I work in a store that sells items imported from Japan. It’s mostly novelty stuff, but we also sell a pretty decent and high-quality range of storage solutions.

An older couple is looking at a pre-built shelf that contains cool-looking pull-out storage containers. The guy comes over to me.

Customer: “Can I get the dimensions for this shelf? I wanna know if it will fit my daughter’s room.”

Me: “I’d be happy to help.”

I check the label on the item. The labels are attached in Japan, so they’re particular to the Japanese market, including having a price tag in Japanese Yen, as well as other things.

Me: “It looks like it’s 126cm in width, which would make it—”

I’m about to do the conversion into feet, but the customer is already upset.

Customer: “What’s that in American?! I don’t want none of those communist units!”

Me: “Uh… I was about to convert, sir. That width would be just under four feet, two inches.”

Customer: “Whatever. How much does it weigh? It needs to go on a drywall.”

I don’t even speak the metric figure out loud. I start converting, but even this is enough to upset the customer.

Customer: “What’s taking so long?”

Me: “I’m just figuring out how much it weighs, sir.”

Customer: “Why you gotta figure it out?”

I ignore him and convert the kilograms to pounds.

Me: “It’s a little over thirteen pounds.”

Customer: “Hmm.”

He waves me away as he continues to browse. His wife looks apologetic, but says nothing. 

A few minutes later, I see the guy talking to my younger coworker, talking about another storage solution. I overhear my coworker answering him:

Coworker: “It weighs about six kilograms, sir.”

Ugh. Here we go. I rush over there just in time to hear the customer going off:

Customer: “Y’know what? F*** this store! We’re only here because my daughter, bless her liberal heart, loves this place, but if they don’t even have the decency to convert to American, then I’m not gonna give them my hard-earned dollars!”

The customer storms out, again with the apologetic-looking wife. I turn to my coworker.

Me: “You okay?”

Coworker: “Oh, yeah. I did that on purpose. I heard him going off at you about the metric stuff earlier, so I thought it would be funny to tease the baby.”

Me: “Uh… okay. Might be better if you didn’t do that in the future.”

Coworker: “Why? You scared of me causing… mass hysteria?”

Me: “…shut up.”

Related:
Mass Confusion

I’m a customer at a store. I turn a corner and find another customer just pacing back and forth. She turns and sees me and just starts loudly ranting.

Customer: “Can you believe this? Do you see this? This is crazy, completely crazy. There’s no meat anywhere. Look at this. Vegan meatballs, vegan nuggets, vegan mincemeat, vegan, vegan, vegan. Can you believe this? It’s because of [Former Prime Minister]! She made meat illegal. Can you believe this?”

She finally stops talking to take a breather and allows me to interrupt.

Me: “Everything on this aisle is vegan because it’s the vegan aisle. If you go around, you’ll find like three more aisles filled with meat.”

She just stared at me, turned around, and walked away without a word. And at the end of the aisle turned the wrong way, away from the meats.

I work as a heavy equipment operator (I drive an excavator). One day, about twenty years ago, we were laying some pipes across a minor road, closing the road for a few hours. It was at most a minor inconvenience for the cars, as we had signs out marking the alternative route. We’re talking maybe 300 yards “lost” by going around.

Yet some f****** a**hat in a BMW ignores the signs, stops behind the excavator, and lays on his horn. 

I signalled to him that the road is closed and he has to go around. He kept on honking.

My workmate Johnny, who is the guy with the shovel (you always have a guy with a shovel ready to uncover cables and pipes), lost his s***. He walked up to the car and screamed at the guy:

Johnny: “I don’t care if you’re the f****** president of the USA, unless your car can fly, you’re going to go around. Now get the f****** f*** out of here!”

It obviously wasn’t the POTUS; it was just some very high-ranking Russian diplomat; the car had blue diplomat plates, and this happened very close to where the Russian ambassador in Sweden lived at the time.

The car did not fly but took the suggested route, and Johnny is yet to face the wrath of the Russian government…

My grown siblings and I are visiting home, talking to our parents over dinner. I can’t remember how the conversation got started, but we were talking about September 11 and how the world scene has changed since then.

Mom: “It’s all Obama’s fault! Everything bad that’s happened in America recently happened because of him!”

Me: “Mom, pretty sure Bush was president when that happened.”

Mom: “September 2011! Obama!”

Me: “Oh my god, Mom! September 11, two-thousand-and-one! Two-zero-zero-one!”

Brother: “Mom, you came to pick us up from school that day because we were let out early. You think we were still in elementary in 2011?”

Mom: “Well… maybe I mixed up a couple of numbers, but Obama is still to blame for so many bad things since then!”

Sister: “Oh, I know! Like, World War Two? Obama.”

Brother: “In fact, both World Wars were his fault, right?”

Mom: “Oh, whatever!”

Me: “Remember when he caused the plague in Europe back in the medieval times?”

Brother: “Or he let the Romans invade, like, everywhere. Lousy defense on his part.”

Mom: “Stop it!”

Sister: “Pretty sure he was responsible for the asteroid that took out the dinosaurs—”

Mom: “—Shut up!”

She tried to get Dad to defend her, but he was too busy giggling into his bowl of Jello.

Related:
Obama Drama, Part 11
Obama Drama, Part 10
Obama Drama, Part 9
Obama Drama, Part 8
Obama Drama, Part 7

My best friend at university is from the USA. He’s studying in England, but over Christmas, his family is visiting. Since I’m a Londoner, I decided to play tour guide for a day and plan a quick run-through of all the tourist spots.

At one point, we’re walking past a major central street to head to where the horse guards are. In doing so, we pass Downing Street.

Friend’s Dad: “Why is that road locked up?”

Me: “That’s Downing Street. That’s where our Prime Minister works and lives. Think of it like the White House.”

Friend’s Dad: “Huh.”

Me: “That’s why there are police outside with guns. It’s one of the very few times you’ll see guns in the UK out on the street like that.”

Friend’s Dad: “Oh. Do you all have to conceal your weapons here?”

Friend: “Dad, no, I told you. They don’t have guns here.”

Friend’s Dad: “No guns?”

Me: “Well, we have gun clubs for enthusiasts. My grandad is a member and took me shooting on a big range once, but the guns are never allowed to leave the club.”

Friend’s Dad: “No… guns? But, how do you defend yourself?”

Me: “From what?”

Friend’s Dad: “From other guns!”

Friend: “Dad! We’ve been over this! That’s not really a thing here. There’s knife crime, but—”

Friend’s Dad: “—Well, there you have it! How do you bring a gun to a knife fight?”

Friend: “You… don’t? Guns aren’t part of the culture here.”

Me: “Yeah… guns make me nervous, anyway.”

Friend’s Dad: “No wonder these Brits lost against us.”

Friend: “Dad, they’re just not used to seeing guns.”

Friend’s Dad: “Imagine being so not used to seeing guns that the sight of one makes you nervous!”

Me: “I know! Isn’t it wonderful! Anyway, we’re coming to the horse guard’s area, so…”

I go straight into my explanation of the next tourist spot, leaving my friend’s dad flummoxed as to how his apparent burn got turned into a compliment. Overall, he was a friendly guy and enjoyed the trip, but good LORD did that man like his guns.