(A middle-aged woman comes up to the counter.)

Woman: “Your machine is broken! It will only copy the first page of my packet and now I have fifty copies of the first page and I’m not paying for them!”

Me: “No problem, ma’am, I can credit your card for the copies. Let’s see if I can fix it.”

(When I get to the copier I see that she has laid the entire stack of papers on the glass.)

Me: *trying not to laugh* “If you would like the machine to copy the whole stack automatically you need to place it in the feeder tray, not just set it on the glass.”

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(I had just started a new IT job for a large school district and was not expecting the level of stupidity I would be dealing with on a regular basis. Within my first three weeks, I receive a phone call from a school.)

Clerk: “Hi, I am trying to use this new system on these computers and I’m attempting to make my account. My Principal got me started but now I am stuck.”

Me: “What seems to be the problem?”

Clerk: “Well, it is asking me for First Name and I have no idea what I am supposed to type.”

Me: “You’re at the registration screen? Um… well I think you are supposed to enter your name.”

Clerk: “Oh… okay… wait. No, it’s asking me for something else.”

Me: “What now?”

Clerk: “It says… last… name… what do I put here?”

Me: “Probably your last name.”

Clerk: “Oh, thanks… oh Jesus, now it’s asking for my phone number! What the h*** am I suppose to put here! Why can’t I just do it the old fashioned way?”

Me: “You mean pen and paper?”

Clerk: “Yes! It was so much easier. These fancy computers are just so complicated. I never understand what I am supposed to do!”

(I bit my tongue and just let her ramble on about how ‘First Name’ was such an incredibly hard concept to grasp.)

(I am a naturalist on a semi-submersible vessel for a summer in Alaska. The passengers get to sit in the bottom section of the boat, six feet below the waterline, looking out of large windows. Over the course of the summer I get a couple of fun questions.)

Tourist #1: “Hey, where are all the tropical fish?”

Me: *blink* “Um, in the tropics, sir. This is Alaska.”

Tourist #2: “Are we going to see any bears?”

Me: *looking out the windows at fields of kelp and bored-looking rockfish* “Sorry, no. We haven’t been able to get them to use the scuba equipment without chewing through it yet.”

Customer: “Yes, do your combo meals come with a Coke?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, they come with fries and a drink.”

Customer: “But what if I wanted something other than Coke?”

Me: “Well, you fill your drink yourself around the corner over there, so you can get whatever you want.”

Customer: “Oh, okay.” *customer places order*

Me: *sets out tray with receipt on top*

Customer: *looks at receipt, suddenly frowns* “Hey, it says ‘Coke’ on here for a drink. I didn’t order a Coke!”

Me: “That just means you ordered a drink.”

Customer: “But I didn’t want a Coke!”

Me: “That’s fine, ma’am. You can put whatever you’d like in your drink at the drink machines back there.”

Customer: “BUT IT SAYS COKE ON THE RECEIPT!”

Me: “All of the soft drinks are the same prices. It doesn’t matter what it says on the receipt.”

Customer: “Oh…” *leaves with her cup and fills her drink*

Coworkers: *laugh for the next ten minutes*

(A girl in her late teens approaches me holding a t-shirt, turning it over in her hands, apparently searching for defects or blemishes in the material.)

Customer: “Do you have any of these that are new?”

Me: “I’m sorry? They’re all new.”

Customer: “No, this one is used. I want a new one.”

(I take the shirt and inspect it, finding it to be in perfect order.)

Me: “It looks perfectly fine to me. I unpacked these from today’s shipment an hour ago. We have multiples of each size if you’d like me to help you find another one.”

Customer: “I checked them all. They’re all used. See…”

(She snatches the shirt and points at the tag which reads, under the bar code, “USD $14.99.”)

Me: “That’s the currency. United States Dollars.”

Customer: *becoming irate* “I can f****** see that. Fifteen dollars for a used shirt is f****** insane.”

Me: “No. U-S-D. United States Dollars. We don’t sell used clothing.”

Customer: “What are you, a f****** idiot? It says used, right on the d**n tag.”

Me: “My mistake. Here, I’ll take that and make sure it gets thrown away.”

(I take the shirt and begin walking to the stock room.)

Customer: “Can I just have it? You’re going to throw it out anyway.”

Me: “Sorry, no. There’s an IQ requirement.”

Customer: “A what?”

Me: “It’s an acronym thing. Don’t worry about it.”

Customer: “You’re a f****** a**-hole!”

(She stormed out.)