Phoned The Wrong Address

, , , | Right | March 22, 2018

(I work in an office supply store.)

Me: “Hi. What can I help you with today?”

Customer: “I need to return this phone.” *holds up a box and a receipt*

Me: “As far as I know, we don’t sell phones here. Are you sure you didn’t mean to take this to [Phone Store in the same shopping center as us]?”

Customer: “No! Isn’t this [address]?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, but all of the stores in this center have the same address, just different suite numbers—”

Customer: “See?! This is the address on the receipt; this is where the phone came from!”

Me: *looks at the receipt* “Yes. It says [Phone Store] at the top here, and you can see the shop from here; look.” *points out the window; you can see the sign from where we’re standing*

Customer: *stares out the window* “But it says this is the address!”

Me: “I know, ma’am, but it came from [Phone Store]. You can return it there.”

Customer: “But this is the address!”

(She wandered out the door after that.)

Intolerant Of Your Gluten-Tolerance, Part 2

, , , , , , , | Right | March 21, 2018

After making me put the kitchen on allergy alert and cook her catfish on tin foil with no seasoning due to “severe gluten and dairy allergies,” a customer asked for a biscuit.

I told her they have both butter and gluten in them, and she responded, “Oh, well, I can have a little.”

Related:
Intolerant Of Your Gluten-Tolerance

Weeding Out The Bad Customers From The Good

, , , , | Right | March 15, 2018

(I’m a waitress at a small Christian-based restaurant with a vegetable bar. Some customers order, and after a few minutes I go over to check on them.)

Me: “Are y’all finding everything okay?”

Woman: “Yeah, but do you mind if I see your pen for a minute?”

Me: “Sure… Here you are. I’ll come back in a few minutes to check on you.”

*a few minutes later*

Woman: “Now, don’t be offended, but could you take a look at this napkin for me?”

Me: “Okay.”

(I look at the napkin, which says, “Do you know where we can find a weed guy around here?”)

Me: “I don’t smoke, so I’m not really sure how to answer that.”

Man: “Umm. Never mind! Can we get our food in boxes? We’re going to head out.”

(They ended up stiffing me, but the table next to them heard them talking to each other about it and they ended up leaving me $20.)

When Two Wrongs Did Make A Right

, , , , , | Working | March 12, 2018

(My boss and I are the culprits here. We have a client who is generally very nice, but she is neurotic, paranoid, and obsessive about her tax returns. I am tasked with holding her hand through the process. I email my boss:)

My Email: “[Client] is going crazy, trying to itemize every tiny little expense. Can you please let her know that all that junk makes zero difference to her refund, so she can just calm down?!”

(My boss sends a very polite email and CCs me. I read it, but then…)

Me: “Um… [Boss], you didn’t write a new message to her; you hit forward.”

Boss: “What?”

Me: “When you replied to her, you also forwarded her my email to you!”

(We stare at each other in horror, imagining how she will react to my casual language. Stunned, I look back at the screen.)

Me: “Wait. What is her email address?”

Boss: “It’s [address], but don’t send her anything else.”

Me: “No, it’s okay. You typed it wrong.”

Boss: “What?”

Me: “You typed her address wrong. It didn’t go anywhere.”

Boss: *after deleting my message and re-sending* “Thank God I screwed up twice, and not just once!”

Unfiltered Story #106954

, | Unfiltered | March 11, 2018

[Long]
I work with this really timid girl, she usually can get through the day just fine. However she’s extremely bad at dealing with assholes.

It just so happened that I would be her bagger, you know, the faceless dude at the end of a counter in any supermarket that you really never take notice to.
So as she’s ringing up this one lady’s things and I’m calmly and swiftly putting eggs, milk, etc into a bunch of plastic bags I can hear a very obviously directed grumble of discontent a couple customers back. I pay no mind, finish what I’m doing and the line continues on.

After a few more peaceful customers come through the source of the grumbling stands front and center in front of the register.

My co-worker, lets say her name is Liza, for the sake of anonymity, does her usual routine. I can already tell she’s a bit startled by the man’s overly tall stature. He was a good two heads taller than her.

She starts ringing his things and he progressively gets worse and worse, softly berating her as she does her job. Eventually, she asks him to pay, which he does, only for his card to be denied; this as you can expect, dear reader, didn’t go over so well.

He launches into a fit of fury, leaning over the register and yelling at poor Liza.
She does what’s natural to her, curls up into a ball and starts crying in the corner of her work station. The other three customers behind him are two ladies, one holding a child, another in her mid 80’s. It’s just me, and him.

This guy is your classic Virginian redneck, jeans, dirty white T-shirt, brown work boots. And here I am, a baseball player, not the biggest guy in terms of width.

At this point, Liza is breaking down; this is what transpired next as best as I can remember.

Me: (attempting one of those calm chilling voices) Hey bud, that’s enough, she didn’t do anything wrong.

Him: Fuck off kid, before you get hurt.

Me: Keep going, I want to have a nice good reason to put you through that shelf. (I lightly gesture to one of those impulse buy shelves)

Him: You’re real funny kid, she you girlfriend or somethin’?

At this point I should let you know that for the sake of her safety I feigned a relationship just to let the man know I was serious.

Me: Yeah, I am, and I don’t take too kindly to fucks like you, so this is your one chance bud, before I make sure your head is split wide fucking open.

He looks around at this point, starting to realize that I’m standing next to one if his items, a 6 pack of beer.

Me: (resting a hand on one of the tops of the bottles) Get out, don’t come back, or I’ll make good on that threat; trust me, I’m thorough.

In the end, I don’t know what scared him, my tone of voice, or the fact that I had his own beer as a weapon; he ran and so far I haven’t gotten a word about it.

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