(Two obviously underaged girls walk into my tattoo parlor.)

Girl #1: “We want to get our names in Asian writing.”

Me: “Asian writing, you mean like in kanji? It doesn’t really work that way. You’d have to get someone to translate it as best they can and then bring it in to us.”

Girl #2: “Can’t we just tell you our names and you write them in Asian?”

Me: “No, I’m a tattooer and unfortunately don’t have a second job as a translator. Also, how old are you?”

Girl #1: “I’m… sixteen. You have to be sixteen to get tattooed right?”

Me: “Only if you also have a copy of your ID and parental consent.”

Girl #2: “Uh… we don’t have our IDs. They got stolen. Can’t we just call my mom?”

Me: “No.”

Girl #1: “What if we really promise not to tell?”

Me: “No. ‘Really promise’ doesn’t exactly meet health board requirements.”

Girl #2: “There’s a board for health?”

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(I’m a bank teller. I have just politely told a customer I could not cash his friend’s check without his friend present.)

Customer: “This is ridiculous! Why would I lie? This is a good check.”

Me: “Unfortunately, I can only give the money to the person whose name is on the check. It’s nothing personal. It’s just a bank regulation to protect against fraud.”

Customer: “Oh, I get it. All this 9/11 crap, huh?”

Me: “Ha, yeah.”

Customer: “You know, people say that those terrorists want to kill Americans because we have gay people here, but that’s not true.”

Me: “Oh, yeah?”

Customer: “Yeah, we should be blaming heterosexual people. They’re the ones giving birth to those d*** terrorists!”

Me: *speechless*

Customer: “Well, have a good day. Try to become a lesbian… for America’s sake!”

CONTENT WARNING: Injury

(While working at a large chain supermarket, a regular named Joe comes in acting strangely.)

Me: “Hey Joe, you’re not looking well, mate. Something up?”

Joe: “Yeah, I’m not too good. I had an accident at home and I need to go to the hospital. Just got the wife to stop here first for a few things.

Me: “Oh, sorry, man. Hope everything’s okay.”

Joe: “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Can I have a bottle of [vodka], please?”

Me: “Sure thing. £7.99, please.”

(Joe then reaches for his wallet. Upon pulling it out, he also drops a freshly severed thumb onto my till, covering everything in blood. I then notice his hand is taped inside a sandwich bag, which, by now, is full of blood.)

Me: “Holy s***!

Joe: “Yeah, that’ll teach the b**** for making me cook dinner!”

Me: “Hi, how are you today? Do you have your receipt?”

Customer: “Here you go. Do you all do any detailing here?”

Me: “Sorry, we don’t. I can recommend a place.”

Customer: “Oh, okay. I just really need to get my car sodomized.”

Me: “Sorry, what?”

Manager: *walks in*

Customer: *to my Manager.* “Do you know a good sodomizer? It’s been ages since I had it done.”

Manager: *walks out*

(I am working in the produce section where we sell very thick and very red cranberry juice. As I am placing some on the shelves, I drop one, which spills on the ground. To prevent it from leaking all over the place, I quickly carry it to the customer bathroom close by to empty the rest in the toilet, leaving a long trail of red liquid.)

Customer: “Excuse me!”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, how may I help you?”

Customer: “Someone’s had their period in the bathroom!”

Me: “Oh, no, ma’am. I just dropped cranberry juice on the floor.”

Customer: “Well, then, can I get a discount for the nausea?”