(I am a resident assistant in the biggest residence hall at my school. We have over 650 residents and 14 RAs. We have our first fire drill of the year, and most of the students are freshmen, so they have no idea what to do. We are supposed to get everyone out of the building and have them gather in a parking lot across the street. One resident is lingering by the parking gate with his friends.)

Me: “Hey, you gotta go to the back of the parking lot. If this was a real fire, we’d need to get as far away from the building as possible.”

Resident: “What if I don’t want to?”

Me: “Then you’d die, or get written up.”

(He seems to consider it for a moment.)

Resident: “What if I limbo there?”

Me: “Be my guest.”

(He tries to “limbo” under the parking gate, but it’s too low and he falls down.)

Me: *jokingly* “You failed. That’s a write-up.”

Resident: “Aw, darn.”

(He obligingly goes to the back of the parking lot with everyone else. The next day, I’m manning the front desk when the same resident comes up to swipe his card. When he sees me, he gets noticeably uncomfortable.)

Resident: “Hey, uh… are you really going to write me up for that?”

Me: “What? No, I was joking.”

Resident: “Oh, good! I was so scared, because you’re normally so nice, but it’s the nicest people who are always the scariest.”

(I decided to take that as a compliment.)

(My sister and I are craving [Specialty Drinks] and we stop at [Popular Fast Food Restaurant] to treat ourselves. After placing our orders, we’re waiting, and we get to experience this interaction:)

Employee #2: *to the manager as she runs out of the kitchen* “Hey, [Manager], you need to talk to [Employee #1]. He’s back there eating shrimp again, and now I need some air.”

Manager: “D*** it, again? Fine. Hey, [Employee #1]!”

Employee #1: *sticks head out of kitchen while chewing* “What?”

Manager: “Are you eating seafood?”

Employee #1: “H*** yeah!”

Manager: “We don’t serve seafood at [Restaurant], so, none in the kitchen.”

Employee #1: “Why the f*** not?”

Manager: “There are people like [Employee #2] who are allergic to seafood, and we don’t have it on our allergen list.”

Employee #1: “F*** that, [racial slur]. I love shrimp.”

Manager: *apparently losing patience* “You can’t eat it in [Restaurant].”

Employee #1: *stuffs piece of shrimp into his mouth with a gloved hand*

Manager: “Okay. Fine. You’re fired. Let’s head to the office.”

Employee #1: “What the f***, [racial slur]! You can’t fire me!”

Manager: *authoritatively* “Office. Now.”

(He started towards the back. Employee #1 followed angrily. My sister and I left with our order. We were both glad we didn’t order any food, because my sister is deathly allergic to shrimp.)

My mother and soon-to-be step-father were getting married, and we were all out looking for a cake. We asked around and tried to find the best place to buy one, and wound up in a rather nice neighborhood at a fancy bakery.

We walked in and oohed and ahhed at all the good-looking cakes, and went to get ours custom-made.

As my parents ordered the cake, I wandered around until I reached a door in the back and looked through its window. Inside was the kitchen, and two men were baking. As I watched, one started to apply some icing, and when he ran out, he ran his fingers down and then LICKED the tool! Then, without washing it, he started putting more on.

Horrified, I went back to my parents and told them what happened. We quickly canceled the order, left, and didn’t go back.

(I am a 17-year-old student, working part-time in a major supermarket chain as a checkout operator. Because of UK law, persons under the age of 18 must have approval from someone over 18 before they can sell alcohol, and my store requires that person to physically come to the checkout and type in their ID and password to authorize the sale. In this case, the customer is clearly old enough, ripped, and covered in tattoos.)

Me: “I’m really sorry to keep you waiting, but I’m afraid I have to get approval from someone over 18 before I can sell you this.”

Customer: “I’m over 18. Consider it approved.”

Me: “I’m afraid that it has to come from someone that works here, but I’ll have my supervisor over here just as soon as I can.”

Customer: *getting increasingly irritated* “Just put it through. They don’t have to know about it.”

Me: “I can’t sell alcohol without a code. My machine completely locks up as soon as it picks up alcohol, and I need someone over 18 to physically come here and override the lock-out. I promise you, my supervisor will just be a moment.”

Customer: “That’s a dumb-a** policy. Just type in their code or something.”

Me: “I’m afraid that’s actually the law. Section 153 of the Licensing Act of 2003 states that a responsible person is committing an offence if he or she allows a person under the age of 18 to perform the sale or supply of alcohol, unless the sale is approved by that or another responsible person. I don’t know my supervisor’s code, and if I was able to just sell alcohol, then the store could easily lose their licence, and both myself and all the managers could be fined.”

(At this point the customer loses it. It’s been less than two minutes since this entire exchange began, but he leaps at me over my checkout, grabbing me by the collar of my shirt and pulling me towards him.)

Customer: *shouting* “Listen to me, you f****** b****. I didn’t come here looking for a f****** lecture. Do you know who I am?”

(He shakes me a bit and moves right in my face, our noses about a centimetre from touching. A lot of people are watching, but none step in. I’m actually a black belt in three different martial arts, and more than capable of defending myself, but given that I am relatively new to the job and can see my supervisor on his way, I decide not to lash out.)

Customer: *as loud as he can* “I’m the f****** national wrestling champion. I’ve got hundreds of trophies, dozens of medals. What the f*** have you got, you whiny c***?

(My supervisor arrives, taps the guy on his shoulder, and nuts him straight in the face. He drops to the floor clutching a bleeding, and probably broken, nose. My supervisor flips him onto his front and pulls both his hands up behind his back, zip tying his hands together, and pulling his phone off his belt.)

Supervisor: “Hey, when you’ve got a minute, can you get the police down here? No rush.”

(I love my supervisor.)

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(Most of the bars at German beer fests actually rent their beer mugs, simply because it’s cheaper to rent 1000 steins for three days than to rent storage for 1000 steins for the whole year… at least as long as fewer than five to ten percent of them are broken or stolen at the beer fest. I’m a cashier at such a bar.)

Customer: “How much does a beer mug cost?”

Me: “I’m sorry, but we rent them, so I cannot sell them to you.”

Customer: “So, they are not yours?”

Me: “No, sorry.”

Customer: “Cool. That means that they are free!”

Me: “Wait, what!? No, that means—”

Customer: *interrupting* “—you already said they’re not yours. I’m taking it.”

(Before I could react, the customer vanished into the crowd. This incident, alongside the fact that we lost almost 200 of the mugs that year, was the reason we’ve been charging a deposit for the mugs since the following year. Many customers accused us of trying to steal money that way from them – they did not see the irony – but, what do you know, we only lost 16 steins this year. I wonder why.)