I worked in a sporting goods store. I was in the camping department, but backpacking was really my expertise. One day, I got a call on the radio saying there was a customer looking for backpacking tents. I got all excited because I love sharing my passion with people.

He explained to me that he was going to hike the Pacific Crest Trail this fall. I was immediately concerned, mostly because that’s a three-month trip or longer and dangerous when done that late in the year. He informed me that he would need a four-season backpacking tent under three pounds for his lightweight pack. Our closest tent was a four-pound tent that was pretty much a 3.5-season. Its price tag was a whopping $550. He said he wouldn’t pay more than $200. I told him that a four-season tent under three pounds doesn’t exist, let alone under $200. He insisted that we had to have it, and I was insistent that I knew our inventory and we did not.

He then proceeded to tell me that I didn’t understand what he needed and I heard him mutter under his breath, “I bet he’s never been backpacking in his life.” He then told me that he wanted to talk to my manager, to which I responded with the fact that I probably knew more than he did about backpacking. He said, “There must be an expert I can talk to.” Of course, I responded with, “I am the expert.”

He walked away, and later I saw him asking someone else for help who immediately called me over. As I walked up, the other employee said: “There you are! I was just telling this customer about the two-month backpacking trip you were just on this last summer…”

That was pretty awesome.

(I’m sitting at my desk at work, typing away, minding my own business, when the phone rings. I pick up the call and hear my very favorite line.)

Caller: “Hello, this is Windows Technical Support. I am calling about a problem with your computer.”

Me: *cue troll-face* “No, you’re not.”

Caller: *pauses* “Yes, ma’am. I am calling because your computer has reported a virus.”

Me: “My computer has gained self-awareness and reported its own problem?!”

Caller: *pauses and I can hear the confusion* “This is Windows Technical Support, ma’am.”

Me: *legs crossed, trying not to pee laughing* “No, it’s not. Do people seriously fall for this anymore? You guys have really got to get honest work.”

Caller: *pauses again* “This is not a scam.”

Me: “Yeah. It really is. I’m not stupid. Have you heard of karma? Because you’re getting a lot of the bad kind right now.”

Caller: *mumbles something under his breath I can’t make out* “Are you mad, ma’am? Are you mad?”

Me: *almost explodes into a giggle-fit* “Yes, actually. I’m mad you keep calling my place of employment and interrupting my day.”

(I’m actually not mad at all. This is my favorite thing ever: to mess with scammers.)

Caller: “You are mad! You are a mad monkey!”

Me: *almost chokes* “I’m sorry, what?”

Caller: “YOU ARE A MAD MONKEY! A MAD MONKEY!” *starts screaming in another language and hangs up*

Me: *dissolves into a five-minute-long laughing fit*

(He honest-to-god called me a mad monkey. I thought I was going to pass out from laughing. That was much more entertaining than the one who called me a stupid b****. God, I hope he or his friends call back soon.)

(I work weekends in a small but busy family restaurant. I have just turned 18, so I am now able to handle beer and wine, and I have now taken over a few shifts as a waitress. We have a regular that comes in around twice a week and orders at the bar. He is very friendly amongst the staff and has been watching me shadow and train with other servers. This particular night, he has come in with his two kids and his wife, who is known to be a bit of a handful. As I am getting their table drinks, a large party comes in and sits in my section — a first for me. I try not to panic, and fortunately, one of the senior servers agrees to help me take care of my section.)

Regular: “Well, this place is just about packed to the brim, huh?”

Me: *serving their drinks* “Yeah, I’m still trying to keep up. My section suddenly got really full, so [Coworker] is going to help me out and make sure everyone gets taken care of. We’ll be by to check on you; just let one of us know when you’re ready to order!”

(The table nods and they seem sympathetic, so I turn around to help the party. A few minutes later, I look up and happen to notice the regular’s wife up at the register talking to the owner. I don’t think too much of it, as the owner and regular are on a first-name basis, and many of the regulars like to socialize. As I’m heading back to the table, I realize that their drinks have been abandoned, half-empty. They show no sign of returning, so I clear off the table, then ask the owner what’s up.)

Manager: “Well, [Regular]’s wife said that their server told them that she couldn’t serve them because there was another table that was more important. She kind of threw a fit and said she just wanted to leave. I told her that I’d comp their drinks, and that I’d investigate. So, what’d you actually say to set her off this time?”

(I explained what had happened and my boss wasn’t mad. The following week, when the regular came in by himself, I apologized to him for any misunderstanding, and asked if he’d extend the apology to his wife. He waved me off and told me not to worry about it; he thought she was just looking for attention, anyway.)

(I work at an inner-city pool and, for some reason, we have a big problem with swimmers trying to swim in their underwear. A male swimmer steps out of the change-room wearing boxer shorts and heads towards the hot tub.)

Me: “EXCUSE ME, SIR!”

Customer: “Huh?”

Me: “I’m sorry, but you cannot enter the pool unless you have proper swimwear.”

Customer: “What? What’s wrong with these?”

Me: “Those are underwear, and it’s a health and safety policy that all swimmers must wear proper bathing suits when entering the pool.”

Customer: “I’m only going into the hot tub.”

Me: “That is considered  a part of the pool.”

Customer: “What if you pretend you didn’t see me? I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Me: “How about no?”

Customer: “Argh! Fine.”

(The customer storms off towards the change-room. A few minutes later, I hear the change room open and turn to see the same customer from before, now in swim trunks.)

Customer: “Now can I go in?”

Me: “Uh… yeah.”

(I still don’t understand why he didn’t wear those swim trunks in the first place.)

(I’ve just moved and I decide to have dinner at a cafe-style restaurant near my new apartment. I sit down with my meal only for a girl around 12 years old to start playing a song in the same vein as Rebecca Black’s “Friday” on her tablet, seemingly at full volume. At first, I’m not sure if it’s really that loud or if I’m just tired and grumpy from the move, so I switch seats to the opposite end of the restaurant. It takes about two minutes for me to realize that no, it’s not just me, and people all over the place are glaring. After another couple of minutes and realizing that I can’t get through an entire meal with that, I go up to the girl, her mother, and her mother’s friends.)

Me: “Excuse me. Could you please turn your music down? I moved seats to avoid it and it’s still really loud.”

Girl: “Sure!” *starts turning the volume down*

Mom: *standing up* “No, no, my daughter can listen to her songs as loud as she wants.”

Girl: “Mom, it’s fine–”

Mom: “No, it’s not fine.” *to me* “Who do you think you are, telling my daughter what to do?”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m not asking her to turn it off, just down a bit so I can eat in peace.”

Girl: “Mom, it’s not a big deal. I can still hear it.”

(The mom kind of harumphed and sat back down, and her friends shook their heads and tutted their tongues at me, but at least it was quieter than the music. I went back to my table and noticed a few other people looking relieved. About two minutes later, I saw the mom reach over to her daughter and try to turn the volume back up, but the girl pulled it out of her reach before she could do it.)