(I am a 20-year-old female, but I guess I look younger. This occurs the first time I am buying condoms. I feel a little awkward, since it is my only item, and I’ve never bought them before.)

Cashier: *holding up the box of condoms* “Will this be all?”

Me: “Yep.”

Cashier: “I don’t think I can sell these to you.”

Me: “W-why?”

Cashier: “I think you’re too young to be having sex.”

Me: “That’s absurd! I’m 20 years old!”

Cashier: “Yeah, okay. Prove it! Let me see your driver’s license.”

(I start to go through my purse, when an old lady in line behind me speaks up towards the cashier.)

Old Lady: “Hey, you pimply a**-hole! Just let the girl buy her stuff. She’s trying to buy contraception to have safe sex instead of risking an STD or a pregnancy. Even if she was younger than 20, and I believe she is telling the truth, you should still sell them to her to prevent another teenage pregnancy! On top of it, we are on a college campus! How many young teenagers do you see around here? Most of the people who shop here are 17 or older! Just give her the d*** condoms!”

(The cashier wordlessly scans my items and bags them, and takes my cash.)

Me: “Have a nice day, jack-a**! Oh, and I’m paying for her stuff, too.”

(I’m a college freshman working in a thrift store. The most expensive item in the shop is $10. I am straightening up a rack when I watch a customer go into a dressing room and then emerge from the dressing room wearing a completely different outfit and make for the door. I stop her.)

Me: “Excuse me, ma’am! You realize you’re going to have to pay for that, right?”

Customer: “I know that! I’m not an idiot!”

(The customer turns around and walks over to a bookshelf, as if that’s where she’d been headed all along. I go back to the rack but watch her out of the corner of my eye. She slowly begins making her way towards the door again.)

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am. You still need to pay for that.”

Customer: “I did.”

Me: “Ma’am, I watched you. You went to the bookshelf and then tried to leave again.”

Customer: “You were SPYING on me?! I want to talk to your manager!”

(My manager, having heard the commotion, is already on his way over.)

Manager: “Is there a problem, ma’am?”

Customer: “Yes. This little girl was spying on me and accused me of trying to shoplift my own clothes!”

(I began to bristle and protest, but my manager shushes me and points to the customer’s pants. Or rather, to the price tag sticking out of the pocket. The woman looks down at it and then bolts for the door. I start after her, but my manager calls me back.)

Manager: “Ah, let her go. She’s only wearing about $6 worth of merchandise anyway.”

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(I’m the cashier at a small grocery store. An American customer approaches my till with a pint of milk.)

Customer: “Excuse me, can I get this milk cheaper? It’s cheaper in America.”

Me: “Uhh, sorry. We can’t change the prices for something like that.”

Customer: “Why not? I’m not paying that much for milk. Everything is way too expensive over here!”

Me: “If we changed the prices for everyone simply because they thought it would be too expensive, then we’d probably not stay in business very long!”

Customer: *sighs* “FINE.”

(She slams the milk jug down on the till, and I finish the transaction.)

Me: “Okay, that’s £1.89 please.”

(The customer sighs dramatically again, and hands me a $10 bill. I stare at it.)

Customer: “What?”

(I am thinking she hasn’t realized what she’s given to me. By this point there are a few customers queuing at my checkout.)

Me: “It’s one pound, and 89 pence.”

Customer: “So?”

Me: “We can’t accept dollars here.”

Customer: “WHY NOT?”

Me: “We don’t accept foreign currency. Just pounds.”

Customer: “I’M NOT FOREIGN; I’M AMERICAN! THIS IS A DISGRACE!”

(She ends up leaving the milk, and storming out of the store. Half of the customers in my line can’t help but laugh out loud after she leaves.)

(I’ve been on the phone for a good ten minutes at this point with a woman in her late 80s who has a strong Southern accent. She has been extremely prim and proper for the entire call.)

Me: “And do you have the offer code?”

Caller: “Offer code? What’s that, dear?”

Me: “It should be printed on the order form near where your name is located.”

Caller: “One moment. Oh, I found it!”

Me: *waits*

Caller: *silence*

Me: “Ma’am, may I have the code please?”

Caller: “Oh, of course, sweetie. It’s F as in ‘f***.’ D as in ‘d***.’ A as in ‘a**.'”

(The caller pauses before continuing, suddenly sounding very smug.)

Caller: “All of which I enjoy a great deal when it comes to my men.”

(I still have no idea how I managed to hold in my laughter until after I finished placing her order.)

(I am a South African working at a hotel restaurant in Israel. The establishment has both servers and guests from all over the world. Generally, people are interested in finding out where people are from and why they’re here. One day, I am clearing a table for an American couple.)

Me: “Shalom! I hope you enjoyed your meal. May I take your plates?”

Husband: “Yes, please. It was great.”

Wife: “Hey, you sound weird. Where are you from?”

Me: “I’m from South Africa.”

Wife: “Really?! South Africa… where is that?”

Me: “Err…”

Husband: *embarrassed* “Honey, it’s in Africa. If you look at a map, it’s right down at the bottom.”

Wife: “Oh…” *blank look* “Oh! Kangaroos, right?”

Husband: “Err…” *looks at me apologetically*

Me: *just smiles* “I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay!”

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