(My sister and I are with my younger brother at a video game store, so he can check the prices of a few games. While he’s looking at one game, a boy about his age strikes up a conversation. I think nothing of it, and continue looking around. At one point, I’m standing with my brother when an ad for a cute and fluffy — yet challenging — game comes on, which I happen to be obsessed with.)

Brother: “Oh, look, [My Name]! [Video Game]! They’re coming out with a new one!”

Me: “Awesome! Does that show release dates or anything?”

Boy: “You like that game?”

Me: “Yup.”

Boy: “Really? One a scale of one to ten, the graphics are like, really bad. Like, compared to the games I play, the graphics are just, like, really bad.”

Me: “Well, the whole concept is that it’s yarn. For yarn and craft supplies, the graphics are actually pretty awesome!”

Boy: “Yeah, but the graphics are really bad. Like, they look five-bit.”

Me: “I think you mean eight-bit. I also think I’m entitled to my own opinion, thank you very much.”

Boy: “Yeah, but the graphics just suck.”

(At this point, my sister comes over.)

Sister: “Everyone ready to go?”

Boy: “You have two sisters?! Dude, that must suck.”

Brother: “It’s fine, actually. Plus, they’re really good for playing multiplayer games with.”

Boy: “Those girls? Nah, they probably just fluff their hair all day. Ha!”

Me: “Yeah, okay, you got what you need? Let’s check out now. I don’t need more time with Sir Pint-Sized Misogynist.”

(I later saw the boy tagging behind all three employees that were working that day, spewing off random “tips” everyone knows and incorrect game trivia. Let’s hope his parents found him soon after!)

(I work in a home furnishings shop in a town in the Bible Belt. We’ve just opened for the day, and while it’s slow, I am helping set up new seasonal displays with my manager. A coworker comes over after a couple customers leave that area of the store.)

Coworker: “Hey, [Manager], I think we ought to put the chalk away.”

(My manager looks over and does a double-take.)

Manager: “We’re going to very quietly clean that off before any of the customers notice.”

(A customer had written, “Hail Satan,” and drawn an upside-down cross on one of our chalkboard products, and then left it in a prominent spot where people would see it.)

(I work at a fast food restaurant. We sell frozen drinks for $1. Unfortunately, today all the frozen drinks machines are broken, as are all of the soft drink machines. We have signs plastered in the drive-thru informing customers, and we greet every customer by telling them this. Almost every single order goes along these lines.)

Me: *greeting* “Unfortunately, we are unable to sell and frozen drinks or soft drinks right now.”

Customer: “Okay, can I get a cheeseburger meal with a [frozen drink]?”

Me: “We can’t do any frozen drinks or soft drinks at the moments, I’m sorry.”

(I tell customer what drinks they CAN get.)

Customer: “Oh, I’ll just get a lemonade with the meal, then.”

Me: *eye twitching* “We can’t sell any lemonade, or any other soft drink, or frozen drink. I can only give you…” *repeats other options*

Customer: “Can I have a [different frozen drink], then?”

Me: *slowing bashing my head on the wall* “We can’t do any soft drinks or frozens at the moment.”

Customer: *pause* “I’ll just get a Coke.”

Me: “…” *turns microphone off, starts screaming in frustration*

(I am the idiot customer in this story. The legal drinking age in Canada is nineteen, so it is quite common to have a fake ID when younger in order to get into bars and clubs. I am fifteen and have just gotten my first fake ID, and my friends and I are going to our first ever bar to celebrate. The sign at the bar reads, “Highballs on special $5.00.” Now, being fifteen, I have no idea what a highball is, and I assume it is the name of a specific cocktail or something like that.)

Me: “I’ll have one highball, please!”

(The large, burly, bartender looks at me suspiciously.)

Bartender: “Okay… Which one?”

Me: “Just… just one highball. The highball?”

Bartender: “Yes, and which highball, exactly, do you want?”

Me: *becoming totally flustered and trying to read the sign again for the name of a specific highball* “The sign says highballs are on special! I… I want that… from the sign! The… normal highball!”

Bartender: *clearly exasperated* “Miss, you can’t just walk in and order ‘a highball.’ That’s like walking into an ice cream shop and ordering ‘an ice cream.’ There’s vanilla, chocolate, pistachio, mint—”

Me: *completely flushed now, embarrassed, and terrified that I will be thrown out of the bar any minute now, in a shrill voice* “VANILLA, THEN! I’LL TAKE A VANILLA HIGHBALL!”

(I am 21 and one of the managers at a supermarket. I have just gotten off my shift, changed into my normal clothes, and gone into the store to buy some things I need. I notice one of our regulars, a middle-aged woman. She has two of her young grandchildren with her. In the corner of my eye, I see her grab a pallet jack and begin pushing around her grandchildren on it.)

Me: *too shocked to realise that I’m not in my normal clothes* “I’m sorry, but you can’t use the pallet jack to play with.”

Customer: *visibly angry* “Excuse you?!”

Me: *realising I’m in my normal clothes* “Oh, I’m so sorry, but I work here, and I’m afraid I can’t let you use that pallet jack to play with. It’s not safe for children.”

Customer: “I’ll have you know that I have nine grandchildren, little girl.”

Me: “Congratulations! That must be amazing, but I’m still going to take that pallet jack to the back storage. It shouldn’t have been out here in the first place, and I apologise for that.”

(She just gives me a vicious look as I take the pallet jack from her and take it into the storage. Further into the store, the customer walks by me again.)

Customer: *loudly, to her grandchildren* “Look! There she is, the poor little girl, such a poor little girl.”

(I just shrug and continue with my shopping. Finally, I reach the cash registers. The customer is there with her grandchildren, and apparently there is some trouble up there, as well, as she is yelling at the cashier.)

Customer: “I want to speak to the manager!”

Coworker: *who she is yelling at* “I’m the evening manger.”

Customer: “Well, then, I want to speak to your boss!”

Coworker: “Of course. She is standing right there.” *points to me*

Me: *puts on my most charming smile and walks up* “Hi again! What can I help you with?”

Customer: *bright red in the face* “Nothing, absolutely nothing.”

(She doesn’t say another word while she is in the store, and basically just runs after she has paid.)

Coworker: “I’m so sorry for dragging you into that, but she was horrible.”

Me: “No worries at all. In fact, you made my day!”

(The customer came back many times, but she never could look me in the eyes again. All in all, a very Swedish way of dealing with confrontation.)