Here are perfect examples of why some people shouldn’t be working in customer service. Customers share the rudest comment a worker ever said to them. Content has been edited for clarity purposes.
“She Basically Called Me Ugly”
“Cashier at Walmart: ‘Your face is red! Why is your face red?’
Me: ‘Because that’s the way it looks! I have blotchy skin and that’s just the way it is! I am not pretty!”
I seriously barked that response. Then she carried on the transaction as if nothing happened. Ugh.
I don’t usually shop at Walmart, but there was one about a mile from where I was staying for a summer gig in Arkansas. I hadn’t taken a car and my roomie, who kindly helped me out, and company management weren’t available. I needed a few things and it wasn’t too hot so I thought, ‘Hey, I’ll walk.’ It took about twenty minutes and I got plenty warm walking.
I have very pale skin and rosacea has developed as I’ve gotten older. It’s not good for my vanity. I wasn’t wearing makeup that day. She picked the one thing to comment on that really pushed my buttons. I don’t go around commenting on other people’s faces. WHO DOES THAT? She basically called me ugly, out of the blue, as soon as she laid eyes on me. I hadn’t even placed all my items on the conveyor belt. I hadn’t said a word. All I did was step up in line.
I would have complained but I was embarrassed that someone thought I was hideous enough to comment on and didn’t want to share and tempt anyone else to agree with her. I know it shouldn’t bother me but it was hurtful.”
“I went to the store because I needed to buy adult diapers. I have nerve damage that makes it hard for me to recognize when I need to use the restroom until it is too late. I also have other health conditions that make me hesitant of medicating my way through this problem. Well, apparently this cashier thought that using incontinence products was a bad thing.
She said I should first try medication and said it so everyone could hear it. When I pointed out that I have diabetes and nerve damage, she suggested I should get surgery to fix the problem. Tired of listening to her, I wrote down her name, left the products on the counter, and left the store. I then went home to call first her manager then the headquarters of that store to let them know I would never go back.”
Not All Of Us Are Rich
“I was in college and any tuition that wasn’t covered by grants or scholarships, I would always pay out of pocket. I was making minimum wage and the tuition payments often took most of the money I had in my account.
A friend had invited me to enter a pie contest for fun and I took her up on the offer. All the pies were auctioned off at the end and I made a little bit of money. Once I received the check I went to the bank to cash it. The teller gave me a hard time about it for some reason.
And when it was cashed she said, ‘Have fun with hooking up with your 53 bucks.’ She had a snarky-looking face and laughed about it.
I can’t remember the exact amount but it was pretty low since I had just made a payment.
I cried when I got back to the car. I couldn’t believe that a 40- or 50-something-year-old woman was picking on a college student making minimum wage. I started actively avoiding that branch for a few years but I’ve gone back recently and she doesn’t seem to work there any longer.”
‘Stolen’ Debit Card
“In 1995, I was going into my third year as a law student, and I was attending American University in Washington, DC. You don’t know ‘hot and sticky’ until you’ve spent a summer in DC, and you don’t know miserable unless you’ve spent time in a law school getting called on to answer questions, knowing you’re going to get humiliated in front of everyone. All in all, it made for a terrible summer.
At school, most of the air conditioners were broken or didn’t really cool the air very well. However, I did want to pick up some credits during the summer to give myself an easier load when the fall semester started. I looked through the summer offerings and saw there was a program where I could earn six units in three weeks at a Comparative Justice program that would be held in Holland and England. The decision of what to do was so difficult; Shall I stay in DC in a hot classroom with a broken air conditioner, or should I, for the same price, spend three weeks in Europe? What to do, what to do?
I obviously picked the trip to Europe.
We were guests of the Dutch police in a small town called Zandvoort aan Zee in Holland, about 20 minutes out of Amsterdam, and one hour from Utrecht. The class was fantastic. One weekend, my friends and I wanted to get out of town and decided we needed some Brussels sprouts and Belgian chocolate.
We bought train tickets and headed over to Belgium and had an amazing time. We didn’t go to Brussels but ended up in Brugge. For those who aren’t familiar with the town, it’s all castles and flowers like Disneyland, but it’s all real! We stayed in a 10th-century castle, pigged out on chocolate, and saw everything. But too soon, we had to head back to Amsterdam, and back to our home base in Zandvoort.
I bought tons of chocolate and Battenburg lace to bring back for my family and friends, so much that I used up all my francs. This was before the Euro. Each time I changed money, I lost money, and although I had lots of Pounds Sterling and Guilders in my wallet, I didn’t want to change money again.
My friends and I walked to the train station, and I figured I’d just buy my train ticket with my credit card. My friends and I got in line, and they bought their tickets and I went to get mine. I ordered the ticket and took out my American Express Gold Card and my passport so the clerk could see the signatures matched, and it was a valid ID.
When I handed the clerk my card my gold card, he yelled at me, ‘What’s this!?’
I responded, ‘It’s my credit card.’
He flipped the card over and looked at my signature box on the back. I wrote ‘Ask For Photo ID’ where my signature went. It was common practice in the US to do that in 1995 because people learned how to copy signatures, so it was a bad idea to sign your credit card. If your card was stolen, the thief had a great example of your signature to learn how to forge. He slid the receipt to me under the window, I signed my name and showed my signature on my passport.
The clerk slammed his hand on the counter and said, ‘This does NOT match the signature on your card!’
I calmly said, ‘I know, but I want you to see my signature on my official government ID and you can match my signature to my ID.’
I used my passport as my ID while I was traveling.
One of my friends named Heather bounced up and down and shouted, ‘Yeah! What’s the problem, Buddy?’
I really wished she didn’t do that.
The clerk said, ‘This credit card is stolen!’
I calmly said, ‘No it’s not. Look at the name on it, look at my ID, and look at my signature. It’s exactly the same as on my passport. It’s all me.’
My friends started grumbling at the clerk, and I shushed them. The clerk said, ‘The signature does not match! So the card is stolen! You are a thief!’
Of course, my signature isn’t ‘Ask For Photo ID’ as I wrote on my card.
At that moment, Heather started jumping up and down, pointing at the clerk screaming, ‘And you’re a prick!! You’re a prick!!’
I turned to her and firmly said, ‘Heather, you’re not helping me!’
That summer was particularly cool in Belgium, and I had badly sprained my ankle at The Hague. The sidewalks were made out of cobblestone, and my foot slipped on it and twisted just right. My ankle had swollen to double its normal size and had become terribly bruised. Because of that, I couldn’t get my foot into normal shoes, but I could get my foot into my wore high top sneakers. I cinched them up pretty snugly so I could walk on my injured ankle. I wasn’t going to let a sprained ankle ruin my European adventure. I expected warm weather so I only brought a huge sweatshirt to sleep in. The cool weather forced me to wear my sleeping sweatshirt during the day, as I didn’t bring a sweater. I was a size medium, and this sweatshirt was an XXXL; it went down to my knees, and was from the University of Washington and had a huge UW on the front. While in Europe, I didn’t want to look like the typical American slob, but there I was. Big sweatshirt, high-top sneakers, and jeans.
The clerk glared at me and asked how I got a gold card.
I told him, ‘I have a job in America and good credit. American Express sent me an application. I worked as an account executive for several years and had good credit.’
The clerk looked at me incredulously and said, ‘You are not an American, you are one of those foreign streetwalkers trying to sneak into Amsterdam!’
The first thing that came out of my sarcastic mouth was, ‘How dare you call me that!’
By that time, the police showed up and asked what was going on. The clerk yelled to the police what his version of the story and the police simply said, ‘Come with us.’
And one grabbed my upper arm and led me around the corner where they had a satellite station. They asked me what was going on, and I calmly explained my side and why I wrote ‘Ask for photo ID’ on my card. They said it was a good idea, but I should have my picture on my credit card. At that time, that feature was not available in the US.
One of the police officers grabbed my purse, opened it, and said he was going to see what I have in it. I shrugged because I didn’t have anything to hide, so one item at a time, he started taking things out of it and placed them on a desk that was beside where I was sitting.
Finally, he pulled out my police ID badge, looked at my picture, and asked, ‘What’s this?’
I told him, ‘I am here studying comparative justice, and I’m in Europe as a guest of the Dutch police in Zandvoort. You’re welcome to call De Kommisaris there. His name is Noe to ask about me, as he knows me very well.’
Suddenly, he started putting my things back into my purse, and said, ‘I’m very sorry about this. He just wanted your card because American Express has a program here where he’d get a reward of 50 Francs for turning in stolen cards. He just wants the money.’
I told them I would call American Express and make sure to tell them about this guy’s scheme and insist he not get any reward. The officer said that was good, so I asked him to help me get my card back – it was the only credit card I had ever used. He said he’d try.
The two officers walked me back into the train station, and two of my friends were sitting there crying, and the one with the big mouth was complaining that we would be late getting back to Amsterdam. I told her no one was stopping her from leaving. The officers spoke to the clerk and told him he needed to give me my card back.
The clerk said, ‘No. It’s stolen and I won’t give it back.’
This guy and the police went back and forth a few times, and finally, the officer looked at me and said, ‘I’m sorry. He won’t give it back.’
What the heck kind of cop was he?
I said, ‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll call American Express and get another one sent to my hotel.’
They then left, and it still left me with the issue of now not being able to buy my ticket with my credit card, because the clerk had it, and it actually was the only one I carried. There was NO WAY I’d even consider using my debit card to buy my train ticket.
A Dutch lady came up to me, totally upset, and said, ‘I saw the whole thing, and this is terrible. I bought you a ticket back to Amsterdam, I can’t believe this happened to you.’
I thanked her profusely and was relieved to finally be back with my friends. I offered the lady Guilders, to repay her, explaining that I only used my credit card so I wouldn’t have to exchange money, but I had plenty of cash for other European countries. She said she felt better just paying for my ticket, it would make her feel better.
I calmed my friends down, and we finally boarded our train and headed back to Amsterdam. When I got back, I immediately called the American Express office, told them what happened, and they assured me that they would not give an award for my stolen credit card to anyone.
By the next morning, my replacement card arrived at the hotel. I opened the envelope to look at the card to make sure everything was correct on it, and much to my amusement, everything was written on it was in Dutch.”
“Our daughter is adopted.
We were in the hospital during her birth, but not in the delivery room. The hospital allowed us to meet her for about 10 to 12 minutes, then we had to leave since the biological mother had not yet signed the adoption agreement.
After just meeting our brand new baby, I felt the need to do something motherly. I decided to go shopping and buy a few (or a lot) of baby clothes and such. As we were standing in line to make the purchase, the cashier commented about all the stuff we were buying. I told her that our baby had just been born, not thinking that it would sound like I had given birth.
The cashier reached over and rubbed my hand and said, ‘Don’t worry honey, you’ll lose the baby (pregnancy) weight in no time!’
I weighed all of 112 pounds at 5’4”. Definitely not fat.
I did not say anything back to her.”
Jeffrey Dahmer In The Making?
“When my now-grown son was about eight years old, he and I watched a kid’s TV special about plants, one of which was a Venus Flytrap. When it was over, he thought the Venus Flytrap was pretty interesting, so I called around and found out that a local nursery had some. We hopped in the car to pick one out.
We brought the chosen flytrap to the counter. My son was really excited. He told the cashier what the plant was and what he saw it do on TV. I explained that he was really excited and we hoped to see it catch a fly. At this point, it is important to know that my son was, and still is sweet, kind, funny, intelligent, and very inquisitive. He has always wanted to learn about new things, a trait that he is instilling in his own child.
The cashier looked at me, then him, then me again, and said, ‘Well, Jeffrey Dahmer had to start somewhere.’
Thank goodness my son didn’t know who Jeffrey Dahmer (and if you don’t know who he was, please feel free to Google him), but he was taken aback by her tone of voice, and likely the look on my face.
I immediately had words with the manager.”
“The first thing that comes to mind happened in 2000. I was dining in a local Chinese restaurant with my family. At the time I was still married to my first wife, and only had my two oldest daughters; my other children hadn’t been thought of yet.
People always complimented my daughters on how beautiful they are. I totally agree, my daughters are beautiful.
We had finished eating, and I went up to pay.
The cashier looked at me and said, ‘Your daughters are beautiful.’
I thanked her and then she said, ‘Are they yours?’
I wasn’t happy with her question, but I just paid and left. I didn’t return to that restaurant either.”
“Is She Hitting On Me?”
“One spring day, I went to a large plant nursery to get new plants and spruce up our yard. As the clerk was ringing up the transaction, she turned to me with a delighted and eager look on her face and said, ‘Do you know about your PROSTATE?’
I went silent as I worked through the permutations of her potential intent.
My first thought was ‘Is she hitting on me?’ I discarded this one due to the age gap, my wedding ring prominently displayed on my finger, and her clearly the unanxious look on her face.
My next thought was she was participating in a cancer awareness program clearly intended to spark up a conversation about men’s health issues.
I’m usually a quick thinker, but apparently, the puzzled and slightly embarrassed look on my face, coupled with the unnaturally long pause caused the woman to repeat her statement.
‘Do you know about the FROST DATE?’
At the second hearing, it was clear she referred to the date of the expected last frost, a date suitable for planting my new plants.
My face changed to one of eagerness and understanding. Of course, I wanted to know about the best way to care for my new plants. She’s clearly an expert, let’s have it!
So I said, without thinking, ‘Ohhhh, I thought you asked me about my prostate!’
Her eager face turned to a confused face and she went silent. Immediately noticing the turn, I also went silent.
In a mutually enveloping fog, I handed her my credit card, she completed the transaction, I gathered my items, and left. Neither one of us had spoken another word.
Accents can be tough around here.”
“My youngest stepson started working out and was trying to bulk up and try out for high school football. He was in good shape but was on the lean side. I went to Wal-Mart and got him some protein shake mix to help out. I was in my mid to late thirties at the time and was not buff by any means. I definitely had the dad bod spare tire around the middle.
I got up to the cashier and she loudly told me that I didn’t need this protein powder and that Slim-Fast would be better suited for me. I started to say something but the lady behind me in the line went off on her before I could say a word.
The irony of the whole thing was the cashier wasn’t in prime physical shape herself. The lady behind me who put her in her place looked like she was a fitness buff.”
“In a local fish market, they deep-fry meals. Never having had fried oysters, I tried them. When I got home I found that they were either fried whole belly clams or that oysters taste the same as the clams.
The next time I was at the market, I wondered how close oysters taste as compared to clams. I mentioned that I believe that I got clams in the previous order.
She, a 20 something woman that I found later was the daughter of a manager, went totally ballistic.
‘I know what you are trying to do. You just want a free meal,’ she said loudly.
She was being obnoxious and rude, so I said, ‘I am not going to listen to you.’
I became just as incensed and yelled back to her, ‘You will listen to me.’
It went on for a few minutes until a manager intervened. I purchased the oyster dinner, as I intended I would do. I was not in for a free meal. It so turned me off for at least four months and it took me a while to return.
To answer the questions, deep-fried oysters are a lot like whole belly clams but smaller and pack the flavor 20 times that of the clam. Much to my disliking.”
“I Looked A Little Scruffy From House Cleaning”
“This happened about 30 years ago. I was at home cleaning and needed to buy a few items to continue cleaning and a few items for dinner. I shopped, put the items on the conveyor belt, and the cashier stated loudly, ‘Don’t you use food stamps?’
I said, ‘I do not!’
‘Oh’, she said.
Back in those days, you had to separate your order between food items and ‘other’ items so you could pay cash for your non-food items. I looked a little scruffy from house cleaning, but how rude to assume and even if I did, how insensitive to yell that out.”