Boss: “You can’t go on a break. We don’t do breaks here.”

Me: “But I’m working seven hours. It’s obligatory to let me have a break.”

Boss: “Sorry, there’s no time for breaks.”

Me: “Then you should have more people working.”

Boss: “We can’t afford that.”

Me: “Well, if you can’t afford to run your company in a legal way, you’re obviously doing something wrong.”

Coworker: “Hey, I have a customer here who says he saw a woman and her kid removing the wet floor sign from theater eight.”

Me: “All right, I’ll go check it out in a sec—”

(Suddenly a woman comes limping towards to ticket desk.)

Woman: “Oh, ah, oh, my back!”

Coworker: “Ma’am, are you okay?”

Woman: “No! I want to speak to your manager! Ah, oh, my back!”

Me: “I am acting manager. What can I help you with?”

Woman: “I’m going to sue this place! I just slipped and fell on an unmarked wet spot in one of your theaters!”

(My coworker and I exchange a bemused look while the lady pretends to be in serious pain. I decide to play with it a little bit.)

Me: “Oh, no! Whatever can we do?! Please, don’t sue!”

Women: “Well, firstly, you can compensate me for my pain. Oh, the pain!”

Me: “All right, miss. As you are injured, I need you to fill out this accident report.”

Woman: “Oh… Can’t you just compensate me without? I’m a very busy woman, you brats! Oh, my back!”

Me: “Well, firstly, I just need a picture of you.”

(My coworker rushes over with a phone and takes her picture.)

Me: “And can I see a driver’s license, and a credit card? Our drawers won’t open without a cash transaction, so I’ll just put, say, $250 straight into your bank through your credit card.”

(I don’t know if that’s actually possible to do, but it sounded true enough, because the woman’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree. She pulls out her driver’s license and her credit card and hands them to me, all the while groaning in pain.)

Me: “And real quick, can you tell me what happened, while I write an incident report?”

(I get a blank piece of paper and a pen, and while she tells us her story, I write, “This woman is an idiot. This is going to be funny; just wait,” and hand it to my coworker.)

Me: “All right, miss, I only have one problem before I put the money through.”

Woman: “Yes? Ah, oh, my back.”

Me: “When you told this story, why did you leave out the part where you moved the ‘wet floor’ sign?”

(The woman sprinted away, leaving me with her license and credit card. My coworker saw her license plate, and we called the cops to say she attempted fraud and was driving without a license. Apparently she was already on probation for attempted fraud, and in a few months when she gets out of jail, she won’t be going back into my theater; we put up the picture of her and her name next to the ticket booth, and she is no longer allowed to enter any of our 50+ movie theaters nationwide!)

(I work in a call center for a large communications company. One day a customer calls in wanting information on a customer’s account.)

Me: “I can help you with that, sir. Please give me the telephone number.”

Caller: “It is [number].”

Me: “Thank you. Your name and account number, please.”

Caller: “I don’t have the account number.”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but without account verification I am not able to provide you with any information on that account.”

Caller: “Look, buddy, I’m a lawyer and you f****** better give me that information or I will sue you and the company!”

Me: “Oh. You’re a lawyer?”

Caller: “D*** right. Now hurry up!”

Me: “Well, sir, I would assume that since you are a lawyer you would have a least a passing respect for the law, and you would also know, as a lawyer, that the information on customer’s accounts are protected by the PIPD Act. You would also know that if I gave you this information without proper verification it would open the company up to civil action and myself to termination of employment. I am not going to throw my job away just to make you happy.”

Caller: “F*** you!” *click*

(I am the night audit supervisor on a quiet night at a four-and-a-half star hotel when I get a call from one of the guests, a pilot with the British Royal Air Force.)

Me: “Good evening, front desk. How may I help you?”

Pilot: “Yeah, I want this girl out of my room.”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir? Did someone get into your room?”

Pilot: “She’s in the bathroom; I want her out.”

Me: “Is this woman a guest of yours?”

Pilot: “Well… Yeah, but she won’t come out!”

Me: *rolling my eyes, guessing what type of “woman” is in his bathroom* “Okay, sir, I can ask security to come by and help you to convince her to come out.”

Pilot: “Yeah, okay… but what about my money?”

(I hesitate, as my first instinct is that the guest is asking us to refund his room for the inconvenience, but he cuts me off before I can say a word.)

Pilot: “She’s got my money.”

Me: “The woman in the bathroom, sir?

Pilot: “Yeah, I want my money back.”

(I am smirking silently to myself for having confirmation of the type of “woman” who is in his bathroom. I have a bit of a discussion, back and forth, with the guest, explaining that while security might help convince the woman to come out of the bathroom and leave, he cannot force her to return the money. The pilot then decides to call the police and hangs up. I shake my head to myself, fully knowing what the cops will do. After a while, two police officers get to the hotel and I escort them to the pilot’s room. The female officer walks in very slowly, comes around the corner from the entrance, and sees the woman — who has come out of the bathroom in the meantime — in the corner of the room. She smiles, points to the woman and joyfully shouts out:)

Policewoman: “CINDY!”

(The pilot’s jaw must have been going at Mach-3 as it dropped to the floor from realizing that the cops, of course, would not force a prostitute to return money she got in an illegal transaction with a mark.)

(I work at a rather successful insurance company. A gaudy, middle-aged woman walks in. We go through all the information needed smoothly until…)

Me: “Okay, that just about does it. I just need you to answer one more question.”

Client: “Okay.”

Me: “What date were you born?”

Client: “October 7, 1973.”

Me: “Okay.” *murmuring as I write it down* “October 7, 1973.”

Client: “Oh, I think you must have misheard me. I said January 19, 1969.”

Me: “Oh, my mistake.”

(We go through everything again to make sure I didn’t make any mistakes. Lo and behold, when we get to the birth date, more trouble arises.)

Me: “And your birth date is January 19, 1969. Is that correct?”

Client: *getting aggravated* “You need to listen more carefully! I said May 23, 1972!”

Me: *getting suspicious* “Hey, [Coworker], can you come over here real quick?”

Coworker: “Uh, yeah, sure.”

Me: “And Miss [Client], what did you say your birthday was?”

Client: “September 1, 1965!”

Me: “Uh-huh, and [Coworker], what did I put down last?”

Coworker: “May 23, 1972.”

Client: “I never said that! He must have misheard me!”

Me: “[Coworker], do you think I misheard her? I mean, May 23, 1972 does sound a lot like September 1, 1965.”

Coworker: *catching on* “Yeah, you’re absolutely right, [My Name]. I’ll just go get security down here and see if they think the same thing.”

(Upon hearing this, the lady turned bright red, and turned around to run. She tripped and fell, along with her purse, to the ground. The purse burst open to reveal 20+ credit cards. She got up to run, but found herself face to face with a security guard. Turned out she was an identity thief, and was simply trying to remember the birth date of the person she was impersonating.)