(My sister and I are in line at a popular fry and poutine joint. We are at the front of the line, but haven’t quite decided what we want yet. There is a customer behind us, so we tell her to go ahead if she knows what she wants. The following exchange ensues.)

Cashier: “Hello. What can I get for you tonight?”

Customer: “What is on your bacon poutine?”

Cashier: “Um, bacon, cheese curd, and gravy.”

Customer: “What about the pulled pork poutine?”

Cashier: *motions to the board behind him where every menu item is listed with

ingredients* “Pulled pork. Cheese curd. Gravy.”

Customer: “And the Phillie cheesesteak poutine?”

(She continued to go through all 20 menu items. Eventually the cashier just turned around and read off the board as blatantly as he could. Entire transaction time: 17 minutes.)

(It’s my third night of waiting tables at a restaurant. The weather is really nice so we open up the patio area for seating. I seat two couples, one significantly older than the other. The women both place their purses in the middle of the aisle so that they virtually trip every server coming through the patio.)

Me: “Ma’am, I’m so sorry but could you move your purses? We need to get through this area safely and I would hate to spill or drop anything on you!”

(They both glare daggers but move their purses without a single word to me. Later on, I seat a couple next to the first table, a white woman and a black man. All goes well until I’m dropping off drinks for them and I hear this from the next table.)

Younger Woman: “I can’t believe a girl that pretty would be with someone like HIM. Ew.”

Older Woman: “I know. Your father and I would’ve died if you brought home that type of man.

(They all laugh derisively. I HOPE I’m thinking the wrong thing. But when I return they are shooting dirty looks at the interracial couple, who have been nothing but model customers.)

Me: *to the interracial couple* “Is everything all right here?”

(I notice the lady is looking VERY upset.)

Man: “They were looking at us funny the entire time. When I went to the car to get something I forgot, they said something about how I must’ve stolen it.”

(I look at where he’s pointing and it’s a shiny black BMW.)

Me: “Oh… hmm. I’ll be right back.”

(I pop inside to explain what’s happened to my manager, and ask whether I can comp the interracial couple a free dessert taken out of my tips. My manager agrees readily.)

Me: “Here’s a dessert on me, guys.”

(The entire table next to me turns and GLARES. I smile sweetly and walk back inside. Of course I earned no tip from the racist table, but the humongous tip I got from the interracial couple more than made up for it.)

(I’m stocking an aisle when a customer walks up.)

Me: “Hi, is there anyth—”

(She gets a look of horror on her face and quickly walks away. I attempt to call to her but she ignores me. A couple minutes she comes back with a manager in tow.)

Customer: “This is the girl! This is the devil worshiper you need to fire!”

(Both my manager and I exchange a confused look.)

Manager: “What exactly is your problem with her, ma’am?”

Customer: “She wears a symbol of Satan! She’s a minion of Lucifer!”

(This is when I remember the star symbol earring I am wearing.)

Me: “Ma’am, this earring is not a symbol of Satan. It’s just a star. You’d have to flip it a full 180 degrees to be the symbol you’re referring to.”

Customer: “No! It’s a sign of the devil! You’re a devil worshiper!”

(My manager and I tried to explain to her the difference between the well-known satanic pentagram and my simple star symbol but she won’t listen. The manager escorted her away from my section and I removed my earring for the rest of my shift.)

(One evening a very obviously young teenager (15 or 16) comes in and tries to buy a p*rnographic magazine. After I inform him I can’t sell to him without seeing an ID he sticks around and starts chatting me up. I am a very tall woman in my mid-twenties while he was very short and petite.)

Kid: “You know, the main reason I wanted to buy a magazine is because I’ve been deprived of the company of women for most of my life. You see…” *he leans up against the counter, looks around the room and says in a stage whisper* “…I was trained from birth in a Russian compound to be a deadly assassin.”

Me: *trying not to laugh* “Go on…”

Kid: “I’m the best there is at the trade. I became the youngest secret KGB agent.”

Me: “The KGB actually hasn’t existed for several years now.”

Kid: *nodding gravely* “That’s because I took them all out when I went rogue. Since then I’ve been freelancing. But now that I have more money than I know what to do with, I’ve been thinking about getting out of the game. You know, finding a beautiful woman and settling down in my French chateau. What do you say? Want me to take you away from all this?”

Me: *having serious trouble keeping a straight face* “That’s very sweet. But aren’t I a little too old for you? Not to mention I’m nearly two feet taller.”

Kid: “That’s okay. That’s the way we like ’em in Russia!”

Me: “Kid, you are one cocky little s***. If you weren’t underage I’d buy you a drink.”

Kid: “Well, if you come with me we can go to a country where the legal drinking age is much lower. You know, in Russia I’ve already reached the age of consent. If you get my drift…”

Me: “Thanks, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”

Kid: *sigh* “Oh well it, was worth a try. Do svidaniya!”

Me: “Thank you for calling [Store]. How can I help you?”

Customer: “Hi. I’m looking for a specific game for my son and want to know if you have it there.”

Me: “I can certainly check that for you, sir. What’s the name of the game?”

Customer: “John Dark.”

(I look it up under both ‘John’ and ‘Dark,’ but nothing comes up.)

Me: “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to find a game by that name in my system here. Are you sure that’s the name of the game?”

Customer: “Yeah, I’m 100% sure. It’s for his PSP.”

(At the mention of the PSP, I realize which game he’s talking about, and find it rather quickly.)

Me: “Ah, I see. The name of the game is actually Jeanne d’Arc, and yes, we do have—”

Customer: “No, that’s not the name of it. It’s John Dark.”

Me: “I mean no offense by this, but I understand that it may be a little hard to pronounce. It’s Jeanne d’Arc. It’s actually French for ‘Joan of Arc.'”

Customer: “But my son doesn’t speak French!”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you need to know French to play the game. It’s all in English; only the title is French.”

Customer: “But my son doesn’t speak French! And it’s John Dark!” *hangs up*

(I think that’s the end of it, but a little later that day, a man comes into the store and makes a beeline for the PSP rack, and finds the game.)

Customer: “I want to by this game here, John Dark.”

(I decide not to correct him, thinking there’s no reasoning with him, hoping I can just get him checked out quickly. As I’m getting the game, he comments.)

Customer: “Yeah, I called earlier and one of your guys lied to me about this game.”

Me: “Oh, I’m so sorry about that, sir. What did he say?”

Customer: “He said that you have to speak French to play this game! But my son said you don’t have to speak French! And he doesn’t even speak French!”

Me: “I deeply apologize for that, sir. I can assure you that you don’t need to understand French to play this game.”

Customer: “Good. I’m glad I was able to find this John Dark game for my son!”

(A regular customer of mine is nearby, and can’t stand hearing this guy talk.)

Regular: “No offense, dude, but it’s called Jeanne d’Arc. I don’t even know French but I can still tell that that’s French for ‘Joan of Arc.'”

Customer: “BUT MY SON DOESN’T SPEAK FRENCH!”