(I’m at a concert for a group I’m just getting into. I only know one of their songs but I’m having a great time. They take a pause, and the lead singer walks to the front of the stage.)

Singer: “When we were just getting here, we ran into a guy outside who was crying. He told us his girlfriend had just broken up with him, here. He’d been so pumped about going to a concert with his girlfriend, and once they got here, she left for good. So! Everyone in the audience! SAY, ‘THAT’S BULLS***!’”

Audience: “THAT’S BULLS***!”

Singer: “THAT’S BULLS***!”

Audience: “THAT’S BULLS***!”

(The concert proceeded as normal from that point on. To those of you who have been broken up with at events you and your partner went to together: that’s bulls***.)

(I work at a fast food restaurant, and I am used to getting ridiculous requests and dealing with unnecessarily rude people. Usually I just brush it off and move on, but there is one guy who will always be a story to tell.)

Customer: “Hi, I’d like a chocolate shake with chocolate ice cream.”

Me: “I’m sorry, we can add extra chocolate flavoring to your shake if you’d like, but we only have vanilla ice cream.”

Customer: “You’re telling me you don’t have chocolate ice cream? Since when?”

(I know for a fact this chain has never had chocolate ice cream, but I am still trying to be polite.)

Me: “Well, I’m not sure exactly when, but I know that there hasn’t been chocolate ice cream since I’ve worked here.”

Customer: “Well, add extra chocolate syrup, then, and there had better be a lot.”

Me: “I can definitely do that for you, but it will be about a $0.30 charge. Is that okay?”

Customer: *rolling his eyes* “I guess it has to be.”

Me: “Can I get anything else for you?”

Customer: “Yeah, I’ll have your bacon cheeseburger.”

Me: “Okay, does that complete your order?”

Customer: “Yeah, can you tell me how much it’s going to be?”

(As if that wasn’t what I was about to say next, regardless.)

Me: “That’ll be [price]. We’ll have that right up for you.”

(We get his shake and his burger out to him, and I continue to wait on the line of people. Within a minute of him getting his food, he is back at the counter.)

Me: “Yes, can I help you?”

Customer: “They forgot the tomato on my burger.”

Me: “Which burger did you order, again?”

Customer: “The bacon cheeseburger.”

Me: “Oh, no, they didn’t forget it. The sandwich only comes with bacon, cheese, steak sauce, and onions. Tomatoes are usually an extra $0.30 to add.”

Customer: “I’m not paying that for tomatoes. Just give me some tomatoes.”

(I originally had every intention of giving him the tomatoes and letting him know for next time, but he has been rude from the start and he is really pushing my buttons at this point.)

Me: “I’m not allowed to give you something for free. I could lose my job.”

Customer: “If I have to pay for tomatoes, I’m never coming back here again.”

Me: *thinking I couldn’t care less if he ever came back* “I can talk to my manager and see what he can do for you; give me just one second.”

Customer: “You better not tell me I have to pay for these tomatoes.”

Me: *to my manager* “This guy up here is being very rude and wants tomatoes that we ‘forgot’ to put on his bacon cheeseburger. What do you want me to do?”

Manager: *rolling his eyes* “Oh, just give him the tomatoes to shut him up. But make sure you remind him that he usually can’t come back up and get stuff that we usually charge for.”

Me: “I’ll tell him again, but he got pretty upset at me the first time.”

(I walked back up with the tomatoes in a cup for this guy.)

Me: *to the customer* “My manager said not to worry about it tonight, but that usually tomatoes are extra.”

Customer: “Well, don’t try and tell me I have to pay $0.30 extra for tomatoes.”

Me: “Not this time, but if you had ordered them on your burger, it would have cost you that.”

Customer: *walking away with his tomatoes* “If they charged me $0.30 for tomatoes I would have caused a scene.”

Me: *to the next customer* “Hi, what can I get for you today?”

Customer #2: “I’d like some tomatoes, but if you charge me for them, I’m going to cause a scene.”

(Through my job, I need to coordinate with a representative from another organization. After they twice cancel meetings with me at the very last minute, I finally get to sit down with the representative. She is almost an hour late to our third try. The meeting turns out to be almost entirely useless. The entire time, she frequently interrupts me and outright ignores questions I ask her. The only thing I manage to get out of her that we were supposed to discuss is potential to use her organization’s office space. She tells me she will get me in touch with her office manager. After two weeks of not hearing from anyone, I give her a call.)

Me: “Hey, I wanted to touch base with you about using the office space and—”

Representative: “Do you have some kind of problem with me?”

Me: “I… What?”

Representative: “I CC’d you on an email weeks ago about that, and you never responded.”

Me: “I never saw that email. Let me see if I can find it. When was—”

Representative: “It has been two weeks! Why are you calling me now?! It isn’t my job to manage you!”

Me: *going through my emails* “I’m not seeing this email anywhere. Are you sure that—”

Representative: “I just don’t know what your problem is!”

(She continues to interrupt me, claiming that I’ve been avoiding talking to her because I apparently have a problem with her. I search through my email, spam folder, and everywhere else, looking for this email she supposedly CC’d me on. Still unable to get a word in edgewise to try and figure out what is going on, I look at my phone and realize the call has now been going on for over ten minutes, during which I have not said a single full sentence.)

Me: *yelling out of frustration* “ENOUGH! It is not f****** okay for you to speak to me or anyone else the way you are right now. As I have been trying to say for the past ten minutes, I did not receive—”

Representative: “But I—”

Me: “Stop interrupting me! I didn’t receive this—”

Representative: “I’m not interrupting you!”

Me: “You literally just did again! How can you not understand that?! If I am in the middle of a sentence, don’t speak until I have finished it! I did not receive this email you say you CC’d me on. Can you open your email and check for it?”

Representative: “I… I don’t know if it is okay to speak.”

Me: “You’ve got to be kidding me. For the remainder of this conversation, please only speak when I ask you a question.”

(At this point, I can to hear her begin to cry, and I start to feel bad, so I soften my tone.)

Me: “Did you find the email?”

Representative: “Yeah, I’m looking at it right now.”

Me: “Was I CC’d on it?”

Representative: “No, but you should have let me know that you didn’t get it. It isn’t my job to manage you!”

Me: “This is you not managing yourself. If I don’t respond to you about something, it is up to you to reach out to me and find out why.”

Representative: “Well, I figured you had some kind of problem with me and just didn’t want to respond!”

Me: “Just forward me the email now. I’m sorry this conversation got heated, but it is really not okay for you to ever speak to me the way you just were, ever again, if we are going to be working together. Is that understood?”

Representative: “I… Okay!”

(She never did forward me the email. I had to contact her organization directly to get their office info. Coincidentally, that particular representative was never in the office whenever I was in there working. Luckily, I was off that project not long after and never had to deal with her again after that phone call.)

(I work at a retail chain as my first job. One day a young man comes in and puts a one-dollar pregnancy test on my counter.)

Customer: “I’d like to return this.”

Me: *looking at the test laying on my counter, out of the box* “Um… What’s wrong?”

Customer: “It didn’t work. I want another one.”

Me: “It didn’t work?”

Customer: “Yeah, my girlfriend used it. It didn’t work.”

(I called the manager, who seemed just as shocked as me that the man had laid a used pregnancy test on our counter, but he let the young man exchange it for another one. I poked the used thing into a trash can with a piece of cardboard and scrubbed at the counter for some time.)

(In order to donate at the plasma center where I work, you have to have a permanent address within a certain number of miles of our center. Every donor that comes in is required to provide proof of address. The most common way to do this is with a piece of mail addressed to the donor. In order for a piece of mail to be acceptable, all of the information on the mail has to EXACTLY match the information provided by the donor, and it HAS TO be postmarked in the last thirty days. A donor can’t donate plasma until we get acceptable mail, NO MATTER WHAT. Since I work the front desk most of the time, it usually falls to me to approve people’s mail. It’s not uncommon for people to have a hard time bringing in acceptable mail, but this lady takes the cake. Monday:)

Me: *handing the donor her payment card after her first donation* “Okay, [Donor], here’s your card. Your payment should be on there within about twenty minutes. You can come back as soon as Wednesday. Don’t forget, you’ll need your proof of address next time. Do you need me to go over the requirements again?

(The donor ignores me, puts in headphones, and leaves. Wednesday:)

Me: “Hey, [Donor], welcome back. Do you have your proof of address?”

Donor: “Oh, I forgot.”

Me: “Oh, dang. I’m really sorry, but we need that before you can donate.”

(The donor stares at me for a while and then leaves. On Thursday, the donor comes in, walks up to counter, and hands me a dirty letter.)

Me: “Sorry, [Donor], we can’t take this. This is from January.”

(It’s June.)

Donor: “I thought it just had to be mail. That’s my address.”

(I go over the requirements again, and the donor says she understands. On Friday, the donor comes in and gives me another letter.)

Me: “No can do. Your name and the street name are spelled wrong in this one.”

(On Saturday, the donor comes back with yet another letter.)

Me: “Ma’am, this has a man’s name on it. I don’t see your name anywhere.”

Donor: “That’s my ex-boyfriend; he lives with me.”

Me: *getting annoyed at this point* “That won’t work. The requirements are…”

(On Monday, according to my manager, she comes in again with another unacceptable letter. My manager makes triple sure she knows the requirements. She says she understands. She also goes on a rant about how, “It’s so stupid that we’re making this so hard,” and, “I live really far away,” and, “I have KIDS,” before she finally leaves. Tuesday, the donor comes in with an older man.)

Me: “Morning, [Donor], did you bring your mail?”

Donor: “No, I brought my dad.”

Me: “Cool. Does he want to donate with us, as well?”

Dad: “No, but she lives with me.”

Me: *confused* “Okay.”

Donor: “There. I live with him and he verified it. Can I donate now?”

Me: “What?”

Donor: “He said I live with him. That counts, right?”

Me: *beyond done with this lady at this point* “No, ma’am, it doesn’t. My manager and I have both been over the requirements with you, and bringing in a witness doesn’t count.”

Dad: “But she lives with me! I don’t understand this! WHY NOT?!”

Me: “Hey, [Nearest Coworker]!”

Coworker: “Yeah?”

Me: “Do I live at the White House?”

Coworker: “Yeah, of course.”

Me: “That’s why.”

(The donor and her dad just stared at me for a solid thirty seconds. Then, they walked away, never to be seen or heard from again.)

This story is part of our Blood Donation roundup!

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