(My mom is buying us tickets to see a recent superhero blockbuster.)

Mom: “Four tickets for [Movie].”

Cashier: *peers over Mom’s shoulder* “Just you?”

Mom: “No. My family is coming; I just got here early.”

Cashier: “You can’t hold their spot in line. You need to wait until they come.”

(Before my mom can argue more, a supervisor, who has been seated at the next register down, actually slaps their hand against their face before getting up and nudging the worker aside.)

Supervisor: “That was four tickets for [Movie]? Your total is [price].”

(He got Mom the tickets, and then slid the small window cover shut before turning to talk to the cashier. My mom moved to the side and got to wait while the cashier sat down sulkily and occasionally glared over at her while selling more tickets.)

When I had to bring collision-damaged cars into my shop, many times the steering wheel airbag had been deployed. The bag would get caught up in your arms or the car’s equipment when you tried to drive the car, so it was easier to just cut the bag off the wheel with a knife.

My hands and clothing were usually covered with paint and colored dust, and I had to be careful not to get it on the inside of people’s cars. So, when I noticed some strange colors on one of the airbags, I became concerned, and as I lay the airbag out flat to inspect it, I saw the complete impression of a woman’s face on the airbag.

All of her makeup had transferred onto the bag when it deployed.

So, I cut out the section with her face on it, framed it, and hung it on the wall in my office.

Over time, I collected about five or six on my wall. When I asked my customers what they thought the pictures really were, everybody thought it was some kind of new concept art, but boy, did they laugh when I told them what they were looking at.

(I’m in seventh grade. I ride the bus to and from school, which leaves at 3:20 sharp every day. One day, my homeroom teacher doesn’t let us out until 3:20 — which is a whole other frustrating story in and of itself, believe me — and, of course, this causes me to miss the bus. So, I go to the office and meet with one of the secretaries.) 

Me: “Excuse me. [Teacher] didn’t let us out until pretty late, so I kind of missed the bus.”

Secretary: “Well, I’ll call and have them send in someone to pick you up, but I’m not gonna be able to bug them every time. It’s your responsibility to get down to the bus on time.”

Me: “But I just told you, my teacher let us out really late. I didn’t really have a choice.”

Secretary: *deadpan* “Okay.”

(She goes into her office and talks with the bus company on the phone for a few moments before coming back out.) 

Secretary: “They’ll send someone to pick you up as soon as they can.”

Me: “Thank you.”

Secretary: “No problem, but next time, it really is important that you get to the front door on time.”

Me: “I tried to, but once again, my teacher let the class out ten minutes late.”

Secretary: “Well, okay, but still.”

(The bus comes a few minutes later, so I gather my things and go down to the front door.) 

Secretary: “Have a good rest of your day, [My Name]. But remember, you need to manage your time better. It’s your responsibility to be down here on time for the bus.”

Me: *giving up at this point* “Yes, ma’am. I’ll keep that in mind.”

(Luckily, both my dad and the bus driver understood the concept of “teacher error” a lot better than the secretary.)

(I’m the assistant manager of a retail store and am setting up a new starter. Our tills have a four-number operator ID and a four-number password.)

Me: “What’s the day and month of your birthday?”

New Starter: “28th of November.”

Me: “Okay, so your Op ID is 2811. Year of birth?”

New Starter: “2001.”

Me: “Okay, so, that’s your operator number set to 2811 and the password is 2001. Change the password to something else you can remember when you sign on so no one else knows your password.”

New Starter: “Hey, can I write this down if it’s important? Just in case I forget it?”

Me: “Dude, it’s your birthday. If you forget that, we’ve got bigger issues to deal with.”

(Having moved into a new neighborhood, I decide to grab some pizza at one of the local places, since it seems to have a good pizza and soda combo. I’m not really a fan of most sodas, except for root beer. This is especially true because I’ve just moved from a country where it’s not sold, so I’m craving it pretty badly. This place doesn’t list its drinks individually on the menu, just writing “sodas/juices/etc.”)

Waiter: “All right, what do you want to drink?”

Me: “Do you have root beer?”

Waiter: *looks at me with an annoyed expression* “Uh, no.”

Me: “Oh, okay. Do you have Sprite, instead?”

Waiter: “No.”

Me: “All right… What have you got then?”

Waiter: *still looking pretty annoyed at this line of questioning* “Pepsi, 7-Up, Crush, cream soda, iced tea, and root beer.”

(I stare at her for a second.)

Me: “Root beer, please.”

Waiter: “Fine. Cool. Whatever.”