(I work for an equipment rental facility that also offers online bookings. Sadly, I have some variation of this conversation more than I like to admit.)

Me: “Thank you for calling [Rental Facility]; how may I help you?”

Customer: “Hi. I was on your website and I tried to book a reservation. I kept trying but it just kept giving an error message that you don’t have that equipment available for some reason. So, I figured I would give you a call and book it that way.”

Me: “All right, what was it you wanted?”

(They then proceed to give me all of the details about what they want and when.)

Me: “So, the reason why it was telling you it’s not available is that it’s not available for that time that you wanted.”

Customer: “Really? I just figured your website was not working or something.”

(What is worse is that they often tell me that they went through and tried to get it at another location or another time and it worked just fine, but not at the specific day/location they wanted. How do you figure it’s a website problem, then?)

Me: “Good morning, you are speaking with [Housing Company], [My Name] speaking. How can I help you?”

Client: “Yes, I am calling you because the window in my roof is missing.”

Me: *pause* “Missing?”

Client: “Yes, last night I went to bed and the window was still there, but now it’s gone.”

Me: “All right, a missing window… Did you see it on the roof or ground?”

Client: “No, it’s gone. Now what do I do?”

Me: “Well, since you now have a big hole in your roof, I’ll send a mechanic to close the hole and then we’ll have to order a new window.”

Client: “Could it have blown away? I mean, it was kind of windy last night.”

Me: “Sir, there was a storm last night. Was your window open?”

Client: “Yes, I thought it was a great way to get some fresh air in the house.”

Me: “Right… I think I know what happened to your window, sir.”

Client: “Really?”

(He received a bill for this stupidity.)

(In the 1980s, there was an effort to assist Jews in the USSR who wanted to emigrate but were denied. Really, all a US citizen could do was write to them and tell them we were working for their release. It also served to annoy the Soviets. My mother joined the campaign and was given a family to write to. Part of the instructions were to mail the letter with a “return receipt postcard” attached. This was to be mailed back by the recipients so that she would know that they received her original letter. I’m not sure who paid for this return postage. One time, after a suitable waiting period, the return postcard did not arrive. My mother went to the local post office to register a complaint. This was not a complaint against the US Postal Service but a way of letting the Soviets know we were watching.)

Mom: “I wish to register a complaint that a letter I sent to the USSR was not received. I know this because I never received the return receipt postcard.”

Clerk: “We would need a letter from them telling us they didn’t receive your letter.”

Mom: “Wait, what? You want them to send me a letter telling me they didn’t get the letter I sent them?”

Clerk: “Yes.”

(Mom stares at the clerk and asks for a manager, please. A manager comes over.)

Manager: “What seems to be the problem?”

Clerk: “I was just telling her I can’t open a complaint form until she receives a letter telling her they didn’t receive her letter.”

(The manager stared at the clerk and told them to go work on [something]. The manager then filled out the complaint form for my mother.)

(In this moment of nationwide quarantine in Italy, my dad has discovered the joys of online ordering products and getting them delivered to your house. After a long slog to get him to figure out how to use his dusty old work email for the purpose, he has started to go online and order various things from [Supermarket Chain]. I go to do something else… until he calls me back again several minutes later.)

Dad: “[My Name], come over here. I need you to order something for me; can you do it?”

Me: “Yes, I can. What is it?”

(He hands me his tablet, and I see two things: he has gone on [Big Company]’s site, and there are several pictures of pasta packages on it.)

Me: “Uh, Dad? Why are you ordering pasta on [Big Company]? They can’t have run out of pasta on [Supermarket Chain], could they?”

Dad: *annoyed* “No, look at what I’m showing you.”

(I take a better look at the packages and notice that they are all of a specific pasta format, called “castellane”… and that the labels are Indonesian.)

Me: *perplexed* “You’re trying to order castellane from Indonesia?”

Dad: “Of course, I am; I can’t find them anywhere else! Now, order them. I’m sure you can figure something out.”

Me: “But Dad, it’s gonna cost you lots of money. Are you sure?”

Dad: “Look, I have the money. I can afford it. Now do it.”

(Despite finding it silly to order pasta from half a world away while in Italy, I decide to try and figure something out. After several rounds of Google Translate and some guesswork, I manage to get myself on the page for one that works for our purposes. He tells me how many packs he wants to get and I input the number.)

Me: “All right. Do you have an account or do you want me to use mine?”

Dad: “No, try to use mine. If you use yours, it’ll get delivered to your flat.”

Me: *sighing* “Okay, can you tell me the password?”

Dad: “The password? What password? Can’t I just use my email?”

Me: “No, you can’t.” *realizing* “Wait, so you didn’t actually make an account?”

Dad: *getting agitated* “Didn’t I already make one? Why does that matter?”

Me: *resigned* “Because you put your email in [Supermarket Chain]’s database and made an account with them, not with these guys.”

Dad: *screaming* “What the f***? Who designed this stupid bulls***? F*** you and f*** your incomprehensible online things, you handicapped swine!”

(And with that, he started pouting and complaining about not getting his precious castellane. My mother suggested I just pretend to order that pasta from Indonesia and actually do nothing, since it was just “one of his personal fads,” but sometimes I wish I could tie him to a chair and make him learn basic informatics.)

(I answer a call from a customer wanting to bring in his car for repair.)

Caller: “Hi. I’d like to bring in my car for service; it’s got a lot of problems. When is your first available appointment?”

Me: “I can do something tomorrow or Thursday this week if you’d like.”

Caller: “Do you know what might be wrong with it?”

Me: *pause* “No, sir, without looking at your car I can’t tell you what’s wrong with it.”

Caller: “Oh, okay.” *hangs up*