(A gentleman approaches the counter; he is clearly well-off and his tone is rather arrogant and sharp.)

Customer: “You’re going to make me a bouquet for my wife, for delivery.”

Me: “Oh, wonderful! For an anniversary?”

Customer: “Yes.” *scoffs* “Give me roses.”

(The customer proceeds to waste both our time making disparaging remarks regarding our roses, and brushing me off when I state they aren’t cleaned yet. He is arrogant and rude about the delivery times, and orders me about a little more. By the end I’m answering him quite sharply and quickly; he seems to notice. We part ways amicably. A couple of days pass; the customer comes in while I’m working with my boss. He points at me.)

Customer: “You! You made up a bouquet for my wife the other day.”

Me: “Yes, sir. How did she like it?”

Customer: “Fine. I left my debit card, though.”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t catch that. I’ll just get it from the office.”

(I’m now off-shift and punched out. While we wait for the supervisor to bring the card, I make small talk.)

Me: “So, she liked the flowers? How thoughtful to make sure she got flowers on her anniversary!”

(He visibly warms towards me. He receives his card.)

Customer: “I need three roses. I need your help.”

(We choose three beautiful, long-stemmed yellow roses. I wrap them up for him and put him through, and pass him the roses. He hands them back to me.)

Customer: “These are for you. The bouquet for my wife was beautiful; she loved it. Thank you for everything.”

(I beamed for the rest of the day!)

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(An older man comes into the cafe and looks our menu over. We serve salads, sandwiches, and soup.)

Customer: “I want a sandwich, but I don’t eat bread.”

Me: “Hmm…”

Customer: “I’m probably not going to have any luck with that, am I?”

Me: “No, sir, I don’t think so.”

(I am a customer checking out at a grocery store I shop at every week. There is one customer ahead of me. Paper and plastic bags are 5 cents each.)

Cashier: “Would you like a bag for your items, sir?”

Customer: *unintelligible grunt*

Cashier: “I beg your pardon, sir?”

Customer: *grunts again and waves*

(The cashier starts to put the groceries in a plastic bag.)

Customer: “What?! What the h*** do you think you’re doing?! I said no!

(He starts into a loud, abusive tirade about how stupid the cashier is.)

Me: *to the cashier* “Just tell him ‘Pogue Mahone’ (póg mo thóin). It’s an Irish saying that people say when they want to end an argument.”

Customer: “No, it’s not! I know exactly what it means! I read notalwaysright.com!”

Me: *smirks* “Do you really?”

Customer: “Yes! Yes, I do, you stupid b****!”

Me: “Oh? Then why are you acting like a customer who belongs on there?”

(The customer turns bright red and shuts up. He is silent for the rest of his transaction. As he is getting ready to leave, he turns to me.)

Customer: “Any chance this can stay just between us?”

Me: *grins and laughs* “Not a chance in h***!”

Customer: *scowls* “B****!”

(He finally leaves.)

Cashier: “This is going on notalwaysright.com, isn’t it?”

Me: *still grinning* “You bet!”

(She ended up convincing her manager to give me an employee discount on my groceries because I got one of the rudest regulars to shut his mouth.)

 Related:
His Translation Is A Sham(rock)

(I am on phone with my long-distance boyfriend. As my laptop is out for repair, I am so bored that I keep calling him the whole day. This leads to him telling me to stop suffocating him. After a while, we are both cool about the comment and are joking about it. He then calls me.)

Me: “Babe, are you on a suicide mission?”

Boyfriend: “Why do u ask that?”

Me: “Am I not suffocating you? Aren’t you gasping for breath?”

(It finally strikes him, he makes gasping for breath noises.)

Boyfriend: “Yes I am dying, but I would rather die talking to you than not talking to you.”

(My father does all the cooking and baking for our family. My mother recently had a hysterectomy due to a tumor. My brother is nine, and he takes a homemade cake to school for his birthday.)

Teacher: “How nice! Did your mother bake this?”

Brother: “No. Mommy can’t cook. She doesn’t have a uterus.”

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