I’m in the kids’ department working out some boys’ freight. I have just finished organizing a new type of shorts and have not yet moved them off of the cart in the middle of the aisle. A customer starts looking at my cart and picking stuff up. I’m already annoyed because I just sorted everything she is touching.

She picks up a pair of the new shorts. These shorts are not located anywhere on the floor yet; they are just on my cart.

Customer: “How much are these?”

No problem; I scan the shorts.

Me: “They’re $19.99.”

Customer: “Thank you.”

She grabs a few pairs and walks away.

Fifteen minutes later, someone calls for a price check in kids’ on the walkie. And you guessed it: it is for none other than the shorts customer.

Employee: “This customer told me she got these shorts off of a table, and the sign on them said they were $12.99.”

Me: “They were literally nowhere on the sales floor; they were on my cart. And I personally told her the price.”

In the end, she did not purchase the shorts!

I work for a small(ish) telecommunications company in their call centre, and we have a few regulars who call up all the time to report various “issues” that they have.

One of these is a very wealthy, very elderly (but sharp as a tack!), and very cantankerous sort of chap, who we know as soon as we see his phone number come up — and he calls for the strangest reasons.

The most recent interaction I had with this customer:

Me: “Good morning, [Company], [My Name] speaking. How can I help?”

Customer: “Right! I’ve just received a catalogue from [Company] in the post. They’re a UK company; they sell clothes and that sort of thing.”

Me: “Okay…”

Customer: “Well, they have a phone number that one can call and make orders, that sort of thing, right?”

Me: “Yes…”

Customer: “Well, I’ve just called it, and the number is out of service!”

Me: “Oh, dear. That’s not good.”

Customer: “Well? What are you going to do about it, then?”

Me: “I’m very sorry, [Customer], but I’m not able to assist you with that. If the company has printed the number wrong, there’s nothing I can do.”

Customer: “Then what the f*** am I paying you for?”

Me: “Sir, you pay us for your landline and broadband services; we’re not responsible for anything outside of that.”

Customer: “That’s barmy! Absolutely barmy!”

And, as per usual, he slammed the phone down. We have to log every call we get, and we can also view past call records. Most customers have five or six pages; this gentleman has twenty-two.

I am the manager on duty at the bar/restaurant one super busy night. We have two separate bars: one at the very entrance to the building and one at the back. I am floating between both bars to make sure all my other bartenders are doing okay.

I go to check on the back bar, and I notice that the tap handle for one of the draught beers is missing. At first, I think one of my coworkers is screwing with me since we all do silly s*** to each other frequently.

Me: “Yo, [Coworker], where is the [Beer Brand] handle?”

Coworker: “Oh, it’s gone? It wasn’t me!”

Me: “[Barback], you f****** with us again?”

Barback: “I swear, it’s not me!”

I even check with the kitchen staff, and no one has the handle. When I come back to the bar, I see some random dude reaching across my bar, attempting to unscrew a different tap handle!

Me: “You! What the f*** do you think you’re doing?!”

They all start laughing and his friends start chanting, “Busted!”

Me: “You’re all going to leave unless I get my tap handle back.”

Handle Stealer: “Anyone can reach them; it could have been anyone in this bar!”

Me: “That’s funny. I’ve been here for years, and no one else has been stupid enough to try that and think it’s okay.”

They all got kicked out because of him, and our beer rep got us a new handle within a couple of days. I sent the camera footage of the guy and all of his friends to every bar in the area (we bartenders like to keep local town networks) and made sure they couldn’t go out for a drink anywhere in town for a long while.

Years ago, back when I was a university student, I got a temp job helping with the administration of entries for a local writing competition.

I was on email duty, answering queries from entrants. That’s when I happened across the following snotty email.

Entrant: “I am writing to tell you that I will not be taking part in your competition due to your excessive guidelines. I am so sick of all these requirements. It’s ridiculous. There are classes and articles telling writers how to do things. Perhaps there should be one for competitions and publishers to make sure you’re all doing the same thing. You need to get over yourselves.”

As a writer myself, I understood how frustrating it could be when every publisher, agent, magazine, and competition had different guidelines and rules.

I wrote back, apologising for any frustration our guidelines may have caused but explaining that they were in place for a reason. I wished him luck on his writing journey and left it at that.

His response?

Entrant: “F*** you, stuck-up b****.”

He was blacklisted from the competition, and quite possibly from others since the chair of the competition committee had contacts in other national and international competitions.

Do you want to know what the “excessive” formatting rules were that enraged him so?

Entries had to be in twelve-point Arial font, double-spaced, black.

My big box store occasionally gets shoppers for a delivery service, and mostly, they are able to function on their own. The only times I am ever really needed are when guys are shopping in my section (health and beauty) as they aren’t as familiar with certain products.

One day, a customer approaches me saying he is shopping for a customer’s order and is having trouble finding face wash. He tells me he has given it a valid try and searched all our face washes but couldn’t find it, so he isn’t sure if it just isn’t in stock or is somewhere else.

I look at the picture and instantly know what the problem is.

Me: “Okay, so, you’re in the wrong section. Go down to aisle thirty-six, which is the menstruation care aisle, and it should be toward the end of the aisle.”

Customer: “Why would face wash be in the menstruation aisle?”

Me: “That’s not face wash.”

Customer: “What do you mean? If it’s not face wash, what is it?”

Me: “Well, Summer’s Eve is a vaginal wash.”

Customer: “Oh…”

His face turned bright red, and he quickly scurried off.