(This happens literally every time this customer comes into the bank:)

Me: “Hi. How are you?”

Customer: “I’m well, and you?”

Me: “Good, thanks! What can I do for you?”

(Then, there’s more small talk as I do his transaction.)

Customer: “I think I saw you the other day on [Street]. I didn’t know you lived there.”

Me: “No, that wasn’t me; I don’t live over there.”

Customer: “Oh, well, where do you live?”

Me: “…”

(I give him a different answer about where I live every single time. It’s never the correct street or even near my house, yet he asks me where I live every time he sees me. No.)

(I’m reading Not Always Right stories when my dad, a store manager at a local gas station chain, walks into my room.)

Dad: “What are you doing?”

Me: “Reading Not Always Right.”

Dad: “What?”

Me: “Reading Not Always Right. You know, bad customer stories? ‘The customer is—’”

Dad: “Oh! I can tell you a lot of those. Actually, I can show you one right now…”

(He pulls out his phone and loads up a picture of a truck parked in his gas station parking lot, ‘parked’ being a relative term. The truck is about three feet away from the pump, turned diagonally, and blocking the pump next to it, too, as well as two parking places.)

Dad: “This is how you park at a gas station, right?”

(I’m working at my uncle’s restaurant for a few weeks over the summer. Being new to the job, I’m mostly doing dishes. As I’m washing dishes, one of my coworker brings in a tray of more dishes. As she leaves, I say:)

Me: *pumping fist in the air* “JOB SECURITY!”

(After that, whenever someone brought in more dishes, we’d both laugh and say, “Job security!”)

(I am working as a waitress at a restaurant when a woman comes in. My boss pulls me to the side and tells me that if I help the woman, to write down everything that she wants as she is a notoriously picky eater. I take the woman’s drink order and begin clearing off the table next to her while I wait for her to decide what she’d like to eat. As I am cleaning, she looks over at me.)

Customer: “Is your last name Hitchcock?”

Me: *confused* “No, ma’am, my last name is [My Last Name].”

(The customer then proceeds to tell me in detail how I look exactly like Alfred Hitchcock’s daughter, from the shape of my face to the way I smile. I nod and play along, but am trying so hard not to laugh that it hurts. Every time I go near her table, the woman marvels that I look just like Alfred Hitchcock’s daughter. When she’s getting ready to leave, the customer comes up to me.)

Customer: “You know, you should really submit your picture to [some organization that apparently takes pictures of people who look like celebrities]. Just make sure that the picture shows from here to here–” *she gestures from the top of my head to about my navel* “–and shows the contours of your arms. Oh, and make sure to take one with your glasses and without your glasses.”

(I assured her that I would, though I had absolutely no intention of doing so. Satisfied, the woman finally left. Later, I looked up a picture of Pat Hitchcock. I look absolutely nothing like her.)

(I’m training a new cashier when one of my coworkers, who has the day off, comes to check out. I don’t particularly like this coworker since she has an attitude and is as dumb as a box of rocks. This interaction just proves it.)

Me: “Hey, [Coworker].”

Coworker: “Hey. I’m getting this plastic pool. I can’t believe [Boss] marked it down so low.”

Me: “She probably wanted to get rid of it.”

Coworker: “Well, it worked. What’s in this, anyway? Do I have to get a pump and stuff?”

(It’s clearly marked on the box with a huge picture of the pump.)

Me: “It’s got the pump. All you’ll really need to get is the chlorine and water testers.”

Coworker: “Oh, if it gets algae in it, I’ll just dump bleach in it.”

(I stare a moment before telling her that’s a bad idea.)

Coworker: “Why?”

Me: “Your skin will slough off.”

(She paid and walked away, a look of confusion on her face. I don’t think the message got through, and with ideas like that, I wonder how she’s still alive.)