Refuses To Move From The Subject

, , , , | Right | August 17, 2015

(I work at an adult store in the same building as a topless club. I answer the phone for both sides. As you can imagine, we get a LOT of prank calls. Having worked here for over a year, I’ve gotten the same people more than once. This guy, in particular, I’ve gotten three times.)

Time #1:

Caller: “You sound like you’re ready to go home.”

Me: “Yeah. I’ve been here almost all day.”

Caller: “Well, you do me a favor. If someone gets in your way on the way home, you tell them to ‘move, b****.’ Can you do that for me?”

Me: “Um… sure.”

Caller: “What are you going to tell them?”

Me: “Move.”

Caller: “No, you tell them to ‘move, b****.'”

Me: “Okay. Byyyeee.”

Time #2:

Caller: “You sound like you’re ready to go home.”

(It has been a while since the first time and I’ve forgotten about him.)

Me: “I guess?”

Caller: “Well, you do me a favor. If someone gets in your way on the way home, you tell them to ‘move, b****.’ Can you do that for me?”

Me: *remembering* “I don’t like to give in to road rage.”

Time #3:

Caller: “You sound like you’re ready to go home.”

(This time, I immediately remember, even though it’s been a while.)

Me: “Actually, I love my job.”

Caller: “Yeah, but sometimes you’re just ready to go home.”

Me: “Nope. I love being here.”

Caller: “Well, I bet when you get off, you’re just ready to get home.”

Me: “Not really. I love my job. I love being here.”

(He keeps trying to get me to give him his opening.)

Me: “I don’t really like driving at night.”

(I immediately realize my mistake but it is after midnight and I didn’t get much sleep last night.)

Caller: “Well, if someone gets in your way—”

Me: “G**d*** it.” *click*

(Next time, I’m telling him I live here.)


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Ripe For A Correction

, , , , , | Right | June 6, 2014

(I am working the salad bar at our buffet restaurant and overhear a conversation between a little girl and her mother.)

Girl: “Mom, can I have some of those pickles?”

Mom: “Those aren’t pickles. They are cucumbers. They are pickles before they turn ripe.”


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Love’s End-Zone

, , , , | Romantic | November 18, 2013

(I am eating dinner with a few coworkers. I am talking about my fiancé.)

Me: “We were actually friends for a few years before we started dating. I kinda friend-zoned him for a long time.”

Coworker: “Wow.”

Me: “What?”

Coworker: “Your fiancé and Ron Weasley are the only two people I know who have ever made it out of the friend-zone.”

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Racism Should Have Checked Out Already

, , , | Working | July 19, 2013

(I am a customer at the checkout. Both the cashier and I are Caucasian. While I am paying, I notice that a boy, around eight years old, is putting a bag of groceries on the counter.)

Me: “You’re a good boy, helping his mommy.”

(The boy smiles.)

Cashier: “She’s not his mother.”

(The boy’s mother looks at him.)

Mother: “Uh… he is my son.”

Cashier: “You’re white; he’s a half-n*****.”

(The boy gets very upset, and begins to cry.)

Mother: “He IS my son! His father’s in the navy!”

Cashier: “Oh, my God! I am so sorry! Listen, I’ll… uh… give you 25% off; it’s the highest we offer on a Friday. How about that?”

(The mother nods, and I begin to go, when I see the cashier get a leaflet out from under the desk. The mother takes one look at it, and is furious.)

Mother: “Just what the h*** are you suggesting!?”

Cashier: “That’s what Grandma used to tell me.”

Mother: “Well, I can guess she’s a lot older, but you’re really young. How dare you even ask that!”

(I see the leaflet is a helpline for rape crisis and abusive relationships.)

Cashier: “Hey, Grandma told me that black fathers were criminals and white fathers were fools. So, I always see them like that. Not my fault she told me that. In fact, she’ll be here in a minute. I’m taking her to [Clothing store].”

(Right on cue, an old woman, maybe 60 or 70, enters. It turns out to be the cashier’s grandmother.)

Me: “Excuse me, but I think your grandson was just racist towards this woman’s husband.”

Grandma: “Listen [Cashier], what race was he? Because if the guy was Indian, Chinese or Native, I’m not gonna get you any cake tonight.”

Me: “He was black.”

Grandma: “Well, is there any sort of problem with this?”

(I tell the grandmother what the cashier said.)

Grandma: “Well, that’s what happens to those young white women.”

Me: “No, it doesn’t! Saying black men are abusive is COMPLETELY racist!”

(The mother, her son, and I went to the manager. Thankfully, they fired the cashier, and banned the grandma from the store.)

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Weeding Out The Truth

, , , | Right | January 20, 2011

(The cigar shop sells hookahs and tobacco for it. It’s called sheesha.)

Me: “Can I help you?”

Customer: “Yes. I’m looking for hookah tobacco. It’s called… uh… ganja?”

Me: “This is the only hookah tobacco we sell.”

Customer: “Thank you!”

(As I am ringing him out, it suddenly occurs to him what he had asked for.)

Customer: “Oh, my God! Did I just ask you for weed?”


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