(I am DJing an office Christmas party. A guy who had made tons of requests, most of which I’d played, approaches my workstation.)

Guy: “Where’s my request?”

Me: “I’ve been playing your requests where they fit.”

Guy: “Well, play [Specific Song] next.”

Me: “I’ll get it in soon, but I don’t think it’ll be next. I’ve got a lot of requests coming in, so I have to play them where they fit.”

Guy: “Don’t worry about anyone else’s requests. I’m the boss. Just play my requests.”

Me: “Oh, good. You’re the boss? Then where’s my cheque?”

Guy: “What?”

Me: “Well, since nobody’s bothered to come over and introduce themselves to me yet, I didn’t know who to come find to collect payment.”

Guy: “So, just play my request whenever you can…”

This story is part of our Christmas 2023 roundup!

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(I work in a poutine place downtown; we stay open until 4:00 am on weekends due to the nightlife. We never usually have an issue with drunk people.)

Coworker: “I’m sorry; we do not accept credit. Do you have another method of payment?”

Customer: “I will have you know I am the f****** niece of the owner, and he will have you all fired!”

Coworker: “Unfortunately, that does not address the issue at hand.”

Customer: “You f****** [homophobic slur]!”

(She continues to throw insults at my coworker, telling him to go back to Africa, despite him being Caucasian. He maintains his composure.)

Customer: “F*** you! Just let me pay for my f****** food!”

(I am right around the corner, and I am an African-American female. I decide to intervene.)

Me: “[Coworker] seems to have a lot more patience for your crap than I do. Our machines do not recognize credit cards, and that fact is completely irrelevant to his orientation. Moreover, the owner’s only brother isn’t even thirty and therefore cannot biologically have a daughter in her twenties. And that stuff about going back to Africa? You can take that up with me. Have a nice night!”

(The customer falls silent. The crowd parts as she exits the store.)

Coworker: “Wow, remind me not to piss you off!”

Me: “Don’t worry; you won’t be seeing that again. It’s one thing to be so disrespectful, another to be a compulsive liar, another to be homophobic, and another to be racist. She needed a talking-to!”

(All the customers who witnessed the incident tipped us really well for dealing with her!)

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(This is a story my dad has told often. It happened back in the 70s.)

Telemarketer: “Congratulations, sir. You have been selected for our contest. If you can answer one skill-testing question, you’ll win a prize. Are you in?”

My Dad: “Sure.”

Telemarketer: “Okay. I’ll give you four letters. Unscramble them to reveal the name of a well-known American comedian. First name is Bob. Okay? E, O, H, P.”

My Dad: “Bob Hope?”

Telemarketer: “Congratulations! You’ve won a month’s worth of free lessons at [local dance studio]!”

My Dad: “No, thank you.”

(A few days later, he gets a call again. Clearly, they’ve forgotten to cross him off their list because they give the same contest and question. Dad, however, decides to have a little fun.)

My Dad: “Is it Bob Pohe?”

Telemarketer: “No, sir. Would you like to try again?”

My Dad: “Oh, sure. Is it Bob Hepo?”

(Dad goes through every combination he can think of except the correct answer. Eventually, the telemarketer gives up.)

Telemarketer: “Sorry, sir. We do, however, have a consolation prize. You get a month of free dance lessons at [local dance studio]!”

Customer: “This may sound odd, but we’re looking for a light with a finish that’s resistant to… um… bird poop.”

Me: “I’m guessing you have a pet? Well, no finish is going to stand up completely to that kind of thing, but we can look at a few things. What kind of light are you looking for?”

Customer: “It’s for over our kitchen table.”

(I proceed to find them some lights. Later on, as I’m helping them out to their car…)

Me: “Oh, I never did ask the name of your bird!”

Customer: “Well, we have about seventy of them. Bye!” *drives off*

Coworker: “Remind me not to accept any of their dinner invitations.”

(In order to proceed on our site, users need to type in a signature consisting of their name and their username, which is an eight-digit number.)

Customer: “Every time I’m typin’ in my signature, it ain’t accepting it.”

Me: “Okay, well, I just want to make sure everything’s entered correctly in our system.”

(I read out their name, including spelling. Everything’s correct.)

Me: “Alright, let’s check your user ID. It should be zero-one-six—”

Customer: “Now, hold on. Do you mean the letter zero, or the number zero?”

Me: “…The number. Zero is a number.”

Customer: “Oh… huh. Well, that may be the problem. I been usin’ the alphabet-zero this whole time!”