It is July 4^th, but as usual, our convenience store remains open. A customer comes in with some of his friends, and it’s already apparent he’s had a few too many beers. He stumbles over to me and points his finger at me.

Customer: “Why do you hate America?”

Me: “I don’t?”

Customer: “Then why are you open today? It’s America’s Day!”

Me: “Our store is open 24/7, sir.”

Customer: “Are you a communist?”

Me: “…no?”

Customer: “You are! You’re open on America’s Day! You must be a communist!”

Me: “Actually I think being open today means we’re the opposite of communists.”

Customer: “Bah. I don’t know what communists are anyway. Can we buy beers?”

Me: “Do you have a designated driver?”

A more sober-looking gentleman at the back (getting snacks) calls over, hand raised.

Customer’s Friend: “That’s me!”

Me: *To customer.* “Then yes, you can buy beers.”

Customer: “Woohoo! You must love America!”

Me: “It has its moments.”

Customer: “I want [item], but I don’t want anything made in China!”

Me: “That might be difficult, sir, as quite a lot of our electronics are assembled in China.”

Customer: “Find me some, or you’re not getting my business!”

Me: “May I ask why you don’t want anything made in China?”

Customer: “I don’t want to support those [Asian slur]s! I support American businesses only!”

Me: “I see. Sir, I note you’re using an iPhone.”

Customer: “Yes, I am! They’re an American company!”

Me: “Yes, they are, but would you mind reading what’s on the back of your phone for me?”

He puts on his glasses and reads aloud the small text on the back of almost every iPhone: “Designed by Apple in California. Assembled in China.”

I hear about people going pale all the time, but I think this is the first time in my entire life I have ever actually witnessed it. Finally, he erupts into a rage and storms out.

Customer: “You’re all f****** communists!”

I work in a high-end tobacco store.

Customer: “I want some Cuban cigars. It needs to be a nice set for a gift.”

Our gift sets are quite pricey, so I usually say the following spiel to alleviate any shocks about the price.

Me: “Certainly, sir! We have several fine collections, and every set is made with genuine Cuban tobacco that’s been grown in Cuba for hundreds of years, so you’re guaranteed the very best.”

Customer: “Cuba? These cigars are from Cuba?”

Me: “Well… yes? The Cuban in the name kind of gives it away.”

Customer: “But they’re communists! They tried to invade us once!”

Me: “I… don’t think the invasion part is true, sir. And communist or not they produce the finest cigars in the world, so…”

Customer: “No! Absolutely not! I will not be buying anything from communists, and you should be ashamed about peddling their goods! I would like to speak to your manager!”

I decide this guy is not worth my time, so I call my manager over. The customer is a bit shouty at first, but my manager not only calms him down but manages to actually sell him a set of cigars.

Afterward, I ask what happened.

Manager: “I assured him that the Cuban cigars are made by capitalists so they don’t support communism.”

Me: “Well… okay?”

Manager: “But he still didn’t want a set from Cuba, especially when he saw the price, so I sold him a nice-looking set from China.”

Me: “But, didn’t he say he didn’t want anything from communists?”

Manager: “Do you want to chase him down and explain that to him?”

Point taken! 

Related:
Choose Your Battles, Part 3
Choose Your Battles, Part 2
Choose Your Battles

This happened in the late 1970s or early 1980s, as told by my father. It happened in a small country east of the Iron Curtain, where meritocracy was sort of turned around. Your career wasn’t determined by what you knew or even who you knew. The one point that would determine your status in life was your (and your parents’) devotion to the Party. If your parents weren’t big enough fans, you would never attend a university or get a decent job, and vice versa.

Enter Alfons. (Obvious fake name is obvious.) Alfons’s parents were devoted communists, so he was pushed through a university, passed with flying colours without doing any work and, having his fresh Master’s degree, was placed in a cozy middle-management office job in one of the country’s largest wood processing plants. This place did everything — trees went in, furniture went out. It covered something like eighty hectares of land.

One fine day, the huge wooden board that served as the tabletop of a massive table saw snapped in half. Line outage was a big problem even in the communist paradise of planned economy, so even Alfons left his office and made his way to the shop floor in order to help the workers stand around and shake their heads. After a while, he asked no one in particular:

Alfons: “What are we going to do?”

Everybody knew Alfons was barely more intelligent than any random piece of lumber found in that plant, and the foreman didn’t give a f***, so he said:

Foreman: “We’ll weld it.”

Alfons: “Weld it? We can do that?”

Foreman: “Yes, we need a special electrode for the arc welder. They should have one at [Department].”

Alfons was now ready to save the day, and off he went to [Department]. Halfway across the campus. On foot. [Foreman] obviously picked up the phone and called [Department] to warn them. When Alfons got there, they said, “Sorry, we’re out, but there should be one over there.”

Rinse and repeat, with Alfons running across the campus from place to place only to hear that they couldn’t help him. At last, he got to a place that couldn’t be reached by phone for some reason, and the lady there explained to him the full extent of his stupidity.

Thus ended the quest for the Wooden Electrode. The nickname stuck.

Related:
While You’re At It, Pick Up A Board Stretcher

Customer: “Why don’t you have any yardsticks longer than three feet?”

Me: “Uh… sorry?”

Customer: “Your yardsticks! None of them are longer than three feet!”

Me: “That’s because they’re yardsticks. A yard is three feet.”

Customer: “Well, I need a yardstick longer than three feet!”

Me: “We don’t carry those, sir.”

Customer: “Well, where can I get one?”

Me: “They’re not available, sir.”

Customer: “Is this because of those Democrats? Wanting us to all go metric?”

Me: “Uh… sure?”

Customer: “I knew it! G**d*** liberal Democrats!”

He stormed off, muttering about yards and communists.