(I am working in a coffee shop and a mother comes in to make an order.)

Mother: “Yes, I would like to order one venti frappuccino. But can you pour it into two tall cups?”

Me: “No problem, ma’am.”

Mother: “This is for me and my daughter. We usually share our drinks.”

Me: “Not today, though?”

Mother: “Oh, no, never again. She is in middle school now. I don’t know who I’d be indirectly kissing.”

Me: *chuckles* “I see.”

Mother: “Yeah, she has been getting a lot of cold-sores lately, and I don’t need to go through that again!”

(I am shopping with my young son. I am talking to a male sales assistant.)

Me: “Hi, how are you, today?”

Sales Assistant: “Fine, and yourself?”

Me: “Not too bad.”

Son: “Mommy, is that going to be our new daddy?”

Me: “No, we are just talking.”

Son: “I don’t want a new daddy!” *starts crying*

(I work a summer job in a Wiccan store. A father walks in.)

Me: “Welcome to [store], how may I help you?”

Father: “My daughter wants to be a witch.”

Me: “Okay sir, how old is she?”

Father: “15.”

Me: “Sir, do you mean witch, or ‘witch’?”

Father: *giving me a curious look as I was making air quotes around ‘witch’* “Why are you asking?”

Me: “Because, sir, the legal age for joining a coven is 18. She’s too young, I’m afraid.”

(My co-worker chimes in.)

Co-worker: “Is she here?”

Father: “Yes, she’s outside.”

Co-worker: “The one with the big dog?”

Father: “Yes.”

Daughter: *from outside* “Dad! Stop making me be a witch! It’s a school project!”

Me: “She can come in if she wants to. We’re harmless.”

Father: “What would she need to get started being a witch? I found drawings of stars and knives and cauldrons in her room, along with a book. It’s witchcraft I tell you!”

Me: “What book was it?”

Father: “The Crucible.”

Me: “Ah. You may want to check with her school. And read the book.”

(I am watching a movie with my son. I have stayed until the end credits to watch a bonus scene.)

Son: “Dad, someone kept yelling ‘Thor’. Who’s Thor?”

Me: “Thor, in Norse mythology, was the god of thunder.”

Me: “No, he’s not! Gene Simmons is the god of thunder!”

(I work at a movie theatre. A father walks in with a relatively small child in tow.)

Father: “Hi, I’d like one for The Expendables.”

Me: “Okay. How old is your child?”

Father: “He’s three. He gets in free, right?”

Me: “Yes, sir. He does.”

Child: “But daddy, I’m five! I’m five, Daddy, I’m five!”

Father: “Dang it, Darrell!” *turns back to me* “Two for The Expendables.”

This story is part of the Lying-Customers-Getting-Caught roundup!

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