(My mother is a department manager for a large retail chain that has just closed 146 locations in the last year. They recently had a return policy change that states if you are returning something without a receipt, they can only give you the lowest selling price in their system. My mom is called up to the register to help a pair of customers with their return.)

Mom: “Hello, sir. What can I do for you?”

Customer: “Yeah, I’m trying to return these jeans, but I don’t have my receipt.”

Mom: “Okay, sir, let me see what I can do to help you. Did you pay for these with cash or a card?”

Customer: “One of them was with cash, and the other was with a card.”

Mom: “We can look up your receipt in our system to give you the full refund for the one pair, but with the other one I can only give you what they are worth in our store.”

Customer: “That’s not necessary. I paid $45 for them. Just give me that.”

Mom: “I’m sorry, sir; our policy is that we have to give you what it’s worth.”

(She looks up the jeans at the register, and they are only worth $0.78 in the store on this particular day.)

Mom: “For this pair, I can give you $0.78.”

Customer: “$0.78?! That’s it?! But I paid $45!”

Mom: “Well, if you had the receipt, I’d be able to give you the full refund. But considering that you don’t, this is all I’m allowed to give you, sir.”

Customer: “This is ridiculous! Why can you only give me $0.78?”

Mom: “That’s just our policy, sir,”

(This goes on for quite some time, asking why he can only get $0.78 for the jeans, and with her trying to give him several different answers, until…)

Customer: “How does it feel to work for a company that can’t back up its managers?!”

Mom: “Excuse me?”

Customer: “You’re working for a company that can’t even tell its employees why certain policies are put into place. No wonder this place is going down the tubes!”

Mom: “Well, sir, that’s matter of opinion.”

Customer: “A matter of opinion?! Are you f***ing kidding me?! This place is a s***-show! This is horrible customer service!”

Mom: “Once again, that’s a matter of opinion.”

Customer: “Oh, yeah? How many sites have you closed down this year? Huh?”

Mom: “146.”

Customer: “Yeah, and that’s a FACT!”

Mom: “If you say so, sir.”

Customer: “You must be embarrassed! You must be so embarrassed to work here! You must go home every night, look at yourself in the mirror, and hate yourself because you work here! Are you embarrassed?! Huh?!”

(She has finally had enough of this man’s harassment. By now there are about 25 to 30 people that have fallen silent and are watching this man scream at her.)

Mom: “No, I don’t! Sir, I am trying to help you as best as I can. You can either stop this conversation right now and accept the help I am giving you, or you can walk out that door right now, and never come back to this store, since you hate it so much!”

(He instantly shuts up. My mom gives him the cash refund of $0.78 for the one pair of jeans, and then looks up his receipt for the other pair, which is the exact same pair as the one for which he paid cash. The receipt she pulls up says he paid the full price of $14.95 on his card, which she refunds him as well. As she is finishing up with him, he decides to get a final jab in.)

Customer: “See you in the unemployment line!”

Mom: “Why? Is that where you live?”

(Since I work in a grocery store, my parents often text me while I’m working to pick up stuff. Since I am forgetful, I have gotten into the habit of writing what I need to bring home on my hand. Today, my mother has asked me to buy milk, so naturally, I have, “Buy milk,” written on the back of my hand. A customer comes to my till to pay for her groceries. While handing me her card she notices the writing on my hand. She jumps back and grabs her chest like she is having a heart attack.)

Customer: “You filthy devil worshipers think that it’s cool to put those tattoos all over your bodies?”

Me: “I don’t have any tattoos.”

(The customer grabs my arm and points to the “Buy milk” written on my hand. She holds my hand high for everyone to see.)

Customer: “Devil worshiper! Devil worshiper! Don’t shop here; they hire f****** devil worshipers!”

(Eventually I wrestle my arm free and manage to calm her down.)

Me: “It’s not a tattoo. Why would I get a tattoo that says, ‘Buy milk?’ I wrote it in pen so that I will remember to buy milk after my shift.”

Customer: *suddenly cheerful* “Oh, well, have a good day.”

(This sandwich shop has a system where you pay extra to eat inside because there is limited seating. This is a particularly busy day, but it’s cold outside and there is a free seat, so my friend and I decide to sit inside and pay extra. Both of us are ordering sandwiches which need to be heated up before serving. We also buy a small cake and a bottled drink.)

Employee: *as she hands me my drink and change* “I’ll give you the cake in a takeaway bag just because we’re out of trays, but I’ll bring your hot sandwiches over in a second, okay?”

Me: “Yes, that’s fine.”

(We go away and sit down to wait for our food and think no more of it. We haven’t started eating the cake at this point. Two minutes later another employee, possibly the manager, storms over to us with a face like thunder.)

Manager: “Did you two girls pay to sit inside? This is a busy restaurant, you know!”

Me: “Yes, we did. We’re waiting for our hot food.”

Manager: “Are you sure about that? You don’t want to tell me anything else?”

Me: “No. We paid to sit inside.”

Manager: “I don’t believe you. You have a takeaway bag. Why would you have that if you paid to sit in?”

Me: “Yes, I have a takeaway bag, but I haven’t started eating it yet. We paid to sit inside, and the girl behind the counter gave us our cake in a takeaway bag because you were out of trays.”

Manager: “Why haven’t you eaten it?! You’re taking up space!”

Me: “Because, as I explained, we are waiting for our hot food to be brought over.”

Manager: “You say that, young lady, but I don’t believe you! I’ll be watching you girls, watching you very carefully!”

(She then leaves, and my friend and I continue to wait for our food. A few minutes later the original employee who served us returns with our sandwiches.)

Server: “I’m so sorry.”

Me: “Bad day?”

Server: “I wish. She’s like that every day.”

(I understand if it’s particularly busy and you’re not sure if someone has paid, but the way she confronted us about it was totally aggressive and unnecessary!)

(I am waiting for my order in a popular pizza shop. It is late and very busy. A group of rowdy teenagers have just left with a few pizzas, and one of them storms back in to yell at the cashier.)

Customer: “Hey, b****! You didn’t cut my pizza right!”

Cashier: “Ma’am, I am so sorry. I can cut it properly for you.”

Customer: “No, just f****** forget it! You guys suck! You better give me some free cheese bread for all the d*** trouble you put me through! Can’t you do anything right?”

(At this point I see the pizza, and it is just a little bit uncut for one of the slices. I know the girl is only doing this to get some free food. I walk up to her.)

Me: “Do you want some bread?”

Customer: “What?”

Me: “Tell me how many breads you want. Name any number. How many friends do you have with you?”

Customer: “Um, there are eight of us.”

Me: *to cashier* “Please make me four orders of cheese bread and give me two liters of soda.”

(I pay for the food and hand the girl the receipt.)

Me: “Here. I know what your intentions were. How dare you yell at someone for free food? You’re worse than a beggar. Now, apologize to the nice lady, and take your food when it’s ready. I hope you feel guilty eating it.”

(By this time my order had already come out and the whole shop cheered and clapped. The teenager was red in the face and just stared at her feet the whole time her order was being made.)

(I’m out picking a few things up at the local supermarket when I begin to hear a woman ranting loudly at an employee. After about a minute of yelling, I go to investigate.)

Customer: “You’re going straight to Hell for wearing that kind of thing! Satanist! SATANIST!”

(The employee looks to be about 16, and is stocking some shelves. Her protests go unheard, but she is soldiering on, even though I can tell she is about to cry.)

Customer: “It’s witch-scum like you who are calling the devil into our city. You make me sick, wearing a pentagram! Devil w****! DEVIL W****!”

Employee: “Ma’am, for the last—”

(She is cut off by another burst of ranting. I start to walk over. The employee turns to me and I see that her necklace is not, in fact, a pentagram at all.)

Me: “Ma’am, that is enough. Leave this poor girl alone. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

Customer: *sneering* “And what are you? Her witch-lord? Going to cast a spell on a good Christian woman like me? DEMONSPAWN!”

Me: “Ma’am, I am not a ‘witch-lord.’ I’m someone who can tell the difference between a pentagram and a STAR OF DAVID, which you, apparently, cannot!”

(The customer went white as a sheet and reexamined the necklace. She left, running. The employee was still near tears, but kept it together.)