If The Shoe Fits…

, | | Right | April 24, 2008

Me: “Thank you for calling **** Orthopedic office. How can I help you?”

Caller: “PUT MY DAUGHTER ON THE PHONE!”

Me: “I’m sorry? This is **** Ortho–”

Caller: “No it isn’t! Now put my daughter on the phone right now! She knows she isn’t supposed to have boys over!”

Me: “I’m sorry ma’am, I think you have the wrong number.”

Caller: “NO I DON’T.”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m afraid–”

Caller: “You better be! I’m on my way home RIGHT NOW and god help you if you’re still there!”

(By this point we have several calls waiting to be answered. My supervisor signals me to transfer the call to them so I can get back to my job.)

Me: “Ma’am, I assure you this is a medical office. Would you like to speak to my supervisor?”

Caller: *dripping with sarcasm* “Oh suuuure! Put me through to your supervisor!”

Supervisor: “Thank you for calling **** Orthopedics, how can I help you?”

Caller: “WHAT?! WHO ARE YOU? WHY ARE YOU IN MY HOUSE?!”

(It took several minutes for my supervisor to get the woman off the phone, after which she called three more times…)

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There Is No Spoon

, , | Right | April 16, 2008

(I am called back by the pharmacist to assist with a verbally abusive customer. The more the lady yells, the louder her kid cries. None of the other customers in line behind her can get to the register. )

Me: “How may I help you?”

Lady: “It’s about time you got back here to straighten this out! This s***-head won’t give me a medicine spoon!”

Pharmacist: “I’m sorry, I’ve tried to explain that we are all out of the complimentary spoons.”

Lady: “If my daughter ends up getting an overdose of her medicine, I’m going to sue you!”

(I roll my eyes and walk over to a display of dosing spoons, selecting one we sell for 99 cents.)

Me: “Ma’am, I’m sorry we don’t have any of the free ones. Let me buy this one for you.”

Lady: “What? Do I look like a welfare mother to you? I don’t need your f****** charity!”

Pharmacist: “You don’t need the spoon either. Those are chewable tablets.”

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Playing Doctor

, | | Right | March 17, 2008

Me: “[Hospital] Nutrition, this is ***, how may I help you?”

Patient: “Yeah, I was wondering if I could have some peas. Just been craving them.”

(I take the last name, look her up in the system to check the diet type/restrictions.)

Me: “Um, ma’am? It says you are allergic to green peas.”

Patient: “Yeah, but it’s all right. They just give me a rash.”

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Miracle On Placebo Street

, , , | | Right | February 26, 2008

(I am a waiter at a ’50s style dinner in a mall restaurant. A customer asks me to turn the heat up.)

Customer: “It’s a little cold in here. Could you turn the heat up?”

Me: “I would love to, but the restaurant is open to the mall and we have no control over the mall temperature.”

Customer: “Could you please just try?”

Me: “I would love to, but there is no way–”

Customer: “I would really appreciate it if you would just try.”

Me: “I’ll be right back and see what I can do.”

(I then proceed to walk into the back house and munch on some onion rings. After a few minutes pass, I walk out.)

Me: “How’s that?”

Customer: “Much better!”

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I Goes To Skool

, , | Right | February 13, 2008

(A girl in her late teens approaches me holding a t-shirt, turning it over in her hands, apparently searching for defects or blemishes in the material.)

Customer: “Do you have any of these that are new?”

Me: “I’m sorry? They’re all new.”

Customer: “No, this one is used. I want a new one.”

(I take the shirt and inspect it, finding it to be in perfect order.)

Me: “It looks perfectly fine to me. I unpacked these from today’s shipment an hour ago. We have multiples of each size if you’d like me to help you find another one.”

Customer: “I checked them all. They’re all used. See…”

(She snatches the shirt and points at the tag which reads, under the bar code, “USD $14.99.”)

Me: “That’s the currency. United States Dollars.”

Customer: *becoming irate* “I can f****** see that. Fifteen dollars for a used shirt is f****** insane.”

Me: “No. U-S-D. United States Dollars. We don’t sell used clothing.”

Customer: “What are you, a f****** idiot? It says used, right on the d**n tag.”

Me: “My mistake. Here, I’ll take that and make sure it gets thrown away.”

(I take the shirt and begin walking to the stock room.)

Customer: “Can I just have it? You’re going to throw it out anyway.”

Me: “Sorry, no. There’s an IQ requirement.”

Customer: “A what?”

Me: “It’s an acronym thing. Don’t worry about it.”

Customer: “You’re a f****** a**-hole!”

(She stormed out.)

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