I dress and style myself a certain way that is the opposite of what some people would consider “a nice Christian girl”, but I make sure I don’t wear anything offensive, and I especially tone things down at work. Despite this, I am always getting religious customers who feel I need to be “saved.”

Me: “Your total is [total], ma’am.”

Customer: *Paying.* “Oh, and this is for you.”

She hands me a miniature Bible containing curated scriptures.

Me: “Ma’am, I have explained this to you before. I am not interested. Please save your literature for someone who wishes to receive it.”

Customer: “I can’t do that in good conscience. I need to make sure you’re left with something spiritual to counteract all the… well…” *Gestures to my appearance.* “…all the bad influences in your life.”

I take the miniature Bible and drop it directly into my trash can.

Me: “This is where they all end up, without being so much as glanced at.”

She quotes some scripture about how she has to continue to preach and “spread the Word” or something, and goes on her way.

After several more weeks of her trying to save me (I must have been her pet project) I decide more drastic measures are required. The next week, she once again gets in my lane (she targets me) and tries to hand me more religious literature. I immediately stand up and shout into the store:

Me: “Help! I need an adult! I am being groomed!”

I am nineteen, but she doesn’t know that.

Customer: *Going red.* “What?! I am doing nothing of the sort!”

Me: “Help! Groomer! She’s a groomer! I need help!”

All the nearby customers and coworkers are now staring. One of the customers in the next checkout lane steps over.

Other Customer: *To me.* “Are you alright, dear?”

Customer: “She’s lying! She’s trying to embarrass me!”

My manager has now run over due to the scene being made.

Manager: “What’s going on?”

Customer: “She’s lying! She’s calling me a groomer!”

Manager: *To me.* “[My Name], is this true?”

Me: “She’s been harassing me for weeks now, trying to get me to join her cult. She’s been grooming me with literature and making me very uncomfortable.”

I then produce from my bag all the literature she’s been leaving me for the last few weeks (I haven’t been throwing them away this time).

Manager: *To the customer.* “Ma’am, is this true?”

Customer: “Well, yes, but I’m not a groomer! I am preaching!”

Manager: “This is private property, and we don’t allow other organizations to advertise within the store.”

Customer: “I’m not advertising! I am preaching!”

Manager: “Please refrain from talking to any staff about any matters that are not related to your transaction. Please also stop leaving literature with those who do not ask for it. If you do, you will be banned.”

Customer: *Getting high-pitched now.* “But… she called me a groomer! I’m not a groomer!”

Manager: “Ma’am, please just finish your purchase.”

Customer: “I’m not a groomer! Groomers are pedos and drag queens!”

Manager: “Ma’am, final warning.”

Customer: *To me.* “I tried! I tried to save you! I’ll leave you at the Lord’s mercy now!”

She abandons her groceries and storms out. I reassure everyone around me that I am okay, and I go back to checking out customers. Officially, my manager couldn’t condone my actions, but unofficially, he said it was awesome, and I should have done it sooner.

Related:
Oh, My Goddess, It Actually Worked!

I’m helping people fill out applications and double-check their documents before they take a number. An applicant steps up.

Applicant: “I need a new passport, but I do not want my weight listed. That’s private information.”

Me: “That’s good news then; passports don’t include weight.”

Applicant: “Oh. Okay, well… I also don’t want my height on there either.”

Me: “That’s not printed on the passport, but it’s still required for the form.”

Applicant: “Fine, I’ll just put 5’8″.”

I look this applicant up and down. They’re pushing 5’2″ at most.

Applicant: “What?! People make up s*** all the time! Everyone’s identifying as made-up genders and stuff!”

Me: “Well, that’s something different from height.”

Applicant: “What if I don’t identify with being 5’2”? Can’t you just put 5’8”?”

Me: “I’m afraid we have to go with your legal height.”

Applicant: “This is ridiculous. All of them f****** trans people curate their own profiles! Why can’t I?!”

Me: “This isn’t Tinder, it’s border control.”

She fussed a little bit longer but finally accepted that we couldn’t ’round up’ her height like it was a total at a grocery store.

Back when I was seventeen, I used to work at a grocery chain that’s pretty big in my area. It wasn’t at all too uncommon to have people who spoke different languages come through the store, like Spanish, French, and Chinese. Most people don’t bat an eye since I live on the East Coast of the United States, where multiple languages are commonly used to talk with families from foreign countries.

A woman in her mid-30s comes up to my register and starts s***-talking about the couple behind her, who seemed to be a little bit older than her (probably in their 50s), about the language they were speaking.

Customer: “That should be a forbidden language, based on their country’s history!”

Now, mind you, I obviously have never met this lady before, and I, being from that area, was appalled by her statement. I looked at the couple and listened to them, and they were speaking German.

I turned to this lady and said to her:

Me: “You should keep that opinion to yourself, or you could end up offending someone who is a part of that culture.”

Customer: *Scoffs.”

I finish ringing up her order, and she starts bagging her items. I greet the couple and start speaking to them in FLUENT GERMAN. The couple’s eyes light up with joy as I could tell they don’t speak English very well. The look of utter embarrassment on that lady’s face as she finished up packing and went to the desk was priceless.

Later in the conversation with the couple, I learned that they, in fact, were German natives and were there on a trip to see family in America. They didn’t understand a good portion of what that lady was saying, but they knew it wasn’t nice by her gestures and facial expressions.

I love my grandmother to death for teaching me multiple languages at a young age.

This story means I have to reveal the name of a coworker. She has given me permission to tell this story.

Some coworkers and I are a bit behind in our opening duties, so the store has already opened while we’re finishing up restocking some areas.

Me: *To two coworkers.* “Okay, I’ll go and fetch the last box. George, you finish stocking these, and you can go head on over to the checkouts, Princess.”

As soon as I’ve given out the instructions, a customer marches up to me and gets up in my face.

Customer: “That language is misogynistic, and I will report you to your manager!”

Me: *Confused.* “Sorry, what? What’s your problem?”

Customer: “Calling someone ‘Princess’ to make them seem sensitive or weak is derogatory to women!”

Me: *Getting it now.* “But her name is Princess.”

The customer pauses mid-rant and turns to my coworker.

Coworker: “It’s true. My parents named me Princess.”

The customer turns back to me, now unsure of where to vent their unprocessed anger.

Customer: “Well… then…”

The customer turns back to my coworker.

Customer: “Well then, your parents gave you a stupid name!” *Marches off.*

I went to my local grocery store to pick up some essentials. The store is on the smaller side, so there’s only a single till. As I went in, I saw an elderly white woman on a verbal tirade directed at the darker-skinned cashier. For context, I am also white.

Woman: “I mean, it’s ridiculous! My granddaughter is one of the best students at her school, but she can’t find a job anywhere! And I’m not being racist, but I swear that most of the people around here are immigrants taking the jobs that high schoolers used to have. Like you. Straight off the boat and into a steady job at [Grocery Store], am I right?”

Cashier: *While clearly unimpressed.* “I’m Aboriginal. From the Gadigal people? The traditional owners of the land you’re currently standing on?”

Woman: *Clearly trying to backtrack out of embarrassment.* “Well, you might be an exception, but it’s still true. I mean, look at her—” *Pointing at me.* “—I bet she’s also noticed all of the Asians and black people taking the entry-level jobs around here.”

Me: “Well, ma’am, it would be pretty hypocritical for me to kick up a fuss about that, seeing as I’m an immigrant myself. Soooo…”

The woman spluttered for a bit and then slunk off with her tail between her racist little legs. I bought a chocolate bar for the cashier who looked just about done with the entire world.