In 2010, I am renting a house with a bunch of other guys in their twenties. Our landlord lives in the guest house in the backyard garage, and she also keeps the wireless router there.

One day, our Internet goes out. My fellow tenants and I are pretty good with the tech stuff, and we diagnose that the problem is beyond our own network. Something is preventing a signal from reaching our house from the utility line, and after waiting two days hoping the problem will fix itself, we have to call [Internet Provider] customer support to send a guy out and fix it.

He arrives five days later. Our landlord is a very friendly Filipino lady in her early sixties, a loving mother, and the kindest soul on the block. She’s everything an opportunistic commission-driven technician loves. But unfortunately for him, she isn’t a dumba**.

The tech is in the middle of explaining what our problem is and comes up with this harebrained story about how we aren’t getting a signal because our Ethernet cable connecting the router to the modem is “kinked”, causing data to “back up like water in a garden hose”.

Let’s pause and reiterate. A major Internet provider’s technician told us that data was backing up in our Ethernet cable because it was coiled, and backing up… “like water in a garden hose”.

He then gives his whole spiel about how the problem could be fixed by buying one of their new $120 routers and spending an extra fifteen dollars on buying an [Internet Provider]-approved Ethernet cable. The idiot takes the bait, and our landlord springs the trap. She calls the other tenants and me to come to the guest house.

The look on the technician’s face is golden. Upon being surrounded by a bunch of twenty-somethings, many of whom work in software and medical tech, we can see his soul trying to jettison out of his butt in a frantic escape. We all walk in with laptops and net diagnostics open, and we plug the laptop straight into the modem to show there’s no down signal. We access the modem properties and confirm that the modem log shows an external outage starting one week ago.

The technician tries to explain that he’ll simply send a call out to see if they can confirm connectivity or something, but our landlord interrupts him to say that he gave her a completely different explanation. She tries to force him to give us the pitch he gave her, but after he refuses and backtracks, she then tells us every single detail.

Coiled cable. Data backing up. Water in a g**d*** garden hose.

After we share a good derisive laugh at this guy, he disappears outside for about ten minutes to make a phone call. He comes back.

Technician: “All right, they’re looking at it. Give us a call if—”

Nope. We held his a** hostage. We bombarded the technician with questions, demanded explanations, and asked him things about the router and the Ethernet cable he was trying to sell that made it somehow better than the ones we already had. All the while, we were really just holding him down while constantly refreshing our connection. We were deprived of the Internet for a week; we had frustrations to vent.

Fortunately for the technician, he was only apprehended by our questioning for a short while. Before we could get any sort of justifiable reasoning for trying to swindle our dear, sweet landlord, the Internet miraculously fired back to life after just ten minutes.

It didn’t matter, though. After that ordeal, we dumped [Internet Provider] forever. Because of that technician, they didn’t just lose that household, but every household my housemates and I moved out to later in life.

As Mother’s Day was coming up, I decided to order my mom flowers from a certain online florist site. I spent $87 on this cute bouquet that had a centerpiece of flowers shaped into a small white dog with roses around it, set into a watering can, with a “Happy Mother’s Day” balloon and a personalized card. I gave the company a “flexible” delivery schedule of Thursday, May fifth through Sunday, May eighth, as Mother’s Day was Sunday, to avoid the extra $15 charge for guaranteed delivery on Sunday.

Thursday came around, and at about 8:00 pm, I received a delivery confirmation email and called my mom to make sure she’d gotten the flowers. However, nothing had arrived at the house.

And so began the migraine-inducing encounter with their “live chat” helpline.

After going through the motions with the robot and telling it my order number and other details, I was connected to a live agent.

Agent #1: “Hello, [My Name]! Thank you for contacting [Florist]. My name is [Agent #1] and I will be happy to assist you. Please give me a moment to review your chat with the virtual assistant.”

I waited.

Agent #1: “Thank you for your patience. I see that you are reaching out because your order was not delivered. I sincerely apologize that your gift did not arrive as scheduled. We value your business and understand how important it is for your gift to arrive on time. Please allow me to resolve this.”

This agent then disconnected the chat with no further messages, so I opened a new chat and got [Agent #2] who sent the same first two messages, but introduced himself as [Agent #2]. He could not see the all information I’d given the previous agent, so I had to give him all the confirming details again.

Me: “Thank you. Just please do not disconnect the chat like the last agent did after sending that same message with no other explanation.”

Agent #2: “Thank you for patiently waiting, [My Name]. Please accept my apologies for what happened to your order, and I hope you will give me a chance to make this right. I’m more than willing to process redelivery at the earliest time possible at no additional cost. Since I also want to make up for the inconvenience, I will also be sending, via email, a $20 Savings Pass good for your next purchase with us.”

Agent #2: “I’m sorry, [My Name], for what happened with the last agent.”

Me: “That would be amazing, thank you.”

Agent #2: “[My Name], is it okay to deliver your gift on May 10?”

Me: “Yes, that’s fine.”

Agent #2: “I’m sorry, [My Name], there is no available delivery date.”

Where the h*** did you get May 10, then?

Me: “How can there be no available delivery date?”

Agent #2: “Your local florists are not available.”

I gave up at this point.

Me: “Fine. Can I just get a refund, then?”

After a few more minutes, they sent me the confirmation of the refund and said it would take seven to ten days for it to show on my account. Since this was a major brand that used local florists to make and deliver orders, I couldn’t even complain directly to a proper shop, just the online chat. They wouldn’t give me the name of the shop that messed up due to “confidentiality,” but really what florist is open — let alone making deliveries — at 8:00 pm? And deliveries that don’t show up nonetheless!

Now, I have two days to find flowers for my mom from a local florist/grocery store since I don’t trust that online shop not to mess it up again.

I get called into the doctor’s because they want to get a blood sample from me. There I am in the waiting room, and [Receptionist #1] calls out my deadname.

Me: *Cringing* “Actually, it’s [My Current Name].”

Receptionist #2: “[My Current Name] is her preferred name.”

Actually, it’s my legal name and should be listed as such on my records, but I digress.

Receptionist #1: “Oh…” *Looks at my chart again* “So, where’s [Deadname]?”

I facepalm but respond.

Me: “Yeah, that’s me, but my name is [My Current Name]”

Receptionist #2 & Office Manager: “That’s her preferred name! She was [Deadname], but now she’s [My Current Name]!”

Receptionist #1: “Oh… Sorry, man!”

I’m thoroughly embarrassed but just want to get this over with! My mouth is open but no words are coming out

Office Manager: *To [Receptionist #1]* “Can I talk to you in my office for a second?”

The guy went back completely clueless.

He wasn’t being malicious or anything; the dude just had his head up his a**.

My husband and I have recently married. We are still waiting on our marriage license to be filed with the state and returned to us so I can legally change my last name. We have received checks as wedding gifts and want to deposit them.

My husband calls his bank and asks what’s necessary since a lot of the checks are written to Mr. and Mrs. [Husband’s Last Name]. The bank tells him he just needs to come in and they’ll take care of it. He goes in and he is told they can’t deposit them without my consent. He asks again what is necessary since our marriage license hasn’t been returned and they say all we have to do is have me come in.

This time we go in together. We are also going to transfer my bank account at a different union to his bank.

Teller: “I need both of your IDs.”

We hand them over.

Teller: *To me* “I need a current ID with your updated name.”

Me: “I don’t have that yet. We’re waiting for our marriage license to be returned so I can go in and officially change my name and then get a new ID.”

Husband: “When I came in the last time, all I was told was that [My Name] needed to come in with me. I asked about needing the marriage certificate and was told that it wasn’t needed.”

Teller: “I need proof that she is your wife.”

Husband: “So, what are we supposed to do?”

Teller: “Wait until she’s changed her name and has a new ID.”

Husband: *To me* “Call your bank and ask them what they require.”

I call my bank and ask them the same questions. They say it’s not a problem, especially if we are going to be joining accounts. I tell my husband this in front of the teller.

Husband: *To the teller* “Please close my account.”

The teller went and got their superior, who tried convincing my husband to stay with their union. He refused, and we drove over to my bank and had his account transferred over and the checks deposited within thirty minutes.

Bankers with impossible demands getting you down? Commiserate with these 23 Ridiculous Stories About Bankers You Just Can’t Bank On!

I studied abroad in my junior year of college, and a group of us decided to take a bus tour during spring break through several countries in Europe. The days were jam-packed, and we stumbled into our hotel room rather late one evening.

The lobby included a check-in desk, a seating area, and a small bar. The receptionist informed us that there was no bartender on staff this time of night, but she could serve us beer or wine if we wanted it. Our tour guide checked us in while the rest of us waited and talked. We all wanted to have a drink before turning in, and as we discussed the menu on display it, became apparent that I was the only one planning to order wine; everyone else wanted beer.

The receptionist finished at the desk and came around the bar. She looked at me first.

Receptionist: “What would you like?”

Me: “I’ll have a Riesling, please.”

Receptionist: “Of course.”

She poured me a glass — and by that, I mean that she poured me a FULL glass, at least two standard servings of wine, maybe two and a half.

Receptionist: “Why do people only pour half a glass of wine? I never understand it.”

Suddenly, all of my classmates also decided they were in the mood for wine. The receptionist continued to have a very generous pour, and she chatted with us for a while until we went up to our rooms.