charges. Guy got put away for awhile. True story.”

| Text Source