See? That's not my problem.

Me: And could I get your credit card number, please?
Douche: Mmkay. You're gonna have to bear with me, alright? I'm driving 60 miles and hour down the road with my knee!

Sir, you've made me an accessory to something in which I never wanted to be involved in the first place. And your tone of voice makes me think that, somehow, I'm inconveniencing you. It isn't as if I called you up on your cell and interrupted your drive to see if you might be interested in "lemme get 11...NAH! Better make it 15. That doesn't make that much of a difference!" tickets for your employees on Thursday night. I was sitting here minding my own business, probably knitting, and you chose to call my place of work to make an over-the-phone order while operating a motor vehicle. The fact that you are endangering lives is not my problem, but yours. Quite frankly--you wreck your expensive car, I'll still be alive, and that's a fact. Suck on it a little.

Me: And could I just get the 4-digit code above your credit card number on the front of the card?
Douche: Jesus Christ!

Okay, no. That's a big no, sir. Again, let me remind you who began this transaction. If you are stressed it is your own damn fault. Also, why are you stressed? You just gave me your credit card number. I've asked four additional numbers that are right the fuck there on the front of your card! Please. Remain. Calm.

I'm calling Oprah about this.