Me: “That’s £13.12, please.”

(The customer hands me £5. I wait for him to find the rest, but he just stares at me, nonplussed.)

Customer: “Well, there it is.”

Me: “It’s £13.12. I’ve only got £5 here.”

(The customer rummages in his pockets and fishes out three more £1 coins.)

Customer: “There. Is that enough now?”

Me: “That’s £8. I need £13.12.”

Customer: “You want more?!”

(He finds another two £1 coins in his pocket, passes them to me, then stares at me, gone out again.)

Me: “You’ve only given me £10.”

Customer: “How much more do you want?!”

Me: “I need another £3.12 to make it up to £13.12.”

(He finds me another three £1 coins.)

Customer: “There! Is that enough now?!”

Me: “I just need another 12p.”

(He passes me 50p, then turns to go as I sort his change.)

Me: “Here’s your change and your receipt.”

Customer: “Oh, I get change, do I? After all that?”

(It’s literally my first day on a cash register at this very well-known retailer. An older man and his wife come up, and I scan their things with no problem. His card isn’t working.)

Old Man: “My card isn’t working; should I slide it again?”

Me: “Here, let me try it over here, sometimes it’s the machine…”

(I very politely take his card and try to slide it but something looks off. It turns out that he cut both ends of his card off.)

Me: “Sir, did you… cut your credit card?”

Old Man: “Well, yeah… I bought a new wallet and it wouldn’t fit, so I just trimmed off the ends so it would. It worked earlier just fine; I don’t know why it won’t work now!”

Me: *in my nicest voice I can muster because he is a little old* “Sir, if you cut your card, the magnetic strip on back can’t be read, which is why it’s not working. Do you have another card?”

Wife: *in an annoyed sort of voice as if this is all my fault* “Oh, let me, here use mine… and it better not charge me twice!”

(I’ve only been there a month now and I wish I could say this was the dumbest thing I’d seen. They so don’t pay enough for the crap we have to put up with.)

(I work in a hardware store, where propane tanks are not allowed in the building for safety reasons. A blonde customer in her twenties comes in with a propane tank she would like to exchange. One of my fellow associates tries to explain to her the process of buying a new tank which is: leaving your old tank outside by the locked-up cages, coming inside to a register and purchasing a tank exchange, and then waiting outside for a head cashier, me, to swap the tanks. Unfortunately, she just doesn’t get it and this process takes almost ten minutes. She finally goes outside and another five minutes go by before she comes inside. Keep in mind that she has an attitude the entire from start to finish.)

Customer: “Um, is anyone going to come out there? I’ve been out there for quite some time and no one’s shown up yet.”

Me: “Oh, sorry about that, ma’am. If you go right through the entrance again, I’ll meet you and we can get you your new tank.”

(We meet up and walk outside when she stops me in the entrance where we keep the carts.)

Customer: “Is this going to be heavy? Should I grab a cart?”

(After staring at the customer for a few moments I realize that she is, in fact, quite serious.)

Me: “Uh… yeah. Filled tanks are usually heavy.”

Customer: “Yeah, whatever.”

(After doing the exchange, I ask to see her receipt before I can let her leave as per policy. She throws me a really confused look.)

Customer: “What? I didn’t pay yet! You told me to come and stand out here so I did.”

Me: “Actually, ma’am, I was there when the associate told you to come outside and drop off your tank, go back inside and purchase a new one, and then come back outside again. But that’s okay! Just go right on inside and I’ll wait out here for you.” 

(When the customer walks away, I call the associate standing at the service desk to prepare her for what is going on. I later learn the customer is startled when her order is already rung up for her when she gets there. When she comes back outside, I ask to see her receipt again and she quickly flashes it in front of my face.)

Me: “Ma’am, I have to be able to read your receipt.”

Customer: “Oh, my God, whatever!” 

(She hands me her receipt I look it over and give her the all-clear to go home. Instead of taking her cart and going on her merry way, she stands there for almost a minute and a half.)

Customer: “So, am I good to go?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am. Have a nice day.”

(The entire exchange from beginning to end took almost half an hour. It was all I could do to make it through the last half-hour of my shift without crying from my laughter.)

(I am working as an usher at a cinema that frequently shows movies in 3D as well as 2D. I’m about to step into a theater to do a check when a guest and her son come out from the theater behind me.)

Guest: “Miss? Excuse me, but there are little spots on my 3D glasses.”

Me: “Spots?”

Guest: “Yes!”

(She shows me the “spots” on the glasses and demands to know what is wrong.)

Me: *blank-faced and trying not to laugh* “Ma’am, that’s dust on the lenses.”

Guest: “Dust? How can there be dust on them? I only just pulled them out of the package!”

Me: “Well, they’re not packed in a sterile environment, and there’s also dust in the air here, so it could have attached at any time.”

Guest: *looking horrified* “How do I get rid of it?”

Me: *really trying to suppress a smile* “The easiest way is to wipe the lenses on the hem of your shirt. You could also use a napkin.”

Guest: “Will it ruin the lenses if I do that?”

Me: “No, ma’am. Also, if you just leave them the way they are, I bet you won’t even notice when your show starts.”

(She finally left, her son looking just as confused as she was, and went back to her theater. Oddly, I never got another complaint from her about the “spots.” My coworkers, however, found the entire incident hilarious.)

(I work in the billing department for an emergency clinic, and I get a call from an upset mother.)

Mother: “I will sue you all! How dare you treat my son with [medical shot]?! It’s against our religion to do this! I didn’t sign any form to give consent!”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, let me look up his information.”

(I look up the information. The day we treated her son was the day he turned eighteen; he was old enough to have any medical treatments without parental consent.)

Me: “Ma’am, I have it here that your son was eighteen the day he was treated. There’s nothing else I can tell you or discuss with you unless he calls and tells us it’s okay for us to talk to you.”

Mother: “That’s f****** ridiculous! He was not officially eighteen!”

Me: “It says on his driver’s license that he was eighteen on the day he was seen.”

Mother: “NO! He was born at 4:00 pm! He was seen at 10:00 am! He wasn’t officially 100% eighteen!” 

Me: “Ma’am, we don’t go by the time of birth. We go by date of birth.”