I’m a sixty-ish-year-old woman wearing a knitted cardigan working the service desk of a library, with my hair up in a bun and reading glasses hanging around my neck. I am the stereotypical vision of an old librarian lady.

A young male customer walks up to the service desk and leans in for a whisper.

Customer: “So… I… uh… I got this drug test—”

Me: “I cannot sell you my urine.”

Customer: “How… how did you know I was going to ask that?”

Me: “You were here last month filling out job application forms. Here you are today reeking of weed. You got a job offer, and they have a drug test requirement. People like you also seem to think that either the library offers a lot more services than it really does, or we poor librarians are so poorly paid that we’d be willing to sell our own bodily fluids to make rent.”

Sadly, that last part isn’t too far from the truth.

Me: “Besides, my urine would be of no use to you anyway.”

Customer: “Why? It’s not like you could be pregnant.”

Me: “It’s cute you think my urine is free from illicit and mind-altering substances.”

I very sloooooowly curved my mouth up into a wide psycho smile, eyes wide. He backed away and I haven’t seen him since.

Related:
The Contrarian Ex-Librarian
The Contrarian Librarian: The DVD
The Contrarian Librarian Runs Out Of Time
The Contrarian Librarian: The Childhood Years
Softening Of The Contrarian Librarian

I’m scanning a customer’s items, and one of the items is a medicinal-looking cream.

Customer: “That cream is on sale, so that’s good.”

Me: “I’m glad you found it at a good price.”

Customer: “It’s for my man-parts.”

Me: *Scans faster*

Customer: “It’s because that b**** gave me a rash.”

Me: *Scans faster still*

Customer: “Why do b****es always gotta be b****es? I ain’t ever been with a b**** who wasn’t a b****!”

Me: *Scans furiously*

Customer: “Seriously, I got so many rashes down there. Why are women all b****es?”

Me: “Sir, if you wish to continue this conversation, I’m going to have to ask you to lie on a couch and start paying me a hundred bucks an hour!”

Minimum wage was not worth that trauma! Thankfully, he paid and got out there without venting any more of his issues, either medical or mental!

Related:
TMI Am Out Of Here!

Seeing a few recent stories on here reminded me of my experience. I’m a new hire, and my coworker is showing me how to stock the small pharmacy section of the convenience store.

Coworker: “Make sure the pads are kept on this side, as far from the condoms as possible. Some of the guys get a bit weird seeing them next to each other.”

Of course, as if on cue, a male customer has overheard us and feels the need to bless us with his opinion.

Customer: “It’s because men should be able to get their things without seeing that! They don’t need to be reminded about all the holes you’ve all got going on down there!”

Coworker: “Sorry, but how many holes do you think we have down there?!”

Customer: *With a comical amount of confidence* “Women have five holes: one for p*ss, one for periods, one for sex, one for birth, one for s***! Five holes, all in a line!”

Coworker: “Sir, we’re human beings, not flutes.”

I am working at the box office for a Broadway theater. We get a lot of tourists coming in with no bookings hoping to grab any spare seats, but it’s extremely hit-and-miss. If we do have some available, it’s one or two and usually not the best seats.

Our current production is proving popular as it stars an A-list Hollywood actor in their Broadway debut. It’s about a romance between a beekeeper and a quantum physicist, and the dialogue can get a bit heavy on the science.

A couple of tourists come in and ask me the usual question:

Customer: “Can we get two tickets for the show tonight?”

They said, “Can we get…” and not, “Are there any available?” They are just assuming there are last-minute spare tickets to a famous Broadway production on a Saturday night.

Me: “I’m afraid we’re totally sold out for this evening. If you’re looking for two tickets, we have some available at tomorrow’s matinee, but they aren’t together, and they are the final two available. If you’d like two together, we don’t have anything available until next week Tuesday.”

Customer: “That’s ridiculous. You’re saying you’re sold out?!”

Me: “I’m afraid so. We are sold out for tonight.”

Customer: “Well, can we get some of the spare tickets?”

Me: “I’m sorry… Spare tickets?”

Customer: “You theaters always hold back some spares to be sold on the day or something!”

Me: “That is not the case here. Literally every seat is sold out for tonight’s performance.”

Customer: “I refuse to believe you don’t have any seats at all!”

Me: “We have zero seats available. None at all.”

Customer: “Look, just move some groups around or something, or designate one of the disabled seats as one for ‘normal people’ or whatever. Just get us two seats!”

I was being polite until now, but they just said that disabled people weren’t “normal” so the gloves have come off.

Me: “Sir, you should leave. I don’t think this play is suitable for you.”

Customer: “Why?”

Me: “Because this play delves deep into quantum physics and mathematics, and you can’t even figure out that zero does not equal two.”

Customer: “Get me your manager!”

Me: “Happy to.”

I pushed back from the box office desk and wheeled myself back to the phone using my wheelchair.

The tourists stared at me for a moment, tutted loudly, and just stormed off.

Related:
Math Is Your Friend, Part 16
Math Is Your Friend, Part 15
Math Is Your Friend, Part 14
Math Is Your Friend, Part 13
Math Is Your Friend, Part 12

I live with my mother, and I cook for both of us most of the time. However, on this particular evening and after a long day at work, neither of us has the will to cook, so we decide to order sushi. I open the take-out app on my phone and select the options we want. It’s 7:00 pm, and the order will arrive around 7:45 pm, so we wait.

Around 8:00 pm, nothing has arrived. I call the restaurant, and they tell us the driver just left with our order; he should arrive in around twenty minutes. We wait some more.

At 9:00 pm, still no food. I call the restaurant again, and they say the driver is two streets away. Fifteen minutes later — yes, for two streets — the delivery guy is at the door. He gives me our order without an apology for arriving so late, and he leaves.

I check the bag, and our desserts are missing. Again, I call the restaurant.

Restaurant: “[Restaurant], good evening!”

Me: “Good evening. I called you twice tonight to enquire about our order for [our address]. We finally received it, but we are missing the desserts.”

Restaurant: “Our apology for the inconvenience. We’ll remove the price of [desserts] from your next order.”

Me: “When will the delivery person arrive with them?”

Restaurant: “Look, we’re not gonna send him out again just for some desserts.”

I start to lose my cool.

Me: “No, I disagree. I paid for those desserts, and I want them delivered.”

Restaurant: “We understand that you paid for them, which is why we’ll remove the price of the desserts from your next order.”

Me: “No. The delivery we expected for 7:45 pm arrived an hour and a half late, we were missing items, and now you’re telling me you’re not going to send what was missing? There won’t be any more orders from our end.”

Restaurant: “Well, you did order from [Delivery App]…”

Me: “Are you saying it’s my fault?”

Restaurant: “No, that’s not what I meant.”

Me: “Do you really think it’s acceptable? The order arrived more than an hour late, half of the order is missing, you are refusing to send the rest of the food I paid for, and I am somehow responsible for this whole fiasco because I ordered through [Delivery App]. Is that what you are saying? And you expect me to order from you again?”

Restaurant: “Sorry, ma’am, but there’s nothing I can do.”

Me: “Wrong. You can send what’s missing.”

We went back and forth, and they ultimately refused to send the rest of my order. I placed a scathing review on the page of the restaurant.

Another hour later, the delivery person called me. He had forgotten the desserts in the back of his car, and he offered to deliver them.

The desserts were ice cream mochis — left in a car on a hot summer evening for an hour. I declined.