(I’ve just received one of those automated speeding tickets that gets mailed to you at home. I’m about to pay online, when I notice a discrepancy. I call the number provided to ask about it.)

Me: “Hi, I received an automated speeding ticket, and was wondering if I had to pay it since—”

Helpdesk: “UGH! Yes you have to pay your tickets. That’s what you get for breaking the law.”

Me: “Yes, I understand how the law works, but this tickets says—”

Helpdesk: “LISTEN, YOU LITTLE S***! YOU WERE SPEEDING, SO PAY YOUR D*** TICKET!”

Me: “How about you transfer me to your manager now?”

Helpdesk: “FINE, BUT HE’S JUST GONNA TELL YOU THE SAME THING!”

(After a bit, during which I can hear the helpdesk worker complaining about me to the manager, he comes on.)

Manager: “Hello, I hear you are trying to refute a speeding ticket?”

Me: “I was, but apparently I’m ‘a little s*** that needs to just pay it.'”

Manager: *taken back* “Why on earth would you call yourself that?”

Me: “I don’t. The lady on the phone told me that before listening to what my reason was.”

Manager: “…you are not the first she’s said that to, and I promise that I will do what I can to help. What is the reason you are rebuking the ticket?”

Me: “Because I don’t think my car can reach 240 miles per hour.”

Manager: “Your car WHAT?!”

(After verifying the ticket and pulling it up to view…)

Manager: “No, there is no reason for you to pay this at all. Would you be willing to come in to sign a form? I can fax it to you if you can’t.”

Me: “Oh, no, that’s fine; it’s easier for me to come in than to fax it.”

(I go in and see a lady at the front desk.)

Me: “Hi, I’m here about a speeding ticket.”

Lady: “Oh, so you finally realized you’re being stupid and are going to pay?”

Manager: *out of nowhere* “NO! You’re going to personally void this man’s ticket, and then you’re going to pack up and get the f*** out of here for being rude to people!”

(It’s near the end of the school year, and I’m about to go on a three-week hiatus for surgery to replace torn ligaments in my knee. It’s the kind of surgery that keeps you down for a good while and unable to walk. I take an extra week off before surgery so I can spend time doing things I wouldn’t be able to do for a while and to get things in order before my surgery. My managers know this, as I told them when my last day was as soon as I found out when my surgery was scheduled.)

(Two months out:)

Manager: “When’s your last day?”

Me: “May 2nd, because my surgery’s May 9th.”

Manager: “Okay, cool.”

(One month out:)

Manager: “When’s your last day?”

Me: “My surgery’s May 9th, but my last day’s May 2nd.”

Manager: “Right. Gotcha.”

(Two weeks out:)

Manager: “When’s your last day?”

Me: “May 2nd. Surgery’s May 9th. I’ll write it down for you.”

Manager: “Alright, cool. Thanks!”

(The week of May 2nd arrives. I’m at home, and it’s May 3rd. I get a text from my other manager.)

Manager #2: “When’s your surgery?”

Me: “May 9th. Yesterday was my last day, but I’ll be there for the screening tonight.”

Manager #2: “Okay. Thanks.”

(Later that night, I am at the theater before the screening.)

Coworker: “Yeah, poor [Manager #2] spent the entire day fixing the schedule, because [Manager] completely screwed it up.”

Me: “Wow, really? How so?”

Coworker: “Well, first of all, he had you working this coming week.”

Me: “Seriously?!”

Coworker: “Yep. Scheduled you to work Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Wednesday.”

Me: “Wednesday’s the day of my surgery…”

(Our pharmacy has recently switched to a new manufacturer of Lorazepam, which requires refrigeration. I overhear a conversation between a patient’s caregiver, and the pharmacist.)

Caregiver: “So I was told this stuff has to be kept cold? Is it still good if it wasn’t?”

Pharmacist: “No, you’re going to have to get it replaced. If it’s been left in room temperature for more than a few hours, I cannot recommend you giving it to your patient.”

Caregiver: “Well nobody told me it had to be kept cold! I want a free replacement.”

Pharmacist: “We put ‘REFRIGERATE’ on every label; don’t you read your patient’s labels?”

Caregiver: “I don’t have time to read all the labels.”

Pharmacist: “Then how do you know you’re giving the drugs properly to the patient?”

Caregiver: “…”

Pharmacist: “That’ll be $30 for a new bottle.”

(I am disabled and have a service dog that assists me. My disability isn’t physical, so sometimes people stop me to try and figure out what my service dog is for. He is completely trained and certified. I am shopping when another customer approaches me.)

Customer: “Oh, are you training that service dog? How kind of you!”

Me: “Actually, he’s my service dog. He’s completely trained.”

Customer: “But you aren’t blind!”

Me: “No, ma’am.”

Customer: “How DARE you take a service dog away from a blind person? You ought to be ashamed!”

Me: “Ma’am, not all disabilities are visible. Plenty of people who aren’t blind have service dogs. He’s not trained to assist the blind.”

Customer: “You’re just faking it! He’s just a pet and you’re lying! Give me that!”

(The customer grabs for my service dog’s leash. The leash is looped around my chest and shoulders like a purse, so this does not go well. An employee of this store sees the altercation happen, and comes running over.)

Employee: “Ma’am! Let go of the dog!”

Customer: “No! This girl is lying! He’s not a real service dog and she’s not blind!”

Me: “Let go! This is assault!”

Customer: *pushes down on my service dog’s behind* “Sit! Sit! Bad dog!”

(I physically yank away from her and give my service dog the signal to tuck in behind me. The lady grabs him by the tail and he yelps.)

Customer: “See?! See?!”

(The employee keeps trying to get the customer to leave me alone, but she starts to grab at any part of us she can get to. The security officers show up and haul the screaming customer away. As they drag her out of the store, she is still yelling about me being a liar.)

Employee: “Oh, my God! I am so sorry! I have never seen anyone so crazy!”

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(I am a secretary at a big summer camp. Due to the extended needs of our small children, we only take kids through age 12. I answer a call.)

Me: “Hello, this is [Camp]; how may I help you?”

Mother: “I’d like to register my son for the finger-painting class.”

Me: “That’s excellent. May I just ask your son’s age?”

Mother: “Certainly, he’s 17.”

Me: “…I’m sorry, but I don’t think we can take your son.”

Mother: “Why?!”

Me: “Because we only take children up to age 12, and anyhow, this class is for our five-year-old age group. If you’d like, I can refer you to [teen camp]; they’re better suited to teens.”

Mother: “No! You’re going to take my son! He wants this class!”

Me: “I’m really sorry, but that rule is set in stone. We can’t bend it. Like I said, I can help you—”

Mother: “NO! NO! NO! You sign him up right now or I’ll have you fired!” *to son* “Here, Little Johnny! Tell this b**** to put you in the class!”

Little Johnny: “Yeah, I know the class is for five-year olds. My mom just doesn’t want me to go see my dad. Sorry about that. She’s an idiot. Bye.”

Mother: *in background* “LITTLE JOHNNY! DON’T TELL HER THAT!” *click*