Customer: “Can I have a turkey sandwich with cheddar?”

Waiter: “You want fries with that?”

Customer: “Yeah. Wait, no. Can I get a salad?”

Waiter: “Sorry, all out of salad. You want soup?”

Customer: “Yeah. No, I’ll have the fries.”

(The waiter calls the order in to the kitchen.)

Waiter: “…and just so you know, he’s… uh…”

(The waiter pauses, realizing the customer is less than twenty feet away and can hear him.)

Waiter: “…a little estúpido.”

Cook: *to the waiter* “Hey, dumb-**s, how do you say ‘cognate’ in Spanish?”

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(I’m teaching myself Finnish by talking to a friend over texts and by reading the newspaper clippings she sends me every now and then. It takes me a long time to read them, because I’m just beginning, so I do it in a library with a notebook to jot down notes. An elderly woman comes up while I am in the middle of getting my clippings, notebook, and pen out.)

Woman: “Oh! What are you doing there? Learning Arabic or something?”

(I look down at the very obviously not-Arabic text.)

Me: “Nope, actually Finnish.”

Woman: “What?”

Me: “Finnish? Suomi?”

Woman: *annoyed* “Are you telling me you don’t want to talk to me?”

Me: “No, miss, I’m just saying that I’m teaching myself Finnish, the language from Finland.”

Woman: *finally clicks* “Oh! I’m so sorry! I keep sticking my foot in it!”

Me: “Not a problem, ma’am.”

(I go to start working, and then I see the headline and stop.)

Woman: “What’s the problem? You can’t do it?”

Me: “No, ma’am, it’s just I’m not sure this story is quite appropriate.”

(I go to turn the page, but the woman snatches the clipping away and looks at it, bewildered.)

Woman: “Don’t be ridiculous; how hard could it be?”

Me: “Finnish isn’t related to English, so it’s unlikely you’d be able to recognize much.”

Woman: “You’re just faking; [you’re] trying to pick up women by looking clever! I f****** hate you f****** a**-holes who think they can fool people! You’re just a f****** b****** who thinks he’s so smart! D*** f****** kids these days!”

(The woman flings the clipping back down and storms off. I begin translating, saying it as I write just loud enough for her to hear.)

Me: “HORNY BEARS TORMENTING PEOPLE…”

(I am working customer service at a big box store. A customer comes up with a box of bullets. Store policy and law states that ammunition cannot be returned for any reason. This is clearly printed on the bottom of the receipt, surrounded by a double box of asterisks.)

Me: “Hi, how can I help you?”

Customer: “I need to bring back these bullets; they’re the wrong caliber.”

(The customer hands me the receipt.)

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but all ammunition is non-refundable. It says right here—”

Customer: “No, I don’t want my money back; I just want to get the right ones.”

Me: “I understand, but we can’t take ammo back under any circumstances. It’s store policy and the law.”

Customer: “No, no, no! The guy who sold them to me said if they were the wrong size I could come back and exchange it!”

Me: “No, he didn’t. There are three signs in sporting goods that clearly say you cannot return ammo. On the ammo case, behind the counter, and taped to the counter itself. It’s also clearly marked here on the bottom of your receipt. There is no way any associate in this store would tell you such a thing because it is against the law.”

(The customer leans over on the counter, in my face.)

Customer: “Are you calling me a LIAR?!”

Me: “Yes, sir, I am.”

(Clearly not expecting that answer, the customer stumbles his words a bit.)

Customer: “So… so what? I’m out by $30 and stuck with bullets I can’t use?”

Me: “Yes, sir, you are.”

Customer: “F***!”

(He snatches the receipt from my hand, and his bag of ammo, and storms off.)

(I’m head cashier in a craft store, and do all the returns. I have a couple come in with several bags and are rummaging through receipts. I start working through their transactions and find items that aren’t from my company and items without receipts.)

Me: “I am sorry, ma’am, but I cannot process a return for these items.”

Wife: “You should give me the money for these items anyway, because I have had a hard life! I have to take care of my mother and my four siblings!”

Me: “I can understand that, but—”

Wife: “What do you know about taking care of the elderly?”

Me: “Since I was 12 I cared for my father with cancer, who died when I was 18. Then my uncle was diagnosed also with cancer. He passed away two days ago. Between that I have another uncle diagnosed and living with me. Previously, my grandmother who had Alzheimer’s also lived with me and passed last summer. I’m also taking care of my mother who has severe arthritis. I have 5 siblings and 20 cousins, but everyone is dropped on me with no care or help.”

Wife: “I’m so sorry; I guess you do know what it’s like. Does it get better?”

Me: “No, but bubble wrap helps.”

(It is the end of the shift, at about 10 pm. I’m calling the owner with the daily numbers.)

Me: “Good evening, Mr. [Name]; I’m calling with the numbers.”

(The owner replies in what can only be described as a ‘come-hither’ p*rny voice.)

Owner: “Oh! Yes, please. Give it to me.”

Me: “Uh, well…”

(I proceed to read a list of the products sold, using the least p*rny voice I can muster.)

Owner: “Oh yes. YES! That’s GOOD!”

(I read out more numbers. I can hear the sound of fabric shuffling, and some kind of fleshy pounding.)

Owner: “YES! YES! THAT’S GOOD!”

Me: “Did you hear what I said, Mr. [Name]?”

Owner: “Oh, [My Name], you’re being so hard on me!”

(I suddenly hear the owner’s wife’s voice in the background.)

Owner’s Wife: “WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?”

(The owner slams down the receiver.)