(I’m a manager at the local post office. One afternoon, an older, posh-looking lady comes in.)

Lady: “I’m here to pick up my mail.”

(We get this a lot; people who receive large packages get a slip of paper in their mailbox saying we’re holding a package for them.)

Me: “All right, no problem, ma’am. Can I see your pick-up slip?”

Lady: “My what? No, I don’t have a slip. I’m here to get my mail.”

(This also happens frequently; customers forget their slip at home, or lose it. They can still claim their packages by presenting government-issue photo ID and at least one bank card with a matching name.)

Me: “Okay, that’s no problem. Can I see your ID and a bank card?”

Lady: *rolls her eyes* “I suppose.”

(She hands me her cards and I check the computer. There is nothing in the system under her name or address.)

Me: “Well, ma’am, it actually looks like you have nothing here to pick up. Are you sure you got a pick-up slip in the mail?”

Lady: “I already told you I didn’t! I’m just here to pick up my mail!”

Me: *confused* “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What mail?”

Lady: “I haven’t received any mail for the last week! I’m here to pick it up!”

(It finally dawns on me. She thinks because hasn’t received any mail for the last week that we’re holding it here.)

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t hold regular post here, only packages that are too large to fit in the mailboxes. If you haven’t received any mail, perhaps nothing has been sent out to you?”

Lady: “No! You have my mail! I’m very popular; I always get mail! Give me my mail!“

Me: “Ma’am, I assure you we’re not holding your mail. All mail that we receive gets sent out. I’m sorry you aren’t getting any mail, but that has nothing to do with us.”

Lady: *narrows her eyes, obviously unhappy with this answer* “Manager. Now.”

Me: “I am the manager. Now, I’m sorry you aren’t receiving anything in the post, but I promise you we don’t have it here. If we did, we would send it out to you. It’s not practical for us to keep mail here; it would pile up too quickly. If you’re expecting something specific, then I would suggest checking with the sender. I—” *she cuts me off*

Lady: “NO! I know you have my mail; I want it! I always get mail! Every day! Give me my mail!”

Me: “Ma’am, we do not have your mail. When we receive mail for you, we will send it to you; do you understand? We don’t keep it here.”

Lady: “FINE! Don’t give it to me! I’m filing a complaint!” *storms out of the building*

(The next day we got a visit from government officials since the post is a government service. The lady had called and complained that we were keeping her mail from her, and tampering with mail is a serious offence. After many hours of the officials searching the post office and rewatching the security footage — which included sound — we were all let off with a warning, and I was written up. We now have a policy where you must scan your pick-up slip at the door to be allowed in, or make a private appointment.)

(I work in customer service with a girl who is unfortunately very racist. When she’s not serving customers, I often have to hear her vile, disgusting, racist rants. To her credit, however, when the topic of conversation isn’t about race or culture, she is somewhat tolerable.)

Coworker: “Guess what? I recently started dating a guy, and we really hit it off! We decided to start going out for real, now!”

Me: “Oh, wow, that’s great. Congratulations.”

Coworker: “I just have to tell you more about him! His name’s [Boyfriend], and not only is he charming and handsome, he’s also the sweetest guy I’ve ever met!”

(I take a moment to contemplate what is going on. The name she mentioned sounds distinctly ethnic, and it just so happens to be from her least favorite ethnic group.)

Me: “Wait a minute. I’m really happy for you and your new boyfriend, but you said his name was [Boyfriend], correct?”

Coworker: “Yeah. Why?”

Me: “I thought you hated brown people?”

Coworker: “I thought I did, too, but he somehow managed to convince me otherwise. If they’re capable of being as sweet as him, then they can’t all be bad!”

(Wow. I’m really happy that she’s no longer racist, or at least less so, but talk about doing a complete 180!)

(I’m the stupid one in this story. I’m on vacation, and my wife and kids are looking in a bookstore while I run off to an ATM. When I come back, I see my daughter, age seven, looking through a cardboard box of comic books. Immediately my attention is focused completely on the book she’s about to open; it’s very racy and not appropriate for a seven-year-old.)

Me: “You know what? That one’s not really for kids. Let’s look for a different one.”

(I take the comic and put it back into the box before she can open it. Suddenly my wife appears at the end of the aisle, having overheard, and looks at me, horrified.)

Wife: “[My Name]! Why are you reprimanding someone else’s child?”

(I had been so focused on the comic book that I didn’t even see that the girl holding it — though she was the same height as my daughter — was not my daughter at all! That’s when I turned around and saw the girl’s actual father, to whom I apologized profusely. He must have been confused when a stranger entered the store and started criticizing his daughter’s choice of comic books!)

(I work in a call centre, in tech support.)

Customer: “So, uh, I’m dying of cancer, and I’ve only been given a few months to live…”

Me: “Oh, no! I’m so sorry to hear that!”

Customer: “Yeah, so, uh…”

(I figure that he must be calling in to add someone else to his account so they can still deal with it after he passes.)

Me: “Yes?”

Customer: “So, uh… what can I get?”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Customer: “So, like, can I get a discount or something?”

Me: “Let me transfer you to a manager.”

(My husband has recently taken to wearing a kilt. This happens soon after at a boosktore.)

Customer: “Oh, I like your skirt!”

Husband: “Um, it’s a kilt.”

Customer: “Oh, I’m sorry. I just wanted to say I support your lifestyle.” *facepalms* “I’m just making it worse, aren’t I?”