(I work as an admin. assistant at a local fire department. One of my duties is to issue burning permits for anybody wanting to burn brush. This happens over the phone.)

Caller: “Burning permit. Now.”

Me: “Due to the high winds we are not issuing burning permits at this time. You can call to check tomorrow and then come in to the station.”

Caller: “I can’t tomorrow. You need to make the wind stop. I pay your salary so you have to.” *slams down phone*

Me: “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

(I’m told a call will be coming back to me in the home theater from an upset customer.)

Me: “Thanks for calling [Store]. This is [My Name]. How can I help you?”

Customer: “I bought a television from you earlier today and the power cord doesn’t work.”

Me: “Okay… what seems to be the problem with it?”

Customer: “It doesn’t plug in right! It goes into the TV just fine but it doesn’t fit the outlet!”

(At this point, there are several possibilities, so I try to start narrowing it down.)

Me: “Was it an open box TV? We’ve been selling a lot of those lately.”

Customer: “No, it was a BRAND NEW TV.”

Me: “Okay, hang on.”

(I check to see if the power adapter is a brick-style that has two pieces. It doesn’t appear to be, but just in case, I ask.)

Me: “What does the power cord look like?

Customer: “It has the end that goes into the TV, and then the other end is just rubber! It doesn’t fit the outlet!”

Me: *as realization is dawning* “Does the rubber end come off the cord? Is it just a protective cap?”

Customer: “…Ha! It sure does! Thanks!”

(After the customer hung up, I uttered what can only be described as Kif’s weary sigh. That wasn’t the only incident today, but it’s the most notable.)

I was injured on my postal job, and have a broken foot. I’m on crutches, an important point. Since I can’t do my regular job, the postmaster puts me on the customer service window where people pick up their hold mail and things like that.

It’s late, things are slow, like they usually are at that time, and a guy hands me two slips to pick up certified mail. Our station covers six ZIP codes, so we have a LOT of mail. And I mean a LOT.

I take the slips and go look for them. He has one letter that came in the previous day, and another that came in a couple of days before that. We have one area where the previous day’s mail (usually) goes, and then another place where we keep the older mail. They’re in a rough order, by a number in the street address. I find the first one quickly. The other, I have to go through over 400 letters to find, and then I have to go through them again, because his letter has a forwarded mail sticker that got stuck to the letter ahead of it while leaving the old address exposed. I finally see the sticker and realized what had happened.

I go to the window, and the guy sneers, “You took four minutes to get my mail. That’s unacceptable. I want to talk to your postmaster.”

I don’t get mad. I don’t even drop my jaw at a guy getting upset about someone ON CRUTCHES being a little slow. I smile. Because I STILL HAVE HIS MAIL IN MY HAND. I tell him I’ll be glad to get the postmaster, shut the dutch door, and hobble away. Our station is pretty big, as a station with six zip codes would be. It takes me a while to find the postmaster.

I find him on the dock, and he says, almost in one breath, you look tired, what’s up, are you okay, you shouldn’t have come back to work the day after an injury like that, and I know you’re dying for a cigarette (this was back when I smoked), so have one and tell me what’s up.

So I tell him while I smoke the cigarette. Then we go back.

The postmaster opens the dutch door while I handle scanning the mail and getting the signature, off to the side, not saying anything. The guy is FUMING by this point. The postmaster lets him have it for timing someone who had broken her foot only the day before — I could have taken time off, but I am there, serving petty jerks like him, while I am in pain.

And then the guy makes the fatal mistake. He tells the postmaster that he has a bad attitude for a taxpayer paying his salary.

Hint to all of you Americans out there: NEVER — EVER — throw the scum taxpayer argument in a postal worker’s face. Don’t even hint at it, because your tax dollars DO NOT PAY for one fricking cent of a postal worker’s salary. That stamp or postage on the front pays our salaries. NOTHING ELSE. Bring it up, and you deserve to get your head torn off.

When that jerk resorted to the taxpayer argument, that’s when the postmaster went after the guy with both guns, informing him that he was all wrong, why, and finally that he had his mail. He could leave now.

The guy couldn’t believe the postmaster wasn’t firing me on the spot. “You’re not doing anything about how slow she is?”

“Why would I? I’m proud of her for needing so little time to find your mail, when she has a broken foot.” Then my boss turned to me with a grin, and said, “He’s all yours.”

This is his code: You can get your dig in; just don’t swear at him. I am kinda notorious for not taking crap off customers, and he wants to see what I’ll say. That’s probably why he stands in a place where the customers can’t see him. The window clerks take a few seconds from doing their end of day wrapping up to listen in, too.

I finally hand the guy his mail, smile, and say, “Isn’t it great that we live in America where we’re civilized and expect all workers to be treated with dignity and respect? Have a nice day!”

And I shut the door.

(I work front desk at a hotel. We have a strict policy on pets. While pets are welcome to stay at the hotel, we do charge a hefty price for their stay. On this particular day there is a local dog show event in the area. We’ve been getting guests all day staying with their dogs. This guest is no different.)

Me: “Hello, welcome to [Hotel]. Checking in?”

Guest: “Yes, I would like to get a room for the night. It’s just me and my friend, so we would like a room with two beds in it.”

Me: “Okay, no problem. So, what brings you to the area?”

Guest: “Oh, I was showing my dogs at the local dog show.”

Me: “Oh, that’s sounds awesome. Just so that you’re aware, we are pet friendly, but it is $20 per pet per night.”

(Guest stops mid-sentence and looks at me like I just slapped her across the face.)

Guest: “Excuse me? That is a rip off!”

Me: “I’m terribly sorry, ma’am, but it is our company policy.”

Guest: “But they’re show dogs! They’re not some ordinary filthy animal; I demand I be charged less for my dogs. I want to speak to a manager!”

(So, of course I oblige and call my district manager and tell him about the situation. He tells me that it’s all right if I charge her only $10 per dog as long as she doesn’t have more than two dogs with her in the room.)

Me: “I just got off the phone with my manager. He said that we can reduce the cost of fee down to $10 per dog. How many dogs will be staying with you?”

Guest: “That’s the best you can do?! This is ridiculous! They’re show dogs! I should not be charged this much for them.”

Me: “Again, ma’am, I’m sorry for this inconvenience, but that is as low as I can go on the price.”

Guest: “Fine! I’ll just go somewhere else!”

(Guest leaves in a huff. I go back to what I was doing. Not even an hour goes by when the same guest comes back, practically yelling the entire transaction.)

Guest: “Well, I guess we are just going to have to take the room. No one else around here will accept my dogs! I demand we have a room next to an entrance on the first floor away from other guests.”

Me: “I only have a couple rooms left; we are rather full tonight. I will try to get you as close to an entrance as possible.”

Guest: “Unbelievable!” *shaking head, looking like I’m the stupidest person she ever saw*

Me: “I am able to get you a room on the first floor and it’s as close to one of the entrances I can find. I just need you to sign and initial this registration.”

(On our registration form, the guest must initial for the rate they agreed to pay, initial if they brought any pets and how many, and sign at the bottom. Once the registration form is signed, no refund can be given if they have an issue with the price of the room, and if there is any damage done to the room they will be charged for the incidentals. She signed the registration form stating on it that she only had two dogs in the room and left with her keys. Now, at the front desk, we have a screen with cameras on it that cover all the hotel and entrances. I watch as she starts to unload into her room. She and her friend bring in not two dogs, but five! Needless to say, with permission from the manager I charged her the original price of $20 per pet for the additional dogs. I heard later that she talked with my manager about the extra charges and he pretty much told her off, in a polite way, of course. Thankfully we didn’t hear from her again.)

(I work in the hardware department of an aging retail franchise. I receive a call during a busy holiday season shift and a somewhat-elderly woman’s voice speaks to me from the other end of the line.)

Me: “Thank you for calling [Store]’s hardware department! [My Name] speaking. How may I help you?”

Customer: “Hello, is this Toys?”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but only our [Larger District] store has a dedicated toys department, but we do have some toys. What are you looking for today?”

Customer: “Well, I was hoping to find a certain board game. Have you ever heard of Card Games for Humanity?”

(Her voice leads me to believe she is very humble and prim. Cards Against Humanity is one of my favorite games, but I don’t think she was buying it for herself. So I spare as much detail as possible.)

Me: “Hmmm. That sounds familiar; however, we don’t sell that game in our store. I can tell you, though, that they definitely sell it on [Online Store] if you want to find it!”

Customer: “Oh, wait… did I say Card Games for Humanity? I meant Card Games Against Humanity. I played that last night at my son’s house, and it was a f****** riot! I love that game!”

(At my manager’s discretion, we had a small, appropriate conversation about it before laughing ourselves off the phone.)