Your Insults Can Just Walkie On By

, , , , , , | Right | February 12, 2019

(Many of the associates in my store have learned that it’s easier to clip our walkie-talkies to our back pockets instead of a front pocket or our belts. It prevents us from constantly whacking the walkies with our arms, hitting it against displays, and so on. One day, a customer sees my walkie clipped onto my back pocket. I’m an overweight female.)

Customer: *insultingly* “I’m surprised your radio doesn’t break when you sit on it.”

Me: “HA! I wish I had the chance to sit down around here! I’ve been here for six hours now and haven’t had a chance to sit down once.”

(In a store with too few employees, we were always SO busy that many of us are forced to skip breaks and only take the barest of lunches on every shift. Ignoring the way this man is commenting on my weight AND has to have been looking at my butt while I work, I try to be civil.)

Me: “And when I do finally get a break, I take this thing off.”

Customer: “Oh.”

(His wife smacked him on the arm, and they paid for their copies and left without another word. I hope she gave him a talking to when they were on their way home!)

Bound By The Binders

, , , , | Right | January 24, 2019

(It’s the back-to-school season at the office supply store where I work. I’m working in the print shop when I see a customer come in and spend a few minutes looking at our display of three-ring binders on a table by the entrance. The binders are offered in trendy colors and patterns, and occasionally have popular memes or emojis on them, so I assume the customer is trying to decide which one she wants. Then, one by one, she takes the binders off the little wooden display stand that’s keeping them from falling over, picks up the display itself, and brings it to my counter.)

Customer: “I want to buy this.”

Me: “Unfortunately, ma’am, we don’t sell those here in the store. They’re part of our display.”

Customer: “Well, sell me this one and buy another!”

Me: “Ma’am, even if I had the ability to arbitrarily key something into my register to sell this to you, I can’t just get another one. These are shipped to the store from our corporate office and sometimes take longer than six weeks to reach us due to back-ordering.”

Customer: “But it was on your table! That means it’s a product and you have to sell it to me!”

Me: “Again, ma’am, I can’t sell that item to you. If you’d like, I can take you over to our desk accessories aisle and see if there’s something similar that will work for you?”

Customer: “NO! I don’t see what’s so difficult about selling this to me!”

Me: “I’d sell it to you if I could, ma’am, but it’s not for sale, and I don’t have a way to process a transaction for it through the register. And I’d get into trouble or fired for taking your cash without a legitimate sale.”

(The customer shoved the item across the counter and stormed off to do the rest of her shopping, and I had to go and reset the entire display table. Thanks, lady!)

Just Kill Two Livers With One Drink And Make It An Espresso Martini

, , , , , , | Healthy Right | January 18, 2019

(I’m assisting our cardiologist today, rooming patients and doing EKGs and such. One patient comes in with a complaint of palpitations. I do an EKG on him which comes out normal, but there’s something off about this guy — he’s practically bouncing off the walls with nervous energy. The cardiologist goes in to see him and I move on to other patients. About half an hour later, they both come out and the patient leaves. The doctor comes over to me with a look of disbelief.)

Doctor: “That guy drinks eighty ounces of coffee a day. Eighty. Eight-zero.”

Me: “Holy cow. No wonder he was jitterier than a junebug.”

Doctor:And he says he drinks three liters of vodka a week!”

Me: “Oh, my gosh. His poor liver.”

Doctor: “So, obviously, I told him he needs to stop doing that. And you know what he said? He doesn’t want to stop, and he’d rather just take medication for the palpitations!”

Only Other Options Are Floo Powder Or Get Scotty To Beam You

, , , , | Right | January 18, 2019

Customer: “So, how do I get to your location?”

Me: “Well, from Highway 65 take the…”

Customer: “Wait, how do I get to Highway 65 from [vague description of starting point].”

Me: “Umm… You would have to get to Highway 80 first before finding Highway 65…”

Customer: “Oh, I can’t stand Highway 80, and I won’t drive it. What’s ‘The Other Way’ to get to your location?”


Me: “Oh, you mean the secret way?”

Customer: “Sure, whatever you want to call it.”

Me: “Well… to avoid the highways you could take [Road #1] to [Road #2], to [Road #3]…”

Customer: “No, I don’t care for that part of town. Too many traffic lights.”

(Longer pause.)

Customer: “So, no, really, how do I get to your location?”

Me: “Umm… Adopt Jesus as your copilot and pray. Have a blessed day!”


Their Time-Keeping Is Unhealthy

, , , , , | Right | January 9, 2019

(I work in an office that closes at five. The last patient of the day is a ninety-eight-year-old lady. Her appointment is at 4:15, though she should be in fifteen minutes early to fill out papers as she’s a new patient. There’s no sign of her by 4:25, and we’re about to start closing up shop when our phone operator comes over with the patient’s daughter on the line.)

Operator: “She says they’re stuck in heavy traffic and wants to know if you’ll still see them if they can get here in ten minutes.”

Doctor: “Well… it’s probably not easy to get her mom out of the house, so… if they can make it by 4:35, sure.”

(Five minutes pass and the operator comes back again.)

Operator: “She says it’s going to be more like 4:40.”

Doctor: “Yeah… she should probably reschedule, then. I just want to give her the full amount of time for her appointment, and we have staff that leaves at five.”

(Our operator relays the message to the patient’s daughter, who does not take it well. She is furious that the doctor asked her to reschedule even after she “gave the courtesy of calling” and repeatedly calls him “incompetent” and other names. She ends her tantrum by stating that she will find another doctor for her mother.)

Me: *to doctor* “Boy, I sure am sorry we let that one get away.”

Doctor: “Yep. Oh, darn.”

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