No Red Alerts For This Red Light

, , , , , | | Legal | June 4, 2018

(I pull up to a red light next to a police officer.)

Officer: “You want to race to the next light?”

Me: *surprised* “Sure!”

(I won! No, I didn’t get pulled over; we were both on bicycles. Possibly the first and only time a police officer has challenged someone to a road race.)

Confrontation Is In Their Jeans

, , , , | Right | May 29, 2018

(My mom works at a well-known department store. She answers the phone in a department that is not actually hers, but no one else was around to take the call. A woman is looking for a specific pair of jeans in a different size; she already owns one pair. She is on the phone for about twenty minutes, and this is the gist of the conversation.)

Mom: “[Store], miss’s department. My name is [Mom]; how can I help you?”

Customer: “I’m looking for a pair of [Brand] jeans in a specific color.”

Mom: “Okay, what color are you looking for?”

Customer: “I don’t know what color; there should only be, like, three.”

Mom: “There are more than three colors; it should say which on the tag.”

Customer: “I’ve worn these jeans; there is no tag!”

(After a while, my mom figures out that they don’t have what she’s looking for in the store.)

Customer: “Well, when are you getting more?”

Mom: “I don’t know if we will be; corporate sends us whatever they want to, but you can order them online, if you like.”

Customer: “I don’t have a computer!”

Mom: “Well, you can come to the store and order it from the kiosk.”

Customer: “I’ll get it in 24 hours if I order from the kiosk, right?”

Mom: “That’s only if we have them in store.”

Customer: “Why would I order them from the kiosk if you already have them?”

Mom: “Because we don’t have them.” *this continues for a while longer, and my mom eventually gives up* “Would you like to speak to a manager?”

Customer: “Would you like to shove it up your a**?”

(That’s when my mom hung up on her.)

We Decline Your Solution

, , , , | Right | May 15, 2018

A customer comes to the counter, bottles in hand, and gives me his card to run. It is declined. I give it another shot. Declined again.

He snatches the card back from me, looks at it, licks it with gusto, and attempts to hand it back to me.

I decline, and he cannot figure out why I won’t touch it again.

Can You Hear What I Hear?

, , , | Right | May 12, 2018

(I work at a luxury car dealership as an advisor, but I’m also often stuck doing diagnostics on vehicles, trying to figure out what is wrong. An old lady, probably in her mid to late 80s, comes in with her car, and her small, shaky dog. I have seen this customer before, and she’s always really nice to us, never rude. She complains about a buzzing in her car.)

Me: “Hello, ma’am, what seems to be the problem?”

Customer: “Well, there is an odd buzzing sound coming from the car, on and off, that started… oh… twenty minutes ago?”

Me: “All right, ma’am, may I check out the vehicle to see what the issue is?”

Customer: “Sure thing.”

(I get in the car and start it up. I hear no buzzing noise, but that may be because her dog is panting loudly in my ear.)

Me: “I don’t hear anything. When does this sound occur?”

Customer: “It just does. Try taking it out on the highway?”

Me: “All right.”

(We get on the highway, and almost as soon as we get on, she says she hears it.)

Me: “I can’t hear anything; are you sure?”

Customer: “Oh, absolutely. It’s lou—”

(She pauses with a puzzled look on her face.)

Customer: “I wonder if it’s my hearing aid?!”

(It was her hearing aid.)

Addressing The Addressing Issue

, , , , | Right | May 11, 2018

(In order to donate at the plasma center where I work, you have to have a permanent address within a certain number of miles of our center. Every donor that comes in is required to provide proof of address. The most common way to do this is with a piece of mail addressed to the donor. In order for a piece of mail to be acceptable, all of the information on the mail has to EXACTLY match the information provided by the donor, and it HAS TO be postmarked in the last thirty days. A donor can’t donate plasma until we get acceptable mail, NO MATTER WHAT. Since I work the from desk most of the time, it usually falls to me to take approve people’s mail. It’s not uncommon for people to have a hard time bringing in acceptable mail, but this lady takes the cake. Monday:)

Me: *handing donor her payment card after her first donation* “Okay, [Donor], here’s your card. Your payment should be on there within about twenty minutes. You can come back as soon as Wednesday. Don’t forget, you’ll need your proof of address next time. Do you need me to go over the requirements again?

(The donor ignores me, puts in headphones, and leaves. Wednesday:)

Me: “Hey, [Donor], welcome back. Do you have your proof of address?”

Donor: “Oh, I forgot.”

Me: “Oh, dang. I’m really sorry, but we need that before you can donate.”

(The donor stares at me for a while and then leaves. On Thursday, the donor comes in, walks up to counter, and hands me a dirty letter.)

Me: “Sorry, [Donor], we can’t take this. This is from January.”

(It’s June.)

Donor: “I thought it just had to be mail. That’s my address.”

(I go over the requirements again, and the donor says she understands. On Friday, the donor comes in and gives me another letter.)

Me: “No can do. Your name and the street name are spelled wrong in this one”

(On Saturday, the donor comes back with yet another letter.)

Me: “Ma’am, this has a man’s name on it. I don’t see your name anywhere.”

Donor: “That’s my ex-boyfriend; he lives with me.”

Me: *getting annoyed at this point* “That won’t work. The requirements are…”

(On Monday, according to my manager, she comes in again with another unacceptable letter. My manager makes triple sure she knows the requirements. She says she understands. She also goes on a rant about how, “It’s so stupid that we’re making this so hard,” and, “I live really far away,” and, “I have KIDS,” before she finally leaves. Tuesday, the donor comes in with an older man.)

Me: “Morning, [Donor], did you bring your mail?”

Donor: “No, I brought my dad.”

Me: “Cool, does he want to donate with us, as well?”

Dad: “No, but she lives with me.”

Me: *confused* “Okay.”

Donor: “There. I live with him and he verified it. Can I donate now?”

Me: “What?”

Donor: “He said I live with him. That counts, right?”

Me: *beyond done with this lady at this point* “No, ma’am, it doesn’t. My manager and I have both been over the requirements with you, and bringing in a witness doesn’t count.”

Dad: “But she lives with me! I don’t understand this! WHY NOT?!”

Me: “Hey, [Nearest Coworker]!”

Coworker: “Yeah?”

Me: “Do I live at the White House?”

Coworker: “Yeah, of course.”

Me: “That’s why.”

(The donor and her dad just stared at me for a solid thirty seconds. Then, they walked away, never to be seen or heard from again.)

Page 5/23First...34567...Last
« Previous
Next »