(My mom and I have just arrived at the emergency room after being sent from a local fast ER over possible appendicitis. While we are getting checked in, an older man arrives.)

Man: “I’m having chest pain and pain in my arm.”

Nurse: “We’re taking you back immediately, sir. Please get in this wheelchair.”

Man: “No thanks; I’m good to walk.”

Nurse: “Please, sir, take a seat in the wheelchair.”

Man: “No, I insist I’m good to walk.”

Mom: “Take a d*** seat in the chair. If you’re having a heart attack do you really want to be walking right now?”

(He sat in the chair and grumbled while they took him away.)

(The roommate and I are watching videos online when I get momentarily distracted. The roommate notices.)

Roommate: “What are you thinking about so hard?”

Me: “Oh, just what shade of red I should make Waluigi’s super cape, and where I’m going to find a maple leaf cut-out to sew on it. Or maybe I should just get an applique. And do you think I can use the same white mesh for his bridal veil as for Yoshi’s toilet paper?”

Roommate: *after a long pause* “It’s too early for alcohol. It’s too early for alcohol…”

Me: “Hey, you asked!”

(During a Saturday full of errands, the roommate and I decide to treat ourselves to lunch out. The waitress gets our drinks right, but the food is where the fun begins…)

Me: “The taco salad looks good, but it comes in that big fried tortilla bowl. No bueno.”

Roommate: “They have the [menu item]. Same stuff as the taco salad, but no bowl, and it’s even a dollar cheaper.”

Me: “Perfect!”

(When the waitress arrives, I order the [menu item] by name, even pointing it out on the page to be sure I’m talking about the right thing. My roommate orders a sandwich, with no mayo, which she doesn’t care for. A few minutes later, when the food arrives…)

Me: “Well, hello there, giant tortilla bowl. I could’ve sworn…”

Roommate: “And there’s mayo on my sandwich.”

(We flag down the waitress.)

Me: “Excuse me, but I ordered—”

Waitress: “That’s what you ordered, hon.” *walks away*

Roommate: “Okay, then. Not even going to bring mine up.”

(The salad is good, most of the mayo wipes off the sandwich, and we think all is well. Until, foolish people that we are, we decide to have dessert…)

Me: *to waitress, pointing at the tabletop ad for the pie-of-the-month special* “This strawberry pie looks good. Can I have a slice, please? And that’s going to be everything, so if you can bring the check, too, that’s great.”

(My pie and the check come together, and I am just enjoying my first bite when…)

Roommate: “They charged us for the wrong pie.”

Me: “Seriously?!”

Roommate: “Yep. Look right there. Strawberry cream pie.”

Me: “Which this definitely isn’t. At least we were only charged for the salad I ordered, not the one I got?”

(After finishing the pie, we go to the register to pay.)

Me: “Hi, there was actually a mistake on my bill. I ordered the strawberry pie, but I’m being charged for the strawberry cream pie. Can I get that adjusted, please?”

Cashier: “Ugh, really? It’s only 70 cents difference, you know.”

Me: *holding very firmly onto my temper* “I would like it adjusted, please.”

Cashier: “Fine. I’ll need a manager for that. Wait just a moment.”

(The manager arrives, and while keying in his override…)

Manager: “It’s only 70 cents difference, you know.”

(I have had enough.)

Me: “Yes, I’m well aware of that. However, it’s 70 cents difference on an item I didn’t want, didn’t order, and didn’t get. Your waitress also got both our entrees wrong, which was more than a little frustrating. Please just fix the check so that it reflects what I should be paying for what I got.”

Manager: *muttering* “All this fuss over 70 cents…”

(I was incredibly tempted to go back to our table and tip the waitress exactly 70 cents.)

(I am a pharmacy technician, not qualified to recommend drugs or dispense advice. Any questions about actual medicine, I am required to pass off to a pharmacist, even if I think I know the answer.)

Me: “Hello, how may I help you?”

Customer: *mumbling* “Um, I think I—” *mumbles* “—contact with bleach…”

Me: “I’m sorry, what? Could you repeat that?”

Customer: “I think I might have swallowed some bleach and was wondering if the pharmacist could recommend anything.”

Me: *trying not to look alarmed* “Well, if I were you, I would call the Poison Control Center, but I’ll check with the pharmacist.”

(I go back to the counter where the pharmacist is working.)

Me: “This guy says he might have ingested bleach and wants to know if you can recommend anything. I told him he should call the Poison Control Center.”

Pharmacist: “Yeah, that’s about it.”

(I go up to the front counter and repeat this advice to the customer.)

Customer: “Well, I drank some fluids and I’m feeling better now. I had some [soda], and some water, and some lemonade. My chest was hurting before but now it’s better. Do you know if bleach can make your chest hurt?”

Me: “Um… probably. If you swallowed bleach, it could hurt on the way down. You should probably call the Poison Control Center.”

Customer: “Eh, maybe I’ll call them tomorrow. If I’m not feeling better then, I can go to the emergency room, too.”

Me: “I would call them tonight if I were you, just to be safe. Do you want their number?”

(I write it down on the nearest piece of paper and hand it to him.)

Customer: “Yeah, thanks. I might call them tomorrow.”

(He wanders away, but comes back later. My coworker is an intern, studying to become a pharmacist, and gets to the counter first. I overhear their conversation.)

Customer: “I was wondering about water pills. What do they do?”

Coworker: “Um, they make you urinate.”

Customer: “Can I get some of those?”

Coworker: *realizing why he’s asking* “They don’t flush out your system; they’re used to lower blood pressure. And you would need a prescription.”

Customer: “Can I get one of those?”

Coworker: *bewildered* “We don’t give prescriptions here; we just fill them. You would need to go to a doctor.”

(The customer wanders away, apparently still confused about a lot of things.)

Me: “I hope he’s going to be okay.”

Pharmacist: “If he had really swallowed bleach, his throat would be burned. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but there’s nothing else we can do.”

Related:
1 Part Bleach To 100 Parts Stupidity

(It’s mid-November, and everyone and their cousin is in the store buying food for their Thanksgiving dinner. I’m manning the register, desperately trying to keep up with endless line of people, when a customer comes up with one of our frozen turkeys in his cart.)

Customer: “Hi, can I ask you a question?”

Me: *glances at the five person line* “Sure.”

Customer “Great. I’m having some friends over for Thanksgiving, and two of them are vegetarian.”

Me: “Okay. What’s your question?”

Customer: *he points to the frozen turkey* “Is turkey vegetarian?”

Me: *blinks a few times* “Well, I imagine it WAS vegetarian, sir.”

Customer: “Okay, thanks.”

(He turns and heads back into the store.)

Customer Behind Him: “Did that—?”

Me: “Yes. Now, how can I help you?”