I visit a certain grocery store pretty regularly. It is the closest one to my home. This location has a lot of issues with their card readers. Sometimes it takes a couple of tries to get my card to run through. It doesn’t happen often enough to make me not want to go back.

Today, I cannot get my card to read at all after numerous tries. The person next to me is also having issues, and someone behind me is, as well. I call the attendant over to let him know the card reader isn’t working and to ask if I can move my items.

Me: “The card reader on this register isn’t working. Can I move my items to a new one?”

Attendant: “It’s not the reader. Our readers are fine. It’s your card. Do you have another form of payment?”

Me: “Um, no.”

Attendant: “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, then.”

Me: “Can I maybe move my items to a different one?”

Attendant: “Why? It won’t help you.”

Me: “Well, the guy next to me was having issues with his card reader and so was a woman behind me. Can I try?”

Attendant: *Rolls his eyes* “Sure. It’s not gonna work, but I guess, if you really have to.”

Guess what? My card worked with no problem. He mumbled something about how he didn’t know why it would act that way and how they never have problems and just walked away. No apology. I almost got a manager but decided not to. I was also too flustered to get his name to file a complaint later. Hopefully, his customer service gets better.

Patron: “Do you guys have the Fifty Shades books?”

Me: *Checks the computer* “Yep, we have numbers one and three, and I can put you on hold for number two. Follow me; I’ll show you where they are.”

I head back to the shelf.

Me: “Here you go.”

Patron: “Oh, they’re fiction?”

I am taking orders in the drive-thru while another girl is taking money from a guy glued to his cell phone.

Coworker: “Okay, I have forty fingers, twenty Cokes, twenty large fries, and fifty orders of toast. Is that correct?”

The cell phone guy gives no reaction to the obviously fake order.

Cell Phone Guy: “Okay.”

Coworker: “That will be a thousand dollars.”

The guy still gives no reaction. Immersed in the phone conversation, he hands his card to the cashier.

Me: “Did you just say he owes a thousand dollars?!”

Coworker: *To me* “He’s not paying attention.”

Me: “Have a great night!”

I hand the food to the customer, who looks at me, for some reason rolls his eyes, and drives off.

Coworker: “Not much for small talk, I guess.”

I work at a fast food place that sells chicken. Grilled chicken, chicken tenders, and boneless or traditional wings are our only options, and it states so on the giant sign outside.

Me: “Welcome to [Fast Food Place]; will this be for here or to go?”

Tourist Wife: “To go. We’ve never been here, so we’ll need a moment.”

Me: “Of course! If you have any questions about the menu, please ask me. But our most popular meal is the plate.”

Tourist Husband: “No, do you have any bucket deals? We have to bring it back to four kids.”

Me: “We have a twenty-piece finger or wing box.”

Tourist Wife: “No he means like real chicken.”

Me: “Um… You mean thighs and legs and such as that?”

Tourist Wife: “Yes, like Kentucky-fried chicken?”

I give directions to KFC.

Me: “Or there is a place like Popeye’s right there.”

Tourist Wife: “No, we’re in Kentucky. We want real Kentucky-fried chicken, not these fake chicken fingers.”

I’m at a loss. I have no idea where to find “real chicken” this time of night, and I don’t even think if we have a place like that in town.

Me: “I really do apologize. I’m afraid there is no real Kentucky chicken here. Our company is based out of [Another Southern State]. I assure you, though, that the chicken we do have is the best in the industry, delivered fresh daily and made right every time.”

Tourist Husband: “I think we’re done here. I can’t feed my kids fake chicken.” 

Me: “Well, have a safe trip and good luck!”

Manager: “What was that about?”

Me: “How dare you?! Trying to pass off fake chicken as real? For shame!“

Manager: “Uh, chicken tenderloin is real chicken.”

Me: “No. It’s not real unless it has bones in it and is fried by the ghost of Colonel Sanders himself!”

Manager: “Did you direct them to KFC?”

Me: “Not Kentucky enough.”

Manager: “…”

It’s the day before a large demolition derby and my coworker is helping a customer, who has a pretty thick country accent, try to find some paint for his derby car.

Coworker: “What kind of paint do you need?”

Customer: “Hi-temp paint for my derby car.”

Coworker: “Okay, well, we have high temp engine enamel, rated to 550F.”

Customer: “That’s not hot enough.”

Coworker: “Okay, well, we also have some exhaust paint that’s rated to 2000F.”

Customer: “Still not hot enough. You ever ridden in a derby car?”

Coworker: “No.”

Customer: “It runs at 5000 degrees.”

Somehow, my coworker manages to keep a straight face.

Coworker: “Well, I’m sorry, but we don’t have any paint rated that high.”

After the customer huffs out of the store, the coworker tells us the story.

Me: “He does know that 5000F is about half the temperature of the surface of the sun, and that the car would have melted long before that, right?”