(I work at an online backup company. Our pricing is based on what storage amounts are used. You can get a free small account and upgrade to a paid account with more space later.)

Me: “Thank you for calling [name of business], this is [my name] speaking. How can I help you?”

Caller: “Yeah, hi, I needed to wipe my hard drive. I got a free account, but it wasn’t enough space. I paid to upgrade and then wiped my drive. Where is all my backed up stuff?!”

Me: “When you upgraded the account, did you try to back up again so it would upload whatever didn’t fit before?”

Caller: “No, it didn’t say I needed to do that! I just paid for the extra space this morning! You mean I lost all of my stuff?”

Me: “Well, if you ran out of space, and then paid for more space, but didn’t back anything up, then all we’d have is what you backed up before.”

Caller: “So, you’re basically saying I’m an idiot, then?”

Me: “Uh…”

(I work in the changing room of a popular teen clothing-store.)

Customer: “Where is your bathroom?”

Me: “Oh, our bathroom is in the back. We can’t let you go back there. If you go out the store, and turn left, there is a restroom over by [sub shop].”

Customer: “Can’t I just use it this once? Please?”

Me: “No, I’m very sorry. But that restroom near [sub place] is really only a three-minute-walk from here.”

Customer: “Why can’t I just use yours! I really need to go!”

Me: “No, ma’am. We have merchandise back there; I can’t let you use it.”

Customer: “B****!”

(She storms out of the store. I go on break for half an hour. When I come back, there is a horrific smell coming from the changing rooms. I go back there, and I see the customer standing outside one of our back stalls.)

Customer: “Serves you right!”

(She runs out of the store as I turn to look into the stall. She’d grabbed a bunch of clothes, thrown them on the floor, and urinated and defecated on them.)

Me: “I’m not cleaning that up.”

Coworker: “Teen girls be crazy!”

Customer: “What’s that?”

Me: “That’s an almond croissant.”

Customer: “What about that one?”

Me: “A chocolate croissant.”

Customer: “And that one?”

Me: “Plain croissant.”

Customer: “Nah. What’s that?”

Me: “Pain au chocolat.”

Customer: “What the f*** does that mean?”

Me: “It’s a pastry with chocolate in it.”

Customer: “So, it’s like nutty, yeah?”

Me: “Well, we can’t guarantee it’s nut free, but the pastry just contains a roll of chocolate paste.”

Customer: “So what does ‘pain’ mean?”

Me: “It’s the French word for ‘bread’.”

Customer: “Oooh! Posh! So what’s ‘chocolat’ mean, peanuts?”

Me: “Nope, ‘chocolat’ is French for ‘chocolate’.”

Customer: “I don’t like France; too artsy-fartsy. I’ll just have one of them chocolate croissants, then.”

(I work at a late-night restaurant that caters to the people who come for food when the surrounding bars close for the night. A customer comes in who has drunk a little too much.)

Customer: “Do you accept credit cards?”

Me: “Yes, we do.”

(I swipe the credit card, and it is approved.)

Me: “Now, if you could just sign here, you’re all set.”

Customer: “What am I supposed to sign?”

Me: “The cardholder’s name.”

Customer: “Okay, thanks.”

(She then proceeds to draw a picture of a naked lady—complete with large boobs—where her signature should be.)

Me: “Uh” ma’am, I don’t think this is a valid signature.”

Customer: “Just try it; it’ll work!”

(I put it through, and the machine accepts the signature!)

Me: “Wow, I guess you’re right!”

Customer: “I need to stop drinking so much!”

(She leaves me a $15 tip on a $25 bill! That is why I love working the late-night shift!)

(It’s 8:30 pm on a very slow Monday night, so my manager has sent everyone home except me and another server. Suddenly, we get slammed. Within 20 minutes I have over 20 tables. While I’m doing my best, about half my tables still need to be greeted, much less have their orders taken.)

Customer: “We need refills. It’s been like twenty minutes since you came over here last. We’re all done with our food and we’ve needed refills this whole time!”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir; I’ll be back in one second with those refills, okay?”

(I get the tables refilled, despite the fact that I have to ring in four other tables and check out three of them. Because I am so busy, I make a mistake and give him a regular soda like his friends instead of the diet soda he wants. After dropping them off and trying to attend to the outrageous amount of other guests needing me, he begins yelling for me.)

Customer: “HEY! LADY! WE NEED YOU OVER HERE NOW!”

(I look sympathetically at the couple I am currently taking the order for.)

Me: “I am so sorry about this; I will be right back.”

Couple: “Oh, don’t worry about it; we do understand. It’s crazy in here!”

(I hastily run to the shouting customer. He shoves the cup against my chest, sloshing soda on me and the floor.)

Customer: “Can I get a DIET soda this time? DIET? DI-ET, as in NOT REGULAR?”

(The shouting customer’s wife has been looking embarrassed during the whole exchange. She suddenly pipes up.)

Customer’s Wife: “SIT. DOWN!”

(The customer sits immediately, fuming. I refill his diet soda quickly, trying to ignore the cold soda all over me.)

Me: “Here you go, sir; I’m very sorry about that.”

Customer’s Wife: “Thank you so much dear. Whenever you get a chance, we’d like the bill. Take your time.”

(Trying not to cry, I take care of some other customers, including the poor couple I had to run away from, and then print their bill out. The husband does not look at me or talk to me again the rest of the time.)

Customer’s Wife: “You were an amazing waitress, honey. Thank you.”

(The wife left me a 30% tip, and the other couple dropped a $20 bill for my tip on top of their small, $20 tag.)