Just Call The Customer An A**hole And Spare Us This Awkwardness

, , , , , , | Working | July 13, 2021

I’ve recently started working in a call center. It’s a relatively quiet period of the day, so the majority of us are not currently on calls. One of my colleagues finishes his call, hangs up, and angrily mutters:

Colleague: “What an absolute d*****bag!”

We all laugh and commiserate.

Team Leader: “What is a d*****bag, anyway?”

There are a few shrugs, but nobody offers an answer.

Me: “It’s… a device for… ahem… intimate cleansing.”

Some people understand, but [Team Leader] is still uncertain. She asks me to explain more clearly. As mentioned, this is still quite a new job, so I’m trying to keep my descriptions professional and polite.

Me: “You use it to clean your… private areas. It’s mainly for feminine use but can be used for cleaning the… uhh… backside, as well.”

[Team Leader] still looks confused. I start to flounder. I’m not sure how much more descriptive I can be without using cruder language that I’m not really comfortable saying in front of these people.

Then, another woman on the team comes to my rescue.

Woman: “It’s for washing out your a*** and fanny!”

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Throwing Around Stupidity And Wine

, , , , , , | Right | July 5, 2021

Customer: “I’ll have a beer and a large pinot.”

Me: “Red or white, sir?”

Customer: “Pinot. It’s a wine.”

Me: “Yes, sir. But pinot grigio is a white wine and pinot noir is a red one. If you really want to get technical, we also sell pinot blush, a rosé.”

Customer: “My wife only drinks white wine.”

Me: “Pinot grigio it is, then.”

I make his drinks and he pays and walks back to his table. A few seconds later, his wife approaches.

Customer’s Wife: “God. How stupid are you? My husband ordered pinot. P-I-K-N-O-T. Everyone knows pinot is a red wine.”

Me: “Well, actually, miss—”

I never did finish my sentence because she threw the wine over me.

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Pot Calling The Kettle An Idiot

, , , , , , | Right | CREDIT: IrrelevantQuantity | June 17, 2021

I’m working at a branch of a large up-market department store chain in south London. A bloke comes in with a friend, wanting to buy a kettle and asking what the options are for him to pick it up later. I explain that he can pick it up right away as we have them in stock. If he wants to, he can pick it up later in the day from click-and-collect, or for a fee, we can deliver it to his address, provided the address is in the UK or Ireland. He chooses the delivery option.

I put the details of what he wants to buy into the computer and come to the section where I have to put in delivery details. That is where the fun begins.

Me: “Could I ask your address, please?”

Customer: “Why do you want to know my address?”

Me: “Because you said you want it delivered.”

Customer: “But why do you need to know my address?”

Me: “That is how we know where to deliver your package. Otherwise, we won’t know where to deliver it.”

Customer: “But it’s your job to know these things.”

Me: “It’s my job to ask you. I’m not a psychic and I don’t automatically know your address.”

Customer: “But I don’t feel comfortable giving my address out. I don’t know you and I want to preserve my privacy.”

Me: “I understand that, sir, but if you won’t give me your address, then I can’t have your kettle delivered to you. There are twenty million addresses in the UK, and if I pick one at random, chances are it won’t be yours. Now, either you can tell me your address, or you can pick it up at click-and-collect, or you can take it with you now.”

Customer: “You’re an idiot.”

At that point, I’d had enough, and his insult was a good enough pretext to end the conversation. I informed him that I was not going to be taking personal abuse and that I would not be serving him further. He muttered something to his friend and moved away. Thankfully, I never saw him again, and no doubt he went to annoy some other underpaid customer service guy with his tomfoolery until he got his kettle.

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The Sigh Of Relief Heard Around The World

, , , , , , | Romantic | June 10, 2021

I’m home from university during my first year. I’m out with some friends from my hometown, catching up over a few drinks. I get a text message from my girlfriend. I read the preview line of the message.

Preview: “Oh, my God, I think I’m pregnant…”

My heart stops, my blood runs cold, and the bottom drops out of my stomach. We’re both only eighteen and we have only been dating a month or two. Neither of us is in a position to be having a child. Not to mention, the few times we have been intimate, we’ve taken sufficient precautions, so the question of HOW this might have happened is also racing through my mind.

I open the conversation to read the rest of the message and begin to formulate a response. And then, I read the full text.

Message: “Oh, my God, I think I’m pregnant with an Indian Food Baby. I have eaten SO much curry! How’s your night going? xxx”

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They Don’t Want A Pizza Your Mind

, , , , , | Working | June 8, 2021

It’s a wet, windy Saturday night in December and we decide to order two pizzas from our regular place half a mile away. We are told it will be with us within forty-five minutes. An hour and a quarter later, I call to inquire where the pizzas are.

Employee: “It’ll be at least another forty-five minutes. We’re really busy and we only have one driver on a moped. We’re getting concerned about going out anymore because it is getting windier and windier.”

I wonder why they didn’t plan for this and employ more than one person — maybe someone with a car — on one of the busiest nights of the week. Oh, well. We’ll sit and wait.

One hour later, the pizzas still haven’t arrived, so I call the store again. This time, the manager answers. I can hear phones ringing constantly in the background; obviously, everyone else is calling to see where their pizzas are!

Manager: *Frazzled* “If you want your pizzas now, you can come and collect them. They’re already out of the oven and just waiting on the side.”

I reluctantly agree and walk the half-mile in the wind and rain storm to collect my partially cold pizzas. The manager tells me that he will put a note on my account so I will get a free pizza next time. I reheat the cold pizzas in my oven at home, and finally, about three hours after ordering, we get to eat the pizzas!

On the receipt is a “How did we do?” survey offering loyalty points and a competition entry. I fill it in, saying how service was disappointing this time, which is a shame as it is usually great, and send it off. Nothing horrible, just honest.

Two weeks later, we decide to redeem the offer of free pizza and order from the store again. The employee I speak to sounds confused at a note he is reading on the system and puts me onto the manager.

Manager: “How could you have the nerve to call up again and demand free pizza?!”

Me: “You offered us the free pizza after our long wait last time.”

Manager: “Well, since you gave us a bad review, I’ve changed my mind!” *Laughs* “You don’t get anything. Those surveys aren’t anonymous. They get sent to the area manager, and the area manager berated me about that night’s bad results!”

Me: “So, because I filled in the survey and you didn’t like it, you feel that you need to punish me? Even though I’ve been a regular customer and spent over £400 in your store in the last four years I’ve lived here? You’re willing to lose a customer over this?”

Manager: “Yes, and I don’t care. You’re not going to get free pizza from me.”

Me: “Okay, I’ll just go to [Competitor Pizza] from now on. Goodbye.” 

Upon putting the phone down, I went online and gave them a scathingly bad — but honest! — public review. And, true to my word, I have never ordered pizza from them again.

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