Teenage Boys And Smutty Mags? You Don’t Say!

, , , , , | Right | May 19, 2008

Angry Old Woman: “Excuse me! I am very upset because you sold my young grandson p*rnography!”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t sell p*rnography.”

Angry Old Woman: “Get me the manager, now!”

Manager: “What seems to be the problem, ma’am?”

Angry Old Woman: “Your pervert cashier sold my grandson p*rnography!”

Manager: “Are you sure about that? We don’t sell anything like that here.”

Angry Old Woman: “Do you think I’m stupid? I saw it with my own eyes! It had naked women and he told me he bought it here with no problem!”

Manager: “Could you show me on the shelf what it was?”

(She goes over to the magazines, and points at Maxim.)

Angry Old Woman: “It was this one! See? Right here! Where any child could see!”

Manager: “Ma’am, this magazine is not p*rnography. Granted, the women are scantily clad in a few pictures but they aren’t naked and there is no age restriction on its sale.”

Angry Old Woman: “I know p*rnography when I see it, and this is very offensive. How could you sell it to young children?”

Manager: “Well, actually our store policy dictates that we won’t sell this to a young child even though it is still legal. How old is your grandson?”

Angry Old Woman: “He’s only sixteen!”

Manager: *rolls eyes* “I don’t want to offend your moral beliefs, Ma’am, but if your sixteen year old grandson wants to look at women in bikinis there is no force on earth that is going to stop it. Seriously.”

Angry Old Woman: “The power of Jesus can stop it! The power of Christ should compel you to remove this magazine from your shelves!”

Manager: “Right… Real quick, ma’am, before I get back to work, can I ask you a question? Does your grandson have Internet access?”

Angry Old Woman: “What does that have to do with anything?”

Manager: “A lot, and I think that the power of Christ should compel you to learn how to look up his browser history. Have a good day.”

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At Least She’s Not Returning Used Diapers

, , , | Right | May 12, 2008

(I was working checkouts the other day when I overheard this happening at the service desk.)

Customer: “Hi, I’d like to return these outfits.”

Coworker: “All right, may I see your receipt?”

(The customer hands over a receipt dated about seven months ago.)

Coworker: “I’m sorry, we can only accept returns within the first ninety days.”

Customer: “But my child outgrew these! Am I supposed to just lose money on them?”

Coworker: “Ma’am, children do tend to outgrow clothing.”

Customer: “Well, what am I supposed to do with them? Why should I lose money because of this?!”

Coworker: “…”

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A Mother’s Love

, , | Right | May 11, 2008

(A pimply, overweight 18-year-old boy dumps a satin black flame-job man thong on the counter.)

Boy: “Uh, can I return this? My mom got it for me.”

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If The Shoe Fits…

, , , | Right | April 24, 2008

Me: “Thank you for calling [Orthopedic office]. How can I help you?”

Caller: “PUT MY DAUGHTER ON THE PHONE!”

Me: “I’m sorry? This is [Ortho]–”

Caller: “No it isn’t! Now put my daughter on the phone right now! She knows she isn’t supposed to have boys over!”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, I think you have the wrong number.”

Caller: “NO I DON’T.”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m afraid–”

Caller: “You better be! I’m on my way home RIGHT NOW and god help you if you’re still there!”

(By this point we have several calls waiting to be answered. My supervisor signals me to transfer the call to them so I can get back to my job.)

Me: “Ma’am, I assure you this is a medical office. Would you like to speak to my supervisor?”

Caller: *dripping with sarcasm* “Oh suuuure! Put me through to your supervisor!”

Supervisor: “Thank you for calling [Orthopedics], how can I help you?”

Caller: “WHAT?! WHO ARE YOU? WHY ARE YOU IN MY HOUSE?!”

(It took several minutes for my supervisor to get the woman off the phone, after which she called three more times…)

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Time To Moooove To Another Cowllege

, , , | Right | April 7, 2008

(For three years, my job was to deal with angry parents. I was very good at it. Most of the time.)

Parent: *angrily* “I need to speak to someone about my daughter’s roommates!”

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

Parent: “Her roommates are awful to her! ”

Me: “Okay. Can you detail the problems for me? The more specific you can be, the better we can help your daughter and her roommates settle their problems.”

Parent: “They curse, and they play loud music, and they’re, well, they’re just not like us.”

Me: “In what way are they not like you, ma’am?”

Parent: “Well, they’re… farm people.”

(Twenty seconds of absolute silence as I am, for once, thrown off my game. I’ve heard racial B.S. and religious B.S., but never farm B.S.)

Parent: “Not that there’s anything wrong with farm people. It’s just that we’re not farm people.”

(I’m still in shock. She keeps going.)

Parent: I mean, farms are useful, but we’re from the city. My daughter grew up going to the theater and to museums.”

Me: “Ma’am, I can assure you, as a kid from a farm myself, I’ve been to the theater and to museums. What we probably have here is a personality clash.”

(There’s about a ten-second pause that just drips with uncomfortable.)

Parent: “Perhaps I should speak to someone else.”

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