Me: “Good evening, and thank you for calling [Big Name Pharmacy]. How can I help you?

Customer: “I need to identify a pill.”

Me: “Absolutely. Can you give me a description?”

Customer: “It’s a yellow, round pill with an ‘A’ on it. It’s pretty dirty, though.”

Me: “Oh, I really wouldn’t take any medication that appears damaged or contaminated.”

Customer: “No, it’s okay. I found it on the ground outside.”

Me: *professionalism waning* “Uh… what? You found it where?”

Customer: “I found it on the… the street just now, and I want to make sure it’s okay to take.”

Me: *professionalism out the window* “Do you usually eat random s*** off the street?!”

Customer: *hangs up*

(I work as a pharmacy technician and, as part of verifying a patient’s identity, I ask them to verify the address we have on file. A man with three rows of skulls tattooed on his forearm is picking up for someone else.)

Me: “Can you verify the address?”

Customer: “[Street number], uh, gosh, it’s the snowman from that Frozen movie!”

(The street was Olaf. I laughed and sold him the prescription.)

(I’m pregnant and recently started showing, which has lead to many comments from customers. Also, the pregnancy has lead me to make lots of silly mistakes which I largely blame on pregnancy brain.)

Me: “Sorry about that. My daughter stole my brain cells and she won’t give them back.”

Customer: “I’m sure she’ll give them back eventually. I feel like I’ve just started to get back some brain power from my daughter.”

Me: “Oh? How old is she?”

Customer: “14.”

Me: “…”

(I am a customer in this story, and was in the process of picking up a few prescriptions. I grabbed a small, much-needed item as well to be rang up.)

Me: *places item on the counter* “Is it all right if I add this to the purchase? If it’s too much trouble I can take it to the front registers.”

Pharmacist: “Nah. This is one tiny item that can fit into the prescription bag. You wouldn’t believe how much people try to pack their cart at pick-up to avoid the line. We don’t have the bags or the means to properly checkout full loads back here.”

(As if on cue, a woman with a full shopping cart and a hand-basket moves in line behind me, hitting my leg in the process.)

Customer: “Hurry up! I don’t have all day.”

Me: “Sadly, I think I do.”

(In response to one of our competitors ceasing to sell cigarettes, our chain has adopted a policy of requiring ID for any sales of cigarettes or paraphernalia, no matter how old someone looks. This goes for everything down to tobacco pipe cleaners, which is what a customer is trying to buy.)

Me: “Can I see your ID, please?”

Customer: “You’re kidding, right? I’m 35. You don’t need to see my ID if I look like I’m over 27.”

Me: “No, it’s a new pol—”

Customer: “This is ridiculous.” *she starts telling me her birthday to enter manually*

Me: “I can’t type in—”

Customer: “What do you need, my driver’s license number?!”

Me: “I can’t sell anything having to do with smoking unless I can see photo ID—”

Customer: “What, you want me to go back home and get my driver’s license?! This is f****** ridiculous. I want to talk to your manager. I’ve been driving around all f****** day looking for these f****** cleaners. I’ve been at two f****** shops in just this f****** plaza already!”

(She continues ranting as I go get my manager and tell him the issue. At no point does she stop being audible.)

Manager: “Ma’am, we can’t sell you those unless you have photo ID.”

Customer: “Are you kidding?! I’m thirty-f******-five. You don’t need to see my f****** ID if I look like I’m over twenty-seven. It’s the law!”

Manager: “It’s a new policy, ever since [Competitor] stopped selling cigarettes.”

(I hand her a small flyer about the new policy, an exact copy of the sign that is on our door and at various places around the store.)

Customer: “Then I don’t want any of these.”

(She continues ranting as she walks toward the door.)

Customer: “I drive around for two f****** hours, just going all over god’s f****** creation just to find these f******—”

Me: “Have a great evening!”

Customer: “F*** you!”