Ten Dimes Eight-Point-Seven

, , , , , | Right | March 24, 2020

Me: “Thank you for calling [Store] support; this is [My Name].”

Customer: “Yes, I have 87 cents in dimes and the computer won’t let me enter it.”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am. You have 87 cents in dimes?”

Customer: “Yeah. How do I enter that into the computer?”

Me: “Did you mean 87 cents in pennies?”

Customer: “No, dimes.”

Me: “Ma’am, you do realize dimes are ten cents each, right?”

Customer: “Yes.”

Me: “And you realize it’s physically impossible to have 87 cents in dimes?

Customer: “But I do…”

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Not In The Same Store, Or On The Same Planet

, , , , , | Right | February 5, 2020

(I’m ringing a woman out and while doing so I ask her if she’d like to sign up for our email coupons. She says yes and I hand her a form.)

Customer: “Address, right?”

Me: “Email address, yes, ma’am. And your total is [total].”

(She nods and hands me a card, which I proceed to swipe. Our machines are very old and sometimes won’t read a perfectly good card and it doesn’t take hers, so I enter it manually. Right after typing in the number, the screen gives me a “Not valid” message. I take a closer look at the card.)

Me: “Uh… ma’am, did you mean to hand me this card?”

Customer: *finished with her writing, looks up* “Yes. Why, is something wrong?”

Me: “This is a [Department Store] rewards card.”

Customer: *now flustered and blushing* “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry!”

(She hands me her correct card. I scan it and it goes through just fine. I hand her the receipt and pick up the email form, checking it over very quickly.)

Me: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I need you to redo this.”

Customer: “What? Why?”

Me: “This is your street address, not your email address.”

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The World War On Piracy

, , , , , | Right | January 30, 2020

(I helped write a WWII flight sim that allows multiplayer action. One night, I am online flying with a few of our loyal customers who I have conversed with on the message boards, plus a random person who has joined us. As the random person signs off, he gives me his chat ID and asks me to chat with him after I finish flying. I finish a few minutes later and fire up the chat program.)

Me: “Hi, this is [My Callsign] from the game. How are you?”

User: “Great. I’m burning a copy of the game right now.”

Me: “Why are you doing that?”

User: “Because I think the game is great.”

Me: “Why are you burning a copy if you already have it?”

User: “Oh, I just rented it, so now I’m going to burn a copy to keep. I do it all the time!”

Me: “In case you’re not aware of it, I helped write this game.”

User: “No, you didn’t!”

Me: “Sure did. My name is in the credits. I’m [First Name] ‘[My Callsign]’ [Last Name].”

User: “Well, I’m going to finish burning the copy anyway, and there’s nothing you can do about it!” *laughs*

Me: *speechless*

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A Supreme Apology

, , , , , , , , | Working | January 18, 2020

On busy days, my boss has me call in pizza for the entire office. That’s about 300 or so people. The pizza shops in the area are generally super considerate and work with me to get the pizza delivered and/or in stages, so even if I only have an hour’s notice, we can start serving on time. This round, we order cheese, pepperoni, and supreme, though the supreme is only ten pies — about a quarter of the numbers the other two have.

As we get serving, I’m called away briefly, and when I get back, my coworker says that none of the supreme pizzas were delivered. At this point, I’m too tired and frazzled to doubt him, especially when three other people back him up, so I take ten of the pizzas back and explain the situation to the employees there.

One employee says he’s absolutely sure he made those ten supremes and that I must be mistaken, which I deny and explain that all my coworkers who were serving confirmed. We go back and forth for a couple of minutes before the employee offers to call his manager. Once off the phone, he tells me his manager will be in tomorrow and will be able to process a partial refund, which was all I wanted since the other pizzas were fine.

The next day, as I’m walking to my desk, I notice something: a plate with pizza leftover from yesterday, and it’s definitely not just cheese or pepperoni. I ask my coworker about it, and she tells me one of the servers gave it to her yesterday. The same one who told me we didn’t get any supreme whatsoever.

I talk to the coworker who was serving the day before, and he explains that he and the others thought it would be funny to play a joke on me. I’m royally ticked off at this point because I had to make an extra trip out to the pizza place to return the pizza, I was going to have to make another that day for the refund, I was stressed about the order being wrong, I stressed out the poor employees who had been kind enough to get all these pizzas for us on an hour’s notice, and I undoubtedly sounded like one of those people NAR loves to make fun of.

In the end, I swallowed my pride and went back to the pizza shop to apologize and explain what happened instead of getting a refund. If I could’ve, I would have dragged every employee who lied to me by the ear to that shop to apologize, as well.

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Anti-Vaxxers Holding Out Until The Last Drop

, , , , , , | Healthy | November 5, 2019

(I work in the billing department for an emergency clinic, and I get a call from an upset mother.)

Mother: “I will sue you all! How dare you treat my son with [medical shot]?! It’s against our religion to do this! I didn’t sign any form to give consent!”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, let me look up his information.”

(I look up the information. The day we treated her son was the day he turned eighteen; he was old enough to have any medical treatments without parental consent.)

Me: “Ma’am, I have it here that your son was eighteen the day he was treated. There’s nothing else I can tell you or discuss with you unless he calls and tells us it’s okay for us to talk to you.”

Mother: “That’s f****** ridiculous! He was not officially eighteen!”

Me: “It says on his driver’s license that he was eighteen on the day he was seen.”

Mother: “NO! He was born at 4:00 pm! He was seen at 10:00 am! He wasn’t officially 100% eighteen!” 

Me: “Ma’am, we don’t go by the time of birth. We go by date of birth.”

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