(ALL of our tables have numbers on them for the kitchen to take food to. When customers come to a till to place their order, we must ask for a table number, as there are approximately two-hundred tables. This happens to my coworker who is working the till.)

Coworker: “Hello! How are yo—”

Customer: “I’d like a steak sandwich, kids’ spaghetti, a salmon sandwich, side of chips, side of onion rings, a latte, a cappuccino…”

(She rants off this massive order without stopping. Meanwhile, my coworker hasn’t done anything yet as she hasn’t been given a table number.)

Coworker: “Sorry, I need a table number first.”

Customer: “What?!”

Coworker: “I need a table number before I can take your food order.”

Customer: “Well, I’m over there!” *gesticulates randomly*

Coworker: “Each table has a number; we need the number or I cannot take your order.”

Customer: “I am outside! Can’t you just tell the kitchen to take it outside?”

Coworker: “No, because there are other people sitting outside as well as you. I need the table number.”

(The customer then THREW the menu at my coworker and stormed off. She didn’t go to get her table number as we didn’t see her for the rest of the day!)

Me: “Welcome to [Shoe Store]. What can I help you with today?”

(The customer brushes me off as her herd of kids, ages toddler to preteen, run around the store disrupting customers and making a large mess. I’m used to both these things so I’m not overly stressed about it. Her kids start running in and out of the door, messing up our conversion — how many people come in versus how many people buy something. Again, this happens a lot so I’m very tolerant. She finally comes to pay for her shoes, about ten pairs. She sets all the shoes on the wrong counter.)

Customer: “Who the f*** shoes are these?!” *pointing to an exchange I am waiting to complete* 

Me: “Those are shoes from another customer I am waiting to exchange, but if you help me move your shoes to the other counter I can scan your shoes.”

Customer: *stares at me with disbelief* “You’re rude!”

Me: “I’m sorry… but I need to move your shoes to the other counter so I can finish the sale.”

(The customer throws all the shoes on the floor and starts to storm out as my coworker comes out from one of the aisles after hearing the noise.)

Customer: *points to me* “She’s a f****** rude little b****!” *leaves*

Coworker: “You just asked her to move the other counter right?”

Me: “Yep.”

Coworker: “It’s going to be a long shift.”

(This happened to my sister who runs a dance studio that also offers aerobics, Zumba, and other workout classes. One of her longtime clients and friends is a model who tends to draw attention to herself due to her oversized breast implants. This happens when my sister is teaching a Tae Bo class which is about half first-timers. Ten minutes before class starts:)

New Girl #1: *points to the model* “Hey, slut, this isn’t the strippercise class. This is for people who actually want to exercise.”

Model: “I know what class this is; I signed up because it compliments my boxing lessons.”

New Girl #2: *sarcastically* “Sure, whatever you say. Just don’t complain if you get tired and can’t keep up; you look like you’re carrying a bit of extra weight.”

(The model just stares at them quietly. According to my sister, variants of this joke have been levied at said model at least a dozen times before.)

Sister: “All right, girls, let’s get to it! First break isn’t for forty-five minutes.”

(Both new girls are absolutely exhausted by break time; neither one of them looks like they can even stand.) 

Model: *feigning worry* “Oh, dear! You seem beat. But how can that possibly be?! I mean, I’m carrying so much more extra weight and I still feel fine.”

(Both girls just glowered at her and tried to get up to finish the class. They lasted about ten minutes into the second half before they finally couldn’t take it and ducked out early.)

(I work in a self-serve ice cream store where all of the toppings are out front for customers to reach. A mother and three daughters, ages six to sixteen, are pouring toppings into their bowls.)

Mom: “Now, girls, be careful and don’t make a mess, or you’ll be the ones cleaning it up!”

Sixteen-Year-Old: “Oh, I’m not going to be cleaning up anything. That’s not my job.” 

(She took a big spoonful of mini candy, looked me in the eyes, smirked, and dropped the candy onto the floor. The mother didn’t say a thing.)

(I’m sitting across from some not-so-nice customers. They have small children misbehaving. The youngest just chucked their plate of food down on the floor.)

Mom: “Oh. You. You!” *snapping at her waiter now*

Waiter: “Yes? My name’s [Waiter]. Oh, no, you dropped your plate!”

Mom: “No, she disagrees with the food. My child’s intelligent and gifted enough to know what she wants. This is a sign that your food is not to her taste and I demand a free meal for this poor treatment.”

Waiter: “I’m sorry?”

Mom: “Are you saying my child’s not an equally valued customer like the rest of us?! How rude! Does this establishment not value children?”

Waiter: “Um, I’m sorry about that. I’ll go run to the back and get this settled.”