(I work at an old bakery where my grandmother used to work. Most of my coworkers either worked with my grandma while she was still alive or frequented the bakery as children. I have an angel heart tattoo on my arm. Two male customers come in; one reeks of alcohol.)

Customer #1: “Hey, angel, give me something sweet and I might do, as well.” *wink*

Customer #2: “We’ll take five chocolate, and three almond cookies.”

Me: *trying to keep calm and handing them the order* “Okay, that’ll be [price]. Cash or credit?”

Customer #1: “That pretty face deserves a lot of cash. Here you go, angel tits.”

(I put on my best customer service smile and extend my arm to take the cash, but he slaps it away and tries to shove the bills in my cleavage. Keep in mind that I’m wearing a high-neck shirt.)

Me: “Okay, that’s enough, buddy. This can go one of two ways: you either keep your hands home before you lose them, pay, and get the h*** out, or… you get escorted out with no food and a harassment charge. What will it be, honey?”

Customer #2: “Just go sit in the car, man.”

([Customer #1] mumbles something and walks out.)

Customer #2: “You have to forgive him; he’s drunk.”

Me: “Being drunk doesn’t give him an excuse to act like a jacka**. Enjoy your cookies while they’re intact and please never come back unless both of you are sober.”

(He quietly pays and walks out. My manager approaches me, laughing.)

Me: “Am I in trouble?”

Manager: “H*** no. That reminds me of the times when [Grandma] was here.”

Coworker: “Except no one walked out with a boot tattooed on their a**.”

(And I thought my respect for Grandma couldn’t be any higher.)

(My brother and I own a small bake shop. We give a discount to students, but people are always trying to scam us to get the discount when they don’t deserve it.)

Me: “Okay, your total is [amount].”

Customer: “But what about the discount?”

Me: “Are you a student?”

Customer: “No.”

Me: “Then you don’t get one.”

Customer: “What about the family discount?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Customer: “The owner’s my kid brother. Family gets a discount here. Didn’t they tell you when they hired your stupid a**?”

Me: “One sec.” *turns towards the kitchen* “Yo! [Brother]! Come out here for a sec.”

(My brother, who is 6’5″ and built like a train, comes out and towers over my “brother” and me.)

Brother: “What?”

Me: “Apparently, I’m not the eldest. Meet our older brother.”

(The customer is starting to look pretty nervous now.)

Me: “Now, he’s our brother, and we should treat him with respect, but apparently, I didn’t do a good enough job explaining the discount. Could you assist?”

(My brother has a slight language disorder, so he doesn’t mince his words, and he does not suffer fools gladly. Now very grumpy, he turns towards our would-be brother.)

Brother: “Is he a student?”

Me: “Nope!”

([Brother] crouches down and looks the customer dead in the eye.)

Brother: “No. Discount.”

(A mother walks in with her eight- to ten-year-old son who is wearing a superhero-like mask over his eyes. The mother asks for some pizza and is looking at the pastries while her son stares at the cookies.)

Mother: *to son* “Which do you want to bring?”

Son: *jabbing finger into cookie display case* “That one, that one, that one, that.”

Mother: “Which?”

Son: *jabbing harder and bellowing at his mother now* “THAT ONE, THAT ONE, THAT ONE, AND THAT ONE!”

Mother: *fed up* “Okay, I’m not getting you anything.”

Son: *freaking out and still jabbing the glass with his finger* “NO! I WANT THAT ONE, THAT, THAT, AND THAT!”

Mother: “Which ones?”

Son: *just as loud and rude* “THAT ONE, THAT ONE, THAT ONE, AND THAT ONE!”

(As the mother is repeatedly asking her son which cookies he wants, I have been watching him through the glass behind the display case and already have his cookies. My eyes are completely bugging out of my head. This is by far one of the rudest children I’ve seen in a while. I meet the mother at the counter and her son has gone to the door where there are chimes to let us know when people come into the store. He is messing with them and making a lot of noise.)

Me: *to her son* “Honey—“

Mother: “Yeah, you tell him.”

Me: “Please, don’t do that.”

Son: “Why?”

Me: “Because it’s loud and annoying.”

Son: “Oh.” *stops and goes over to a baguette in a basket* “Hey, Mom, look!” *grabs the exposed part of the baguette*

Me: “Okay, I can’t sell that now because he touched it.”

(The mother and son are starting to leave.)

Me: “Ma’am, I can’t sell this because he touched it.”

Mother: *to son* “You touched it! Now I have to buy it!”

Son: “So, if we touch stuff, that means we get it for free?”

Mom: “No!”

Me: “I can’t sell it to anybody else because you touched it.”

Son: “Oh.”

Mother: “You’d better eat this since I had to buy it!”

(If I had done ANY of that when I was his age, my Nanna would never have taken me anywhere again. I would have been RUSHED out of the store and called by my middle name until I felt the fear of God. Parents aren’t willing to correct their own children, but of course, they’ll let a total stranger do it!)

(My wife works for a bakery and I help out sometimes. The recipe sheets are starting to look messy with all the changes written on them, and some of the steps aren’t in order. I decide to retype them with the changes and email them to the owner to print. The next day I walk into the bakery and the owner hands me the stack of recipes.)

Owner: “My husband made a few small changes.”

Me: *internally* “Oh, no… No, he can’t be that stupid.”

(He was that stupid. Her husband knew nothing about baking. One of his “changes” was replacing every instance of buttermilk with regular milk. He also reordered the list of ingredients, which I had put in the order they needed to be added to the batter.)

(I’m a barista at a bakery. I have a coworker who is always complimented on the drinks he makes and usually takes the time to make them all perfectly. For him to mess up a drink is really rare. A customer comes in and orders a large hot chocolate, which he makes. She then literally SPITS IT OUT onto the counter and starts ranting.)

Customer: “This is disgusting! It’s cold!”

Coworker: “I’m sorry. I could remake it extra hot for you if you want?”

(The customer tosses the cup at him.)

Customer: “You’d better. This is ridiculous. Do I look like a d*** child to you?! This is child’s temperature!”

(I happen to look at the thermometer and it says my coworker made the hot chocolate at 140, degrees which is standard, but some people do like it hotter. He remakes the drink, but gets a bit flustered and accidentally makes it a small. Again, the customer freaks out.)

Customer: “This is what you call a large?!”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry. You did originally get large, didn’t you? I’ll have him make it again. I’m sorry about that.”

(I give my coworker the cup again and he makes the drink a third time, this time the right size and extra hot. I watch him do everything and see that he does it right. AGAIN, she spits it all over the counter.)

Customer: “This is ridiculous. It just tastes like milk. There’s no chocolate. Get me a manager.”

(I’m happy to grab a manager — anything to get rid of this lady. I call a manager and they apologize to her and tell her they’ll make the drink yet again. I watch the manager do it exactly how my coworker just did it — in fact, they make it slightly colder at 138 degrees — and put in the exact same amount of chocolate that my coworker did. They give it to the customer.)

Customer: “FINALLY! This is a proper hot chocolate. Was that so f****** hard?”

(And once again, I think to myself, “I’m too old for this.”)