(I work at an store that sells teaching materials. A very heavyset guy in a wheel chair comes in. Keep in mind I was the only person in the store at the time.)

Me: “Hello! Can I help you find anything today?”

Him: “Yes, I’d like to get an algebra book for my nephew.”

Me: “Okay.

(I show him the algebra books, and we make small talk about his nephew…)

Him: “I can see the divine light in you.”

Me: “…”

Him: “I went up to the mountain and Jesus burned the sins out of me. I couldn’t see anything except fire. Now I can see the divine light in people. You have it. You are pure and innocent.”

Me: *trying not to be completely freaked out* “Huh…heh…”

Him: “I can see it…you are immortal!”

Me: “Okay…”

(Later, when my boss came back and I told her about this, she laughed and told me that according to this guy she was a Demon Slayer. I felt kind of gypped.)

(I work at a music store attempting to help customers find music they want and restocking the shelves. It’s almost time for my shift to end, at about 8PM at night when Old Rowdy Guy comes in. He walks straight to me.)

Old Rowdy Guy: “Yes, do you have them whatchamacallit…Crimson Hot Chili Spices?”

Me: “Yes sir, do you mean the Red Hot Chili Peppers?”

ORG: “No, no, it’s another band. It’s got a song that goes doo dooo dah dee dooo.”

Me: “I don’t recognize the song sir.”

ORG: “What? It’s on the radio all the time!”

(He continues the song for a couple more seconds and a bell rings inside my head.)

Me: “Oh, you must mean Ill Crimson?”

ORG: “NO!”

(Old Rowdy Guy starts storming around looking around the aisles of CD’s. He starts getting angry and frustrated and yells, “I’ve been everywhere!”)

Me: “Calm down sir, do you know any of the lyrics?”

ORG: “No! I want to speak with your manager!”

(I call the manager over, he’s heard our “conversation.”)

Manager: “Is there a problem?”

ORG: “He won’t help me find this band!”

Manager: “Do you know any of the lyrics of a song or the band’s name?”

ORG: “Crimson Hot Chili Spices.”

Manager: “Red Hot Chili Peppers?”

ORG: “YES THAT’S THE ONE! How does this employee not know them?”

Manager: “He did mention the band, sir.”

ORG: “No he didn’t! Managers don’t argue with customers!” *customer storms out*

(We laughed about him for awhile before closing up.)

(A customer phones in to make a payment on their financing account.)

Me: “How may I help you?”

Customer: “I’d like to make a payment on my account.”

(I get the customer’s information and tell them how much their due payment is…)

Me: “And did you want to pay with Visa or Mastercard?”

Customer: “Cash.”

Me: “You have to come into the store to pay cash, sir.”

Customer: “Oh, I do?”

Me: “…”

Me: “Hello, *** Travel. How may I help you?”

Caller: “Hello I have a question.”

Me: “Sure, go ahead.”

Caller: “Do you offer cruise packages?”

Me: “Yes sir, we do.”

Caller: “Would that be on a ship?”

Me: “…”

(Girl walks up to the desk looking around, confused. It is Ash Wednesday, and I work at a Catholic university.)

Me: “Can I help you?”

Girl: “Yes, can I ask you a question?”

Me: “Sure.”

Girl: “Why does everyone have crosses on their foreheads?”

Me: “…it’s Ash Wednesday.”

Girl: “Oh. I thought they were part of a cult or something.”

(Customer comes in after filling his car.)

Me: “G’day sir, pump number 4?”

Customer: “Yeah.”

Me: “That’ll be $47.90.”

Customer: “I spilled a bit of gas out there.”

(There is an auto-shut off feature which the customer apparently ignored and kept pumping.)

Me: “Oh, don’t worry about that sir.”

Customer: “What are you going to do about it?”

Me: “I’ll just spread some cat litter on it and soak it right up.”

Customer: “No, I mean, what are you going to do for me? Gas is expensive and I can’t afford to be pouring it all over the ground!”

Me: “…then may I suggest not overfilling your gas tank?”

(A customer gives me a Canadian quarter. I refuse to accept it. He gets angry.)

Me: “Sir, I can’t accept this quarter. It’s Canadian.”

Customer: “So? I got it from somewhere in the US so you must accept it.”

Me: “No sir, I can not. My drawer will come up short.”

Customer: “It’s not my fault someone gave me this quarter! Why should I take the blame for it? Take the quarter!”

Me: “Oh I see, so it is my fault then?”

Customer: “YES! Take the quarter!”

(I take a quarter out of my pocket and then throw that Canadian quarter across the room to a trash can.)

Customer: “Call your manager.”

Me, smiling: “I am the owner, sir. How can I help you?”

Related:
Even Bosses Have A Stupid Quota

(I work at a Landscaping Supply company. Selling dirt, rock, compost, etc. I work in the office, answering phones and helping people work out how much material they need for their jobs. A lady came in and filled up a few small containers with cobble-rocks and wanted to know how much she owed, so I went outside to look at her
product.)

Me: “Hmm. Looks like three cubic feet. We’ll go inside and ring you up!” *starts walking back inside*

Lady: *doesn’t move*

Me: *stops by the door* “Is there something else I can help you with, ma’am?”

Lady: “Well. I watched on the Discovery Channel that men are better with visual volume than women. So if you can get one of the -guys- to look at my materials, I’d appreciate it.”

(At this point I’m absolutely floored. I am a victim of a lot of sexism with my line of work, but from ANOTHER WOMAN? Give me a break! Forget that I’ve been doing this for five years and approved by the county with a huge certificate on the back wall of the office, lady!)

Me: “Sure. Give me one moment.” *steps inside, pulls one of the random boys aside* “Can you look at this lady’s load?”

Male Co-Worker: “…didn’t you look at it?”

Me: “Apparently because I have boobs I can’t tell visual volume, so can you just make her happy?”

Male Co-Worker: “Sure, how much did you say?”

Me: “Three cubic feet.”

Male Co-Worker: “Thanks.”

(Basically, he goes out there and tells her the same exact thing. She comes in, and doesn’t even apologize for causing the trouble, pays for the material and pikes out without another word).

Related:
The Joy of Sex(ism), Part 2
The Joy of Sex(ism)

(After customer made copies of several $100 dollar bills on a self-serve copier.)

Customer: “I need to send this money.”

Me: “Err–what did you need to do?”

Customer: “I need to send this money to my son. What’s it called? Fax it!”

Me: “…I’ll ring you up for these copies. There’s a Western Union next door.”

(I was working the morning shift at a local sandwich shop and accidently gave the wrong order to the wrong patron. I ran outside to trade the first customer and came back in and approached the second…)

Me: “Sorry sir, I gave your order to the wrong man. Would you like me to remake this for you?”

Customer: “You put s**t in my sandwich! I don’t want it back!”

Me: “Oh, no sir. I’m sorry. See I gave this to the wrong man and ran out to trade him. Like I said, I can remake this for you it will just take a minute.”

Customer: “NO. You put s**t in my sandwich, I don’t want YOU to make me another.”

Me: “Well okay, sir. If you meet me at my register I will be more than happy to refund your money.”

Customer: “Listen here you little b***h, you put s**t in my f*****g sandwich! I can’t believe your manager doesn’t fire you!”

(This whole time my manager stand there laughing, doing nothing to help.)

Me: “What can I do to make this experience better for you? I can make a new sandwich or give you your money back.”

Customer: “F**K YOU!”

(He then storms away and leaves sandwich/money free. As he’s leaving I yell…)

Me: “Thanks for breakfast!”

Related:
An Expensive Temper Tantrum