user: TL:DR: I un-professionally get mad at a customer and verbally slam the door on her way out. I was working a shift at a chain cafe one afternoon in England, it was during the lunch rush, so we had a back up of customers lined up to the exit. See the problem with the chain is that all of our customers mostly range from midlife crisis to half-a-foot in the grave, so once a customer lines up, they don’t leave and they extend the queue. Plus this is a chain cafe so I've got a manager who's constantly on my back to speed up because someone is on her back to drive numbers up: this results in the line putting stress on my air-hostess smile, but they don't call it work for nothing. Now I'm not the only one stressed, a customer lines up during lunch, they're hungry and wish that Euclidean laws would suspend themselves so that they did not have to deal with the fact that I can't deal with a customer at the speed of light. Well one eldritch horror declares that my coffee took too long and does her rendition of the 1933 Hitler speech to the rest of the customers with an addendum that she will take her business elsewhere. Now my chain are pretty big in England, so if a customer wants to slap me around with a ‘customer is always right’ the script dictates that I do everything in my power to make sure they come back, and Cthulu knows this, well: I'm stressed, I don't like her face and she's given me an opportunity for me to give her the polite ‘fuck off'. All I say is ‘Good’ and move on to the next customer. Hitler-lite phones my corporation to voice a complaint, so a suit comes out and asks the team who did it, I fess up so I can save the time and not have a reason to hate one of my co-workers. I get a lecture and a warning, the end. According to the above context, answer the following question. How does she probably feel about her job?

Answer: That it can be very stressful, and she doesn't get paid enough to go "Above and beyond" the call of duty


I love going to the spa. Honestly, who doesn't. These days, unfortunately, my spa trips are few and far between. I blame the damn kids for that one! So, as you can imagine, I was pretty damn excited when the in-laws presented me with an Urban Spa voucher for the Urban Indulgence package: one hour hot stone Lomi Lomi massage followed by a Heavenly Spa Facial - two hours on indulgent bliss, for Christmas. I had never had a hot stone massage before so was very much looking forward to this, if nothing else out of curiosity about what is involved. Whenever you see pictures advertising a hot stone massage, the beautiful model always has a bunch of largish stones on her back so I wasn't sure whether it was more an acupressure experience where they left the stones strategically placed on the back to work their magic or whether it was an actual massage.  Turns out that it is an actual massage. I requested a firm massage as my back has really been giving me issues. Carrying 15kgs of Crazy Kid or 9kgs of Kiki (or 26kgs of double babies) really isn't too good for the back so it had been causing me problems for a couple of months. My therapist (the lovely Kristy) gave me an expertly firm massage and used a small, smooth hot stone, along with her hands, to perform the massage. It was quite a unique experience as one minute I could sense that she was using her hands to do the massage then then next I'd get a sweep of hotness as the stone was run over me. It really was a delightful sensory experience. As my back was a problem area, Kristy spent 30 minutes just on that then the other 30 minutes was spent on the rest of my body. I could feel myself drifting in and out of consciousness throughout the massage. One really special thing about this massage was that the massage table was heated. Such a small touch, but one that was greatly appreciated (although it was a great contributor to my lack of consciousness!). According to the above context, answer the following question. Who is Fred?

Answer: not enough information


He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love." The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang. "Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?" "Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right." "Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?" "Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?" "You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead. "This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA." "No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..." "I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense." "Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." According to the above context, answer the following question. What is Stan going to tell Darryl?

Answer:

assistant: He would play drums at the studio.