Way Too Chicken For That

, | England, UK | Right | June 4, 2016

(I’m in the process of taking some whole chickens out of the oven.)

Customer: “Don’t do it!”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Customer: “Sticking your head in the oven, don’t do it!”

Me: *realising she’s joking around* “You mean this isn’t a tanning salon?”

Customer: “It really isn’t! Don’t do it!”

Me: “Dang, I’m in the wrong place!”

Customer: “You really are!”

(Nothing like a bit of random to liven up the afternoon!)

A Victim Of His Baggage Issues

| Manchester, England, UK | Working | May 26, 2016

(I am using the self-checkout machine. I have scanned my loyalty card, and the machine asks if I have my own bag. I click ‘yes’ that I have two bags. One is a cloth shopping bag, but the rest of the shopping is in my rather large handbag. I collect my receipt and start to leave.)

Assistant: “Just so you know, we can see how many bags you click and how many you actually use.”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Assistant: “You said you have two bags.”

Me: “I do…”

Assistant: “And you only have one.”

Me: “I used my satchel.”

Assistant: “That’s a handbag; it doesn’t count.”

Me: “But I put shopping in it.”

Assistant: “It doesn’t count.”

Me: “By using it I didn’t pick up a plastic bag when my other one was full.”

Assistant: “It doesn’t count.”

Me: “Even though I’m using it as a bag?”

Assistant: “It doesn’t count.”

Me: “I’ll… remember in future?”

Assistant: “We can see your bags. Just put the real number in next time.”

(The kicker is that each point is worth such a tiny amount that I’d have had to be going in daily with dozens of non-existent bags to get any value from pretending.)

Putting The ‘D’ Into DeLorean

| Ashford, Kent, UK | Working | May 26, 2016

(I am on my break with a coworker. My mobile phone receives a text – my text alert is the sonic booms that the DeLorean time machine makes when entering a new time period in the “Back to the Future” trilogy. My coworker hears the phone noise.)

Coworker: “What on earth is that noise?”

(I explain. She gives me a blank look.)

Me: “Have you seen the Back to the Future trilogy?”

Coworker: “No, not my sort of thing at all.”

(Fair enough. How boring if we all liked the same things, but then…)

Coworker: “I would rather watch a porn movie!”

Me: “…”

Heroic Rescue Required On Aisle Three

| Antwerp, Belgium | Right | May 25, 2016

(I’m a customer in this one. I’m in line at the registers when the girl behind the till opens the register to take out change. The customer punches her in the face and grabs a handful of 50€ bills from the register and runs for it! On his way out he checks over his back looking if he’s followed and fails to see another customer swing his arm back. He runs, full speed, face first, into the other customer’s fist. His upper body tilts backwards while his legs keep going for a bit, and he ends up knocking the back of his head on the floor; he’s out cold. The customer takes the money and returns it to the cashier, and then turns to the manager who just dialed the police.)

Customer: “Do you think I’ll be able to get my shopping done before I have to go down to the station to testify and stuff?”

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Fighting For Three

| England, UK | Right | May 23, 2016

(I’m eight months pregnant with twins and am massive. My weight has gone up to 13st and my belly is stretched beyond belief. I’m with my eldest daughter getting the last minute shopping as I’m being induced in a fortnight. I can’t move very fast and am having terrible mood swings. I’m pushing the trolley and my daughter is doing all the running around for me.)

Me: “Okay, nearly done. I need a rest.”

(I feel a trolley pushing in to me from the back and turn to see an elderly man.)

Customer: “C’mon, fatty, get out of my way.”

Me: “Excuse me!”

Customer: “You heard. You should be ashamed of yourself. Making her do all the work just ’cause you’re too lazy to bother.”

Me: “Um, I’m pregnant, not fat and lazy. And please don’t push your trolley into me.”

Customer: “I’ll do as I see fit. I’m 70 years old and can still get my own shopping. I didn’t fight in the war just to watch fat slobs like you work your kids to the bone.”

(He then pushes the trolley into my thigh and hip.)

Me: “That’s it! Listen to me you miserable old b******. First of all, if you’re 70 you didn’t fight in any war. WWII ended in 1945; you would’ve been a baby. Secondly, I am obviously heavily pregnant and my daughter is helping as I can’t reach up or bend down. Thirdly, if you ram me with that trolley again I will do it back to you. Just because you’re old it doesn’t give you the right to be an a**-hole!”

Customer: “How dare you talk to me like that! I fought in the war; I could have died for our country!”

(He tried to push my trolley into me, but my daughter moved it. I’d had enough by then and decided to do it back to him. I pushed his trolley into him as he was holding onto it and backed him up to a display and trapped him there. Several people stop to look.)

Me: “Come on, then, you cantankerous old f***er! Not so tough now that the whole shop can see you. Still want to yell at the pregnant lady for being fat and lazy? Still want to ram a trolley into me while I’m carrying twins? I didn’t think so. See, I know you didn’t fight in a war. You’re a miserable, lonely old coward who can only feel better about themselves when they’re making others feel bad. Didn’t work on me, did it? What’s wrong, old man? Forgotten all the horrible things you said to me? Nothing mean to say now that I’m not some meek little woman?”

(I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn, still quite angry.)

Security Guard: “Maybe we can let him go now, ma’am. I think he’s been told off enough. My colleague will escort the gentleman out. May I suggest a complimentary drink and cake from our café?”

Me: *as sweet as sugar again* “Ooh, cake. That’s very kind. He was extremely rude.”

Security Guard: “I know, another customer told us and we could see everything on CCTV. How far along are you?”

Me: “I’m being induced in a fortnight. I have two 7lb-ers in here and I’ve had enough.”

Security Guard: “My wife had twins last year. The last trimester was the worst two and a half months of my life and I WAS in a war! I would’ve gladly gone back to Afghanistan to get away from her at times!”

(The elderly man was asked to leave and I and my (very embarrassed) daughter had a lovely piece of cake. And no, I didn’t feel bad about talking to a pensioner that way. Just because you’ve lived a long time, doesn’t mean you can be rude.)

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