When I was in law school I went to a bar with a bunch of law school students and decided I wanted a cigarette. I went outside and a whole bunch of girls are smoking. I don’t like to bum cigarettes, but I had a free small fry coupon from McDonald’s.

Me: “Hi, I have this coupon for a free small fry. You can see it’s still valid. I’ll swap this for a cigarette.”

Girl: “Just one cigarette?”

Me: “Yes.”

Girl: “Okay.”

I hand it to her, but then she won’t give me a cigarette.

Girl: “You shouldn’t be so trusting.”

And with that, she flounces off with her friends.

Flash forward a few months, and I’m the first call (GA) for the IT for a division in our university, which includes administration. I go up to replace a computer and see the same girl; she is waiting in line for a job interview. I go up to the person who is conducting the interviews (I am their IT person too) and tell them the story.

She didn’t get the job.

I am ringing up a customer who has a pack of light bulbs on the bottom tray of his cart. I don’t notice and assume the customer forgot they were there, but either way, he wasn’t charged for the bulbs.

My boss at the time lays into me as if I’d just bankrupted the company, and just as I’d reached my point of being beyond p***ed he suggests:

Boss: “Do you and that customer know each other?! Did you deliberately not charge him?! You were helping him steal them! You’re probably meeting him after your shift to split the take!”

Split the take? On f***** LIGHT BULBS!?

That was pretty much it and we had a fairly decent word of curse exchange then I was out. As I walked out the door one of my life’s greatest moments unfolded: the customer was on his way back into the store to correct the mistake and pay for the MOTHER-F****** LIGHT BULBS! Nevertheless, I saluted my boss with the ol’ middle finger and we never spoke again.

I don’t normally take requests from friends because they almost always end up messy in one way or another, but after some bugging and badgering from a friend I’ve known for almost ten years, I cave and start to write what they request at a reduced price. The time comes for me to send it to them, but I realize they haven’t paid yet.

Me: “Hey, I know you’re busy, but I really need to get paid before I can send you the document.”

Client: “Paid? You know I don’t have the kind of money for that.”

Me: “The only reason I agreed to do this for you was that you said you would pay. I even gave you a reduced rate. If you can’t pay for it, then I’m not sending the document.”

Client: “We’re friends, though! I thought you were just joking around when we were talking prices. Can’t you just do me a favor?”

I didn’t send it until they paid me in full.

I’m the author of this story.

Back in the long, long ago — that is, the ancient times of 2013 to 2014 or so — I work at a student-run bar, one of the many centuries-old student-run clubs in the town. They are run in accordance with the strict Swedish alcohol laws, where over-serving someone is technically a jailable offence for the bartender (though that rarely happens). The bartender is also always right, so if I say someone has had enough, they have.

It is a big club night, the last one before the end of the semester. The drinks are quite cheap (by Swedish standards), and a lot of people are a bit desperate.

A sleazy guy with an open shirt and a not-very-comfortable lady come to the bar.

Guy: “Two [cheap cider]s!”

Me: “Right-o.” *Uncorks and serves them* “That will be 58 kronor.” *About $6*

Guy: *Handing me a 500-kronor (50-dollar) note* “Keep the change!”

He is obviously trying to impress the lady, who seems unimpressed.

Me: *Incredulously* “Are you tipping me 442 kronor?”

Guy: “Yeah. It’s yours! I study economics! I’m gonna be really rich!”

The lady remains unimpressed.

Guy: “In fact, I am, like, top of my class and, like, really smart!”

Me: “Oh? I’ve heard that economics is simple.”

Guy: *Removing his arm from around the woman* “Yeah, it’s simple for someone like me!”

He starts a rambling story about how you can use “economics” to make money by tricking people into giving it to you. The woman looks even less impressed and slinks away while he talks (giving me a thankful glance), and he finds that he is alone after a few minutes. I keep serving other customers meanwhile, and he pays little attention to me. 

Guy: “Hey, where did the little slut go?” 

Me: “I think she went that way.”

I point in the opposite direction, and he runs off. I keep working for a few hectic hours, and then the guy returns, fuming but pretending to be polite. 

Guy: “Yeah, so, do you remember me?” 

Me: “Sorry, not really.”

Guy: “Yeah, I tipped you a, a, a lot. Like loads. I had a super hot slut with me. She disappeared, and you probably helped her get away so you could get the slut yourself!” 

Me: “Please don’t call women that.” 

Guy: “Whatever. I want my tip back.” 

Me: “Sorry?”

Guy: “I gave you 500 kronor, and I bought, like, just a cider.”

Me: “I remember you now. I asked if it was a tip and you said yes. So, no.”

Guy: “No, see, I need that money now.”

Me: “That’s not gonna happen.”

Guy: “No, but, I can’t tip that much! I gave you my bus money home. I’m, like, broke.” 

Me: “Sorry. You could probably walk, though.” 

Guy: “DO I LOOK LIKE A F****** [slur for Roma people]? Give me my money!”

He drunkenly fails to climb over the bar. I flag down a passing security guard.

Me: “No. You are to leave, now.”

The guard intervened and the guy was dragged away. I was told that he disappeared right into the back of a drunk-cell with some hefty fines after he decided to call the non-European-descended guard every slur in existence.

Related:
Putting The “Toxic” Into “Intoxicated”, Part 2

My husband and I are out to eat. I have a service dog, who is sitting under the table, out of the way. A kid, maybe five years old, points to my service dog and shrieks.

Kid: “DOGGY! I WANNA PET THE DOGGY!”

My husband and I ignore him. I’m focusing on our conversation and don’t realize that the mother of the child has brought him over.

Mother: “Can you get your dog out? My kid wants to pet it.”

Me: “Sorry, he’s a working service dog.”

Mother: “Oh, I know that’s bulls***. You people just lie about that to bring your dog places.”

Me: “No, my dog is a service dog who is working. He can’t be pet.”

The kid gets on his hands and knees and CRAWLS under the table. While I’m arguing with the mom, I suddenly feel something whack the underside of the table. The kid immediately starts crying.

Mother: “Look what you did! If you had let my kid pet the dog like I asked, he would be fine!”

A manager comes over at this point, as this woman has been anything but subtle.

Manager: “Let’s settle down, please. What’s going on?”

The woman spins a tale of how I cursed at her, told her kid he doesn’t deserve to pet my dog, and I forced him to get under the table to be able to pet him.

Manager: “All right, [My Name], what’s going on?”

The woman pales a bit.

Me: “She accused [Service Dog] of being fake and then let her kid run under the table, and he hit his head on it.”

Woman: “NO! YOU’RE LYING!”

My service dog starts to alert me about my heart rate rising. I look at my husband.

Me: “I need to go outside for a bit to steady myself.”

Woman: “Don’t you dare f****** walk away!”

Manager: “Ma’am, lower your voice, and watch your language. [My Name], take your time.”

My dog and I went outside for a bit, eventually bringing my heart rate down. When I came back, there was a dessert at my spot. My husband told me that the woman and her family were asked to pay and leave. The manager, a friend of mine from high school, gave us free desserts as an apology.