(A family approach my counter.)

Customer: “Uh. Can I get a number six, with mac and cheese? And a medium drink.”

(His family orders their food, and I make the sandwich—his number six— and plate the rest of the food. Our number six doesn’t come with a biscuit, but his father and mother’s meals do.)

Customer: “Hey. HEY!”

Me: “Yes, sir?”

Customer: “We’re short one biscuit.”

(Even though I know he isn’t, I give him one. Five minutes later, I see him stand up, and start screaming.)

Customer: “IT’S NOT JUST THIS RESTAURANT; IT’S ALL FAST FOOD!”

(He barges up, and slams his sandwich down.)

Customer: “I ORDERED A NUMBER 12! THIS HAS A BUN! I WANTED THE ONE WITH NO BUN!

Me: “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry! I thought you said number six! That one comes with a bun! Sorry, again!”

Customer: “I DID ORDER A NUMBER SIX, BUT I WANTED A NUMBER 12! WASN’T IT OBVIOUS!?”

Customer: “Excuse me, I have a ques—oh.”

(She folds her arms, and eyes me critically.)

Me: “Yes?”

Customer: “Well, I doubt you would know. You look awfully young.”

(I am 21, but look younger.)

Me: “I’m older than I look. What can I help you with?”

Customer: “No, I really don’t think you would know. You look like a d*** little kid!”

(I raise my eyebrows and stare at her.)

Customer: “I guess that was a little rude, huh.”

Me: “More than a little. Can I help you?”

Customer: “Like I said, I doubt it. I like that pink plant over there, but I don’t know anything about it.”

(I rattle off the plant’s name, sun preference, average height and width, and how often to water and fertilize it.)

Customer: “Huh! You did know all about it! I just seem to keep offending people today; every time I open my mouth!”

Me: “Maybe try keeping it shut.”

(My family are visiting my mother’s hometown in China. We are at a noodle shop for breakfast, where I am buying a stick of fried dough. I am a 12-year-old American-born-Chinese, so I can speak Chinese relatively well.)

Me: “Hello, can I get a—”

(A businessman barges in front of me, cutting me off mid-sentence.)

Businessman: “I need two sticks, hurry!”

(The man behind the stall looks shocked, but still takes the man’s money before reaching to get the fried dough sticks.)

Me: “Excuse me, I was in front of you. You cut in front of me.”

Businessman: “No, you weren’t! You were still walking over here when I was ordering! You should respect your elders! Kids these days!”

(He continues berating me until the man gives him his fried dough sticks. I glare at the businessman as he walks away, before turning to the man at the stall.)

Man: “Wow, you must be so brave to stick up like that! That guy has been bothering me for ages! He’s always acting like that.”

Me: “You’re welcome. So, could I please have a stick of fried dough?”

(The man happily gives me my stick of fried dough, smiling the whole time. He said that I made his day!)

(I am a manager at a small sunglasses store in a mall. I am not currently in the store.)

Customer: “Yo, clean these for me.”

(He throws the glasses at the clerk.)

Clerk: “Oh, okay. Here let me get a cloth and the cleaning spray.”

(The glasses land on the ground because they were thrown.)

Clerk: “Let me get those, and get them clean for y—”

Customer: “B****, you wrecked my glasses! The icon’s missing; you owe me a brand new pair!”

(Icons fit on the side of the glasses to jazz them up.)

Clerk: “Sir, you threw your glasses at me. I didn’t even see if you had the icons. Let’s look and see if there’s one on the floor here.”

(The clerk very patiently starts searching, even going so far as to get a broom and try and sweep under displays, just in case.)

Customer: “You wrecked my glasses; give me a new pair now!”

Clerk: “Sir, I can’t do that. Your glasses are right here; they’re fine. You know what? I’ll find you another pair of icons, on me, for the trouble.”

(Icons cost $15 a pair. My staff know that we’d authorize them to take a loss on such a small item to make a customer’s day.)

Customer: “B****, these were special order. I’m not leaving until you give me two pairs of these sunglasses to make up for you f****** up.”

Clerk: “I’m not giving you any sunglasses. I offered you a free pair of icons. Don’t swear at me again, or I will call security and have you escorted out.”

Customer: “Get your manager now, b****!”

(I live across the street from the mall. My staff knows I’ll come over for any reason. My clerk calls me, and I can hear she’s almost crying. I tell her I’ll be there in 10 minutes. The clerk hangs up with me and tells the customer.)

Customer: “I ain’t got 10 minutes to wait for some other b**** to get here. Give me two pairs of glasses to make up for this s***, NOW!”

Clerk: “Look, I’m not giving you anything. I’ll tell you now, my manager’s not going to give you anything either. If you can’t wait for her, leave me your name and number, and I’ll have her call you.”

Customer: “Alright, you tell that b**** to call me, and I’ll get my free glasses.”

Clerk: “Alright, can I have your name and number?”

Customer: “No, you can’t have my personal info. Who the f*** do you think you are?”

Clerk: “I need your name and number if you want the manager to call you.”

Customer: “Alright, you tell that b**** my name is Mutha-f**** Jones.”

(The customer stomps out. I arrive a couple minutes later to an empty store, save for a shaken clerk.)

Me: “Where’s the guy who’s freaking out?”

Clerk: “He said he couldn’t wait, but you can call him to discuss it. Here’s his info.”

(She hands me a card with his name on it.)

Me: “Seriously?”

Clerk: “Yep. Maybe you can call 411 and get them to look up Mr Jones for you.”

Me: “I’ll get right on that.”

(I look at the security footage, and am pretty sure he doesn’t have the icons to begin with. The crazy dude actually comes back. I call security and give him h*** for trying to scam my clerk.)

(My girlfriend and I are at a friends shop looking for new training pads for her. She is a 5′ tall blond, who weighs 95 lbs. I am 6’1″ and 175 lbs, and the owner is about 6’4″ and 200 lbs. All of us have done different forms of martial arts for over 20 combined years. I am making small talk with the owner by the register, while my girlfriend is looking at more pads.)

Customer: “Hey, where are your training pads?”

Owner: “Just past the speed bags, on the right.”

(About a minute later, we hear a small crash, followed by arguing. We rush over to find the man trying to grab the pads from my girlfriend.)

Customer: “You stupid b****; give me those!”

(He finally manages to pull them out of her hand.)

Girlfriend: “H*** no, I got them first; give them back!”

Customer: “You don’t even need them. I have a fight in two weeks!”

Girlfriend: “Then you should have thought about that sooner!”

(The customer finally notices us; he turns to the owner.)

Customer: “Hey, I need to pay for these pads.”

Owner: “No, she had them first. You need to give them back to her.”

Customer: “No, she is just a dumb b**** who need to learn her place. Get me your manager.”

Owner: “I am the owner here, and I’m going to insist you give the pads back to the young lady and leave.”

Customer: “I need these pads! Who’s going to make me?”

(My girlfriend is fuming, and it is pretty obvious. I cut in.)

Me: “Just give her the pads back, man.”

Customer: “What are you going to do?”

Me: “Nothing, but she will.”

(I point to my girlfriend; the customer laughs.)

Customer: “That puny b**** couldn’t if she wanted to!”

Girlfriend: “Just give them back you a**-hole!

Customer: “You going to make me?”

(My girlfriend kicks the man’s legs out from under him, grabs his arm, and puts it in a hold.)

Customer: “Ow! You stupid b****; let go of me!”

(She holds him down for a few minutes, until he starts to calm down.)

Girlfriend: “Now, are you going to shut up?”

Customer: *meekly* “…yes.”

(She lets the man up, and he scampers out. My girlfriend then turns to the owner, and talks like nothing happened.)

Girlfriend: “Okay, I think I’m all ready.”

(Two weeks later, my gym had an exhibition with another gym. Guess who was my opponent?)