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    Because PvP In Produce Is Teh Suxxorz

    | Dayton, OH, USA |

    (I worked in the meat department of a large, popular convenience store a few years ago. Alongside this, I was both in college, and played World of Warcraft, so I was pretty zonked whenever I worked.)

    Customer: “HEY!”

    Me: “Hello sir, how can I help you?”

    Customer: *scowls* “Where’s LARD?!”

    (The name for my character in WoW was Lard. The night before, I ended up having to kick a guildy due to him basically being a moron. After he was kicked, he messaged to me that he was ‘going to get me one day’)

    Customer: “… Lard?”

    Me: “Um… um!”

    Customer: *glares, then looks down* “Oh, here it is.”

    (He bends down and picks up a jar of lard from the counter infront of me and walks away, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I later found out that the same person deleted his character, rerolled the opposite faction, and leveled him to 70 in order to “Kill Lard and camp his corpse.” I consider that the moment that I won at WoW.)

    Righteousness And Hyprocisy, Sitting In A Tree

    | Michigan, USA |

    (I was ringing this ladies order up and the entire order consisted of chicken, pork chops, t-bones and rib eyes.)

    Me: “Okay, ma’am. Your total is going to be [over $200].”

    Customer: “Now before I pay you, I have to say something…”

    Me: “Okay?”

    Customer: “I know this has no reflection on you and you more than likely can’t do anything about it, but ***** has no right to sell live animals.”

    Me: “Okay, ma’am.”

    (I start chuckling a little. We only sell live gold fish as feeder fish for people’s piranhas and Oscars.)

    Customer: “Well, what on earth can be so funny about me saying that?”

    Me: “Weeelllll, you really had no problem buying the dead animals we sell.”

    Customer: “As a charter member of PETA, I resent everything you just said to me. Not only does this store sell live animals, but it sells dead ones too?”

    Me: “Well, yes, ma’am. We sell pork, chicken, beef, bison, and several different types of fish.”

    Customer: “And you see no problem with this?!”

    Me: “Well you see, ma’am, as a card carrying member of the NRA, the only problem I can see is that they don’t also offer to cook it for me too.”

    (She stormed off without ever paying for her stuff. My manager wound up writing me up for being less than courteous.)

    5 Minutes And 9 Months

    | St. Louis, MO, USA |

    (The couple walked up to my line and the guy put his stuff on the belt first. Then, the girl put up a divider and her stuff.)

    Guy: “Sweetie, let me pay for your stuff.”

    Girl: “FINE!” *storms off*

    Me: *thinking to self* “What the #@&% is going on?”

    (I look at what she is purchasing and realize that the only thing she’s buying is a home pregnancy test.)

    Youth Is Wasted By The Old

    | Iowa, USA |

    (A very old lady, clearly hard of hearing and sight walks over to me.)

    Customer: “Young man! You don’t have any Canola Harvest butter on the shelf!”

    (I had stocked Canola Harvest margarine not 20 minutes earlier.)

    Me: “Are you sure? I was certain we had–”

    Customer: “You don’t have it. I already looked at your shelf.”

    Me: “They changed the label on the tub last week. You probably don’t recognize–”

    Customer: “I KNOW where it goes, young man. You don’t have it on the shelf!”

    Me: “Let’s go check one more time.”

    Customer: “You’re a buffoon, completely incapable! I need an adult… you should get me your manager!”

    (We arrive, I pull a tub of Canola Harvest off the shelf and hold it to her.)

    Me: “Here you go, ma’am. Canola Harvest.”

    Customer: “That’s NOT Canola Harvest! It comes in a white container! Get me your manager!”

    Me: *reading the tub* “Canola… Harvest. It’s a new label, is all.”

    Customer: “Oh, I see. You must’ve changed the label on me again. *laughs* You should’ve told me it was a different color, young man!”

    Me: *gun-finger-to-head*

    Nothin’ Like A Good Old Existential Meltdown

    | St. Andrews, Scotland, UK |

    (I’m confronted by a customer with an extremely high pitched voice and impenetrable Highland accent. This is one of those tiny old Scottish women with a headscarf nailed on and muscles like steel wires. They are a common sight in the East of Scotland, and are almost immortal. Only the slow action of the wind off the north sea will gradually erode them.)

    Me: “That will be £***, please.”

    Old Lady: “Areyenamerican?”

    Me: “I beg your pardon?”

    Old Lady: “Ah sid, are ye Namerican?”

    Me: “I’m sorry, I missed that.”

    Old Lady: “Are… ye… an… American?”

    Me: “Oh, I’m sorry. I misheard you. No, I’m English.”

    Old Lady: “Oh… why?”

    (I have spent much of the last three years trying to come up with a satisfactory answer. As yet I have made no progress.)

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