(I have been pretty unwell with a virus for a week or so that has caused my asthma to flare up and has required me to take a short course of steroids. About a day or so after finishing the course, I start getting palpitations whilst at work, so I go to the hospital to see if it is something serious. This conversation happens when the doctor is arranging for me to get a chest x-ray.)

Doctor: “Any chance you could be pregnant?”

Me: “Nope.”

Doctor: “Okay, well, we still need you to do a pregnancy test.”

Me: *wondering why he even asked, then* “Why? There is literally no way I could be pregnant.”

Doctor: “Well, these things can happen!”

Me: “I’m asexual, doc.”

(The doctor frowns, looking a little confused.)

Me: *sigh* “I haven’t ‘been’ with anyone it over seven years. Trust me; there is no way I am pregnant.”

Doctor: “Look. The thing is that we just have to test all women, anyway. It’s kind of a rule.”

Me: “???”

(I had to take the test. Shocker, I was not pregnant.)

(Two little old ladies walk up to the registers. I get the one in blue, and my coworker gets the one in pink. It’s the last half hour or so of what’s been a really long shift full of angry people stressed over vacations/school beginning/etc.)

Me: “Good afternoon! Will you be dining in with us today?”

Blue: “I’d like a salad.”

Me: “Yes, ma’am. Which salad would you like?”

Blue: “I’m not from here. I’m not familiar with your choices.”

Me: “Not a problem! We’ve got three salads—“ *I point at their slots on the menu board and name them* “—and we can add or take away ingredients if you need us to.”

Blue: *huffs angrily* “I just want a salad!”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, but as I said, we’ve got three. Which one would you like?”

Blue: *absolutely steaming now* “Just a salad!” *finally stares at the board* “I’ll take the one in the picture.”

Me: “Absolutely. What sort of dressing would you like?”

Blue: *snarling* “Thousand. Island.”

Me: “I’m so sorry, ma’am, but I’m afraid we don’t have Thousand Island. The rest of our dressings are listed under—“

Blue: “JUST. GIVE. ME. A DRESSING. AND CALM DOWN!”

(I smile, but I know if I go any further with this lady I will say something I absolutely regret. I call my manager over and go stand next to one of my coworkers in the corner until the lady moves away.)

Manager: “What happened?”

Me: “I asked her what salad and dressing she wanted.”

Coworker: “Literally that’s all she did.”

Manager: “That’s what she said. She said you kept asking what salad and dressing she wanted.” *he looks at the clock* “You wanna go home ten minutes early?”

Me: “Nothing would bring me more pleasure.”

(I work as a doorman for a large, well-known rock venue in the city centre. We have a good team, and there is usually very little trouble, but we take pride in providing a safe place for people to have fun without being obnoxious. A band I don’t know is playing. I am checking passes at a door that leads backstage, and as you might imagine, fans always want to go backstage to meet their idols, so the rules are pretty strict; if you don’t have a pass, you’re not going backstage. No ifs, no buts, no coconuts. About an hour before the show starts, a guy approaches the door where I’m working.)

Me: “Pass, please.”

Customer: “I don’t have it. I must have left it backstage. Let me through!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but if you don’t have your pass on you, I can’t let you past.”

Customer: “F*** off! I left it backstage. Get out of my way!”

(The customer tries to push past me. I’m not a tall guy, but I’m broad, strong, and used to dealing with drunken idiots. I put my hand on the guy’s chest and gently push him back.)

Me: “I’m sorry. No pass, no entry.”

(The customer now starts on a rant, shouting and swearing, telling me that he’ll have my job, how much he makes compared to me, that I’m fat and too stupid to do anything but guard a door, etc. I’m trained to be calm in situations like these, but the attitude of this guy is getting on my nerves. After a couple of minutes of this, he seems to run out of ideas.)

Me: “Are you done? Look. If you can go and find someone with an Access All Areas pass, they can vouch for you and I can let you through. Until then, you’re not going backstage.”

(At this, he flounces off to find someone with a pass. He returns a few minutes later with a person I recognise from the security briefing: the band’s manager.)

Manager: “What is going on? [Customer] is saying that you threatened him, and you won’t let him backstage?”

(I explain the situation, noting that I don’t know who the band is or what they look like, and that for security reasons you can’t get backstage without a pass. Whilst this is happening, [Customer] is sneering at me over the manager’s shoulder.)

Me: “…so, as you’ve got an Access All Areas pass, you can vouch for him and I can let him past.”

Manager: “Oh. Well, that’s okay, then.”

(The customer smarms past me.)

Me: *to customer* “Remember to wear your pass, and we can avoid this in future.”

Customer: “F*** YOU!”

(Once he’s gone, I explain what the customer was like, and I can see the look the manager’s eyes.)

Manager: “I’m so sorry about him. He’s been showing off like this since we started the tour. He’s not normally like this.”

Me: “No worries. He is an idiot, though. How long have you got left of the tour?”

Manager: “We’ve only just started! We’ve got sixteen weeks to go!”

Me: “I’d suggest taking him aside and explaining that not every place is as nice as us. If he tries that in the wrong place he’s not always going to get such a calm response.”

Manager: “Will do. Thanks for not knocking him on his a**.”

(I saw that the band played the Glastonbury festival this year, so I guess the guy either mellowed out, or the manager drilled some sense into him!)

(I work at a well-known UK department store in the menswear department. A customer comes to my desk clutching a pack of underpants, and it is immediately obvious that every single pair has been worn.)

Customer: “I’d like to return these.”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but we cannot exchange or refund underwear unless the packaging is intact.”

Customer: “What? Why?!”

Me: “It’s for hygiene reasons.”

Customer: “That’s ridiculous. I haven’t even worn these!”

(I know he is lying because the packet is open, and all of the underwear that would have been neatly folded inside when he bought them are messily shoved back into the packaging. There is also an overwhelming scent of strong laundry detergent.)

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but without the packaging and hygiene seal intact, I cannot refund or exchange this purchase. It does state this on your receipt, and you would have been informed of this when you bought them.”

(He demands to speak to a manager, who tells him exactly the same thing as I did until he leaves in a huff. I speak to my manager afterward about how ridiculous it is that people would be so disgusting as to try and return used underwear.)

Manager: “Well, at least he washed them before bringing them back. You’d be amazed by the number of people who bring in dirty ones to exchange.”

(I live two minutes away from work. I’m pretty close with my coworkers who are in today, so even though I am on my week off, I decide to pop in. I am sitting with [Coworker #1] on his lunch break when [Coworker #2] comes out.)

Coworker #2: “Will one of you two come out here? Got a couple of obvious shoplifters hanging about.”

(I go so that [Coworker #2] can finish his food. I start asking about the moves that they have had to do. One is just finishing, and one is about to start.)

Me: “So, what’s going where with the men’s move?”

([Coworker #2] explains the entire move that I pretty much know about and may not even be in for, but it is an excuse to stand near the pair of shoplifters and look in their direction every now and then.)

Coworker #2: “…and ladies’ steelies on the back of there.”

Me: “Ladies’ steelies? Really? We barely have the stock for half of what they’re expecting us to put out.”

Shoplifter #1: “What did you just say about stealing? We ain’t stealing!”

Me: “Sorry? I said steelies, as in steel-toe caps.”

Shoplifter #1: “You said stealing!”

Shoplifter #2: “What did she say?”

Shoplifter #1: “Nothing, don’t worry about it.”

Me: “I was talking about steelies, but clearly someone’s paranoid.”

Shoplifter #2: “We ain’t paranoid!”

Shoplifter #1: “Well, maybe I did hear you wrong, so if I did I’m sorry.”

Me: “You genuinely did, so fair enough for apologising. Thank you.”

(The shoplifters started fumbling about, put the three pairs they were messing with back on the shelf, and left, mumbling about how the woman would need a half size, and we don’t do them. I’m sure it shouldn’t have taken three different pairs of the same style to figure that out, but okay.)