I worked at Radio Shack (much to my shame and embarrassment), and one day this guy comes bursting through the door, waving something in his hand, visibly excited.
In a stream of verbiage, "Justfoundgreatwhatisitbatteryshelpwhatkind!" Positively quaking in agitation.
He sets his bible down on the counter (paying attention?), and opens his hand and shows me this little black key-fob looking thing with 4 colored buttons.
I open it up, figure out what he needs, take him to the battery section, hook him up with the correct, modestly expensive batteries, and we walk back to the counter.
He is so busy tearing into the little batteries, I eschew the normal protocol and move beyond “Phone Number, Name, Bullshit” and just ring him up.
He’s standing there, like a kid on Christmas Morning, grinning and dancing, installs the batteries, pushes the red button, and the device says,
FUCK YOU!
The look on his face froze, than slowly drained from Sheer Joy to Abject Terror, he hit the second button,
YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE!
Next,
FUCKIN’ JERK!
His Wheaties were totally shat! He was visibly ruined.
That’s when I hit him, “That’ll be $6 bucks!”. He kinda stammered and shuffled, glazed eyed handed me some cash, tried to regain a little composure, gathering up torn open battery packs and thrusting them into his pockets with his change and the receipt, picking up his bible and staggering out the door.
He came back, very sheepishly, and kind of “himed and hawed” about how he made a mistake, blah blah blah. I gave him his money back, no questions or hard time. I kept that little thing for years, till the little rubber buttons got too hot in my garage and turned to goo. It always made for a good story. I think the guts are out there in a box, to this day.