I work in the call center at a VA hospital. When a veteran calls in, we have to ask for their last name and last four of their social security number in order to verify that it’s actually them since there are an incredible number of vets with the same last name. Pretty standard across all VA hospitals in the U.S. The vast majority of the vets that call in don’t have a problem with this.

Me: “Thank you for calling the [VA]. This is [My Name]. How may I help you?”

I worked in the specialty center which housed the orthopedic, podiatry, ENT, surgical, dental, etc.

Veteran: “I need to speak to Dr. [Name].” *Head of the clinic*

Me: “Okay. Did he call you directly?”

Veteran: “No! Just let me talk to him!”

This guy is already getting angry and the call has just started.

Me: “Okay. What’s your name, sir?”

He gives his first name.

Me: “Okay. What’s your last name?”

Veteran: *Yelling* “You don’t need to know! Just get me Dr. [Name]!”

Me: *Calmly* “Well I kinda need to know who is calling for Dr. [Name] as it is something that the doctors like to know.”

Veteran: “I don’t f******* care! Just give me Dr. [Name]!”

Me: “Sir, I must ask you to refrain from cussing or else I’ll have to terminate the call. Now please, tell me your last name and I can see what I can do.”

Veteran: “I ain’t giving you s***! If you ain’t going to help me, then you can f*** off!”

Click.

I laugh a little to myself and with my coworkers. The phone rings again; it’s the same guy. At this point, I make a mental note of the phone number.

Me: “Thank you for calling the [VA]. This is [My Name]. How may I help you?”

Veteran: “Get me Dr. [Name]!”

Me: *Knowing it’s the same guy* “Okay, sir. What’s your name and last four digits of your social?”

Veteran: “You’re not getting s*** from me, just be a good little boy and get me the f****** doctor!”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to know who is calling in order to inform the doctor.”

Veteran: “This is going f****** nowhere! F*** you!”

Click.

I tell my coworkers he called again and hung up a second time. We laugh a bit and I tell them to forward me the number if they see it.

My coworker’s phone rings and he says it’s the same guy. I tell him to forward it to me.

Me: “Thank you for calling the [VA]. This is [My Name]. How may I help you?”

Silence, for only a couple seconds but feels like longer. I speak in my kindest, sweetest voice.

Me: “Hello? Is anyone there?”

The veteran releases a long pronounced sigh.

Click.

This happened at the end of the day. At 4:30 pm the phones shut off and the calls get routed to information, and they are far less helpful. I laughed again, gathered my stuff, and left.

I deliver a pizza to a motel and the customer is a drunk, condescending a**hole.

Customer: “Hey pizza boy, couldn’t get a smart-person job huh? Stay in school. How much is the pizza?”

Me: “$9.87.”

He hands me a $10 bill.

Customer: “Keep the change.”

As I turn to walk back to my car, I see that there is an extra zero on the end: he’d accidentally slid me a Benjamin ($100). I hauled a** to my car, and he must’ve figured it out because he starts yelling to me.

I just know he is going to call the store, so I hide the $100 bill in my car and replace it with a $10 from my own wallet. Sure enough, the manager is waiting at the door when I get back. I hand him my cash belt so he can count it and he finds that I’d made $15 in tips for the night so far.

Manager: “Sorry about that, [My Name]. I knew he was just a drunk a**hole but I had to check.”

If the customer had been halfway decent, I absolutely would have told him about the mistake. But treat me like a loser? Thanks for the tip!

While working at the grocery store one night, I turn to the door and there’s a kid standing there with a monkey in a diaper on a leash. I just tilt my head, trying to figure out if I’m having a hallucination.

Kid: “It’s a monkey, miss.”

His mom is smirking.

Me: “Erm… let me check to see if monkeys are allowed in.”

This is a neighborhood grocer. I doubt that they are, but I’m not facing down the mom. She is one of THOSE customers; we all know and hate her. I walk over to my supervisor.

Me: “Supervisor, does [Store] allow monkeys?”

He’s worked with me for my entire tenure, and he knows that I only request supervisors if I really need them.

Supervisor: “Can you show me the monkey?”

I lead him over to the door where, indeed, the kid and his mom are still standing with the monkey on a leash.

Supervisor: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you can’t bring a monkey into the store.”

The mom gets mad and starts cussing my supervisor out because we’re somehow discriminating against her and her son for not allowing an animal in the store.

The kid just goes outside while his mom goes to grab a few things, complaining the entire time.

Related:
Containing This Monkey Business

This story is part of our Monkey-themed roundup!

Read the next Monkey-themed roundup story!

Read the Monkey-themed roundup!

The missus and I get a bit of a hankering for a pizza so I give our local pizzeria a call and order an 18” meat feast for collection.

A short while later, I stroll down to the shop to collect it. While I am waiting for it to be boxed up, a woman comes bustling in and raps her knuckles imperiously on the counter demanding service; the only person serving was currently out the back dealing with my order.

The lass dutifully comes out, tells me that my pizza will be out shortly, and turns to the woman to take her order.

Customer: “I want two 12” meatball specials and be quick about it: I have two hungry kids at home!”

Me: “Excuse me, but if both pizzas are for your family, you’re better off getting one 18” pizza: it’s cheaper and you’ll get more pizza for your money.”

A 12” is £8.95: an 18” is £12.50.

Customer: *looks me up and down* “Don’t be stupid! Two 12” pizzas are more than one 18” one. It’s bloody obvious! Didn’t you do maths at school?”

Me: “I did… which is why I know one 18” pizza is bigger than two 12” ones by about 10%.”

She snorts derisively and turns to the lass serving.

Customer: “I’ll be back in twenty minutes… and my pizzas had better be ready!”

With that, she sweeps out in a cloud of cheap perfume. I look over to the lass serving who could barely contain her laughter:

Me: “We get this all the time. Doesn’t matter what you say, people never believe that the 18” is a better deal than two 12” ones. They always think we’re trying to rip them off.”

This is why you pay attention in maths class. The pizza was delicious!

I am fourteen, and my parents are going through a difficult time and need me to stay with my grandmother for a while.

My grandmother is an anxiety-ridden bull who charges horns forward into every mildly-upsetting situation. It is very embarrassing for me that she makes a fool out of herself everywhere we go together. She is delighted to be my guardian for several months, because despite being an incredibly toxic, selfish, inconsiderate person, she takes pride in being a very faithful Mormon who loves Jesus, and this is her chance to “fix” my atheism.

She shoves religion down my throat at every chance. I already love the principles that Jesus stood for, and I’m so glad that he has so many followers, I just want to be left alone about the fact that I don’t subscribe to a particular religion myself.

We are at the grocery store together, and I have just finished checking out. I make sure our cart is loaded and ready to go so we can move out of the way of the people behind us. She continues to block the checkout counter, painstakingly sorting the change she had just received into segmented pockets of her purse.

I made apologetic eye contact with several people in line. I may not be able to stop her from blocking the register while she sorts her coins, but I can at least move our cart out of the way, so I grabbed the front of it and began to walk towards the door.

Clearly very offended, my grandmother latched on to the handle of the cart, and shoots me a death glare.

Grandmother: “I’m not finished yet,”

She then goes back to sorting her coins. I give another apologetic look to the five customers waiting on her to get out of their way, who by this point are all very irritated. As we are walking out, she huffs to me.

Grandmother: “You care way too much about what other people think of you.”

I reply patiently, with a smile.

Me: “No, I just care about being a decent, Christ-like human being.”

The look on her face was priceless.