Customer: “Can you write ‘Happy Birthday Jorge?'”

Me: “Sure, how do you spell that?”

Customer: “Uh… W-H-O-R-E.”

Me: “Say that again?”

Customer: “W-H-O-R-E with an accent on the E. He is Venezuelan.”

Me: “…okay.”

(I work at a smaller, family run hotel known for its pet-friendly policy. All pets are welcome, but owners must sign a waiver form and leave an additional deposit in case their pet does something to the room or another guest.)

Me: *checking guest in* “All right! Are any pets staying in your room?”

Guest: “No, just me and my best friend.”

Me: *hands over keys* “Okay, well, have a nice stay!”

(Five minutes later, I see the same guest walking past me to the elevator with a large Doberman dog.)

Me: “Oh, excuse me, [Guest], I must have heard wrong. I thought you didn’t have a pet.”

Guest: “I don’t have a pet.”

Me: “Umm… Is that dog yours?” *points to dog she is walking*

Guest: “Yes. This is Toby.”

Me: “Oh! Okay… Well, we are a pet friendly hotel, but if you have a pet with you, I just need you to sign a waiver. It is policy.”

Guest: “But I don’t have a pet.”

Me: “Umm… Dogs, last I checked, are considered pets.”

Guest: *offended tone* “Excuse me?! This is Toby! He’s my best friend. He’s not a pet!”

Me: “Well… regardless of how you like to classify Toby, a dog, to our hotel, is a pet… Thus, you have to sign a pet form.”

Guest: *getting angry* “Stop calling Toby a pet! He’s not a pet! He’s my friend! I’m not signing a form because he’s not a pet. Stop being racist!”

(My boss is okay with us calling out crazy when we have to, so…)

Me: “Listen, lady, I do not like being called a racist. Furthermore, as far as I’m concerned, all canines are considered pets by this establishment and require a waiver to be signed. However you want to classify Toby is up to you, but for legal purposes, you have to sign the waiver.”

Guest: “Toby… is… not… a… PET!” *starts screaming racial slurs at me and cussing*

Me: “Ma’am, as part of the innkeepers act, I’m banning you, and your PET from the hotel. You have five minutes to get out or else I’ll be forced to call the cops.”

Guest: *leaves in a huff*

(We are the only pet friendly hotel in a 100 mile radius.)

(My mum’s family are Irish and she has typical red hair and blue eyes. My dad’s family are Danish and he has their typical blond hair, blue eyes, and is very broad and tall. As a result I am quite tall, about 5’8″, blue eyed, and have strawberry blonde hair. Very strawberry blonde, almost apricot. I’m at work on the shop floor when I’m approached by a customer.)

Customer: “Excuse me, could you help me please, dear? I have this basket but it’s quite heavy. Can I leave this stuff behind the counter, carry on shopping, and pay for it all together?”

Me: “Of course. Follow me and we’ll sort it all out.”

(I get everything out and hung up together, put a band around the hangers and a note on it.)

Me: “I just need your name so we know it’s yours when you come to pay.”

Customer: “Margaret. Thank you so much.”

(She then leaves and I carry on working. About 15 minutes later I happen to walk past the tills and I hear the customer and a colleague arguing.)

Customer: “She was about six feet tall with brown hair. She put all the stuff together and wrote my name on a piece of paper.”

Colleague: “I understand; however, firstly, we don’t have anyone by that description working for us, and secondly, the only items I have here like that you’ve already told me they aren’t yours.”

(I go over to help.)

Me: “Hi, have you come to get the rest of your items?”

Customer: “Yes, please, dear.”

(I run everything through the till and the customer pays. She then looks at my colleague.)

Customer: “I told you! Six feet tall with brown hair!”

Me: “I did write your name on it, see?” *points out ‘Margaret’*

Customer: “Oh, everyone calls me Peggy. Only my grandmother called me Margaret and she’s been dead for about 60 years.”

(She then turns to my colleague.)

Customer: “You need to pay attention, young lady.”

(As she’s walking away my colleague calls after her.)

Colleague: “I’m a man. My name is William. It says it on my badge!”

(He then turns to me with a look of utter defeat.)

Colleague: “I’m going on my break. When I get back I may be drunk!”

(I’m closing alone with my manager when three guys who are very obviously drunk come up to us where we are talking, waiting to shut everything down and leave.)

Drunk Guy #1: “Hi there, guys, how are you?”

Manager: “I’m good, how are you?”

Drunk Guy #2: *slurring his speech* “I’m fantastic. Did you know I was the GM here before it changed to a [Theater Company]?”

Manager: “I didn’t know that, no.”

Drunk Guy #2: “Yeah, I miss this place. Do you still have access to the roof?”

Manager: “Well, yes, we do.”

Drunk Guy #2: “Would it be ok if my wife and I go have sex on the roof? You know, for old time’s sake?”

(I look over to my manager trying not to laugh and he’s visibly trying hard not to crack up.)

Manager: “I’m sorry but I can’t let you up to the balcony if you aren’t staff and that’s the only way up.”

Drunk Guy #2: “Come on, man. I was the GM. You know why you guys have a [Armored Money Pickup/Delivery Service] truck pick up and deliver money for the theater?”

Manager: “Because it’s safer?”

Drunk Guy #2: “No, it’s because I used to drive to the bank with thousands of dollars in my glove box to make the deposit and they realized it wasn’t a good idea when I was almost robbed.”

Manager: “Well, that makes sense.”

Drunk Guy #2: “Exactly! Now can I go up on the roof to f*** my wife since you know I used to work here?”

Manager: “No, I still can’t let you go up.”

(This goes on for a few minutes until the drunk guy’s wife comes over.)

Drunk Guy #2’s Wife: “Good lord, what have you three been doing out here?”

Drunk Guy #2: “I was trying to see if we could go f*** on the roof.”

Drunk Guy #2’s Wife: “Oh, my god, I’m so sorry about him. We’re going to go now.”

(She grabbed him and ran out the door as her face got redder and redder, and my manager and I just burst out laughing.)

(A customer orders a chicken teriyaki sandwich.)

Me: “What else would you like on it?”

Customer: “Chicken, tomato, cucumber…”

Me: “Sir, if you want more chicken I’ll have to charge you extra for it.”

Customer: *looks confused* “Okay.”

(I go back to get more chicken.)

Customer: “No, no, no, I didn’t say teriyaki. I meant chicken, right here.”

(The customer starts pointing at the lettuce.)

Me: “Sir… that’s lettuce.”

Customer: “Really?”