(My husband and I go to a local bar after going out for dinner. We have been to this place a few times over the years and not much has changed; it’s laid back and inexpensive, and you can play pool for a dollar a game. We walk in, show the bouncer our IDs, and are seated at a table. It isn’t too busy; maybe half the seats are in use and mostly by people in their 40s and 50s. While we’re waiting for our drinks, a man comes stumbling in the front door and immediately starts yelling and swearing. A group at the bar greets him the same way, so we assume he is joining their party. He was clearly drinking before he came in.)

Drunk Man: “Hey, you ugly-a** motherf*****s! Where the f*** did you come from?” *to the bouncer* “You let these a**holes in?”

Bouncer: *smiling* “They tipped me pretty good!”

Drunk Man: *laughs* “Ah, you got bought, you b******!”

(Their conversations continue like this for quite a while, as the man keeps ordering rounds of drinks and shots for his group, taking a few himself. As the night goes on, he gets even louder and more colorful with his language. My husband and I decide to play some pool. We put our money in one of the tables and press the button to release the balls and only half of them come out. Confused, my husband reaches in the space where the balls should be, thinking maybe two of them got jammed. The bouncer sees us and comes over.)

Bouncer: “Oh, sorry, guys. Hang on. Someone busted this table a while ago. The balls get stuck on the track. Let me open that up for you. Next game, you should move to that table.” *points to the table beside us*

(The bouncer pulls the door off the side of the pool table and manually retrieves the rest of the balls before replacing the door.)

Drunk Man: “You didn’t fix the f****** pool table? You piece of s***!”

Bouncer: *shrugs* “Boss doesn’t pay me enough.”

Drunk Man: *laughs* “You work for a f****** a**hole!”

(We play one game and move to the next table. Again, we put our money in and press the button, but this time none of the balls come out. Instead, the door pops off and the balls start falling out the side. We immediately begin picking them up and putting them on the table. Suddenly, the drunk man is standing over us.)

Drunk Man: “What the f*** are you doing?!”

Husband: “I think this table is broken, too. We just—“

Drunk Man: “It’s not broken; you’re just too f****** stupid to know how it works!”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Drunk Man: “Shut up, b****. The men are talking.”

Husband: “Uh… Please don’t talk to my wife like that. Maybe you need to go sit down and drink some water.”

(I look to the bouncer, who is standing back watching everything unfold. We make eye contact and he looks away.)

Drunk Man: “Look, it’s easy. A [disabled slur] f****** monkey could do it. You put the money in, you push the button, and the balls come out over there. Not here! Why the f*** would you do that?”

Husband: “We did do all of that, not that it’s any of your concern.”

Drunk Man: “You’re f****** stealing!”

Me: “We are not! How about you go back to your friends over there? You don’t need to be concerned with us.”

Drunk Man: “No! You’re stealing, you thieving f****** [racist slur]s!”

(My husband and I exchange surprised looks. We are both quite white, as is every other person in this bar, so the N-word popping out like that is a shock. The drunk man starts grabbing the balls off the table and throwing them in the pockets. Since the door is still off and he uses considerable force when rolling them in, the balls go down the track under the table and fall to the floor. He repeats this process. We stand there watching. I turn to the bouncer again, who motions us over to him. Our waitress passes the drunk man, who grabs her by the arm and says something we can’t hear. She nods and walks behind the bar. He looks at us and gives us the middle finger.)

Drunk Man: “Yeah, you go sit the f*** down! F****** idiots. Are you new? You don’t know how f****** pool tables work?! Idiots. Piece of s*** tourists.”

Bouncer: “You should probably let him calm down.”

Me: “You’re not going to do anything about him?”

Bouncer: *shrugs*

Me: “Wow.”

Waitress: *appears with our check* “Here you go, guys. Have a nice night.”

Me: “What? We didn’t ask for the check.”

Waitress: *sighs* “You have to leave.”

Husband: “For what?”

Waitress: “Being disruptive.”

Me: “Us?! What about him?!” *points to the drunk guy, now trying to pound the pool table door back into place*

Waitress: “That’s the new owner. He says you have to go.”

Husband: “That guy is the owner? Are you serious?”

Waitress: “Yeah. He says if you don’t leave, he’ll call the cops. You should just go. I’m sorry.”

Me: “Wow. This is… Wow.”

(We paid and left. I left a negative review on their corporate page, but was notified a few days later that it was removed by the owner for containing false information. When I asked what was false, the owner responded that he was nothing but polite to us and we were lying out our a**es about the night. He then threatened to sue us for lying, saying he would pull the video footage and everything. I told him to go for it, but I haven’t heard a word since.)

(I am in my sixth year of a fast food job, where I am on really good terms with the general manager. He speaks “Sarcasm” more fluently than I do, and that’s hard to do! The phone rings.)

Me: “Thank you for calling [Restaurant]; this is [My Name] speaking. How can I help you?”

Customer: “My f****** food is f****** late, you f****** [slur]!”

Me: “Sir, if you will give me your name, I can look it up and see what’s wrong.”

Customer: “It’s [Customer]. Hurry the f*** up!”

Me: *looks it up* “Sir, I took your order ten minutes ago, and told you it would be over an hour as we are very busy and had a large order for a local business. At minimum, our delivery times are quoted as ’30 to 45 minutes’ at all other times.”

Customer: “You did not take my order, you lying [slur]! And it was a f****** hour and a half, you f****** [slur]!”

Me: “Sir. If you keep being verbally abusive, I will hang up.”

(The general manager is watching me from the office, curious.)

Customer: “I’d like to see you hang up on a customer, you f******–“

Me: *hangs up*

Manager: *amused* “Did you really just hang up on a customer?”

Me: “Yep! And 3… 2… 1…”

(The phone rings.)

Me: “Thank you for calling—”

Same Customer: “DID YOU JUST HANG UP ON ME!?”

Me: “I don’t know. Did it sound like this?” *click*

(The GM looks half appalled and half like he wants to laugh. The phone rings again, and the GM picks up in the office.)

General Manager: “Thank you f—”

(All I could hear was yelling… through the phone, across the entire restaurant! CUSTOMERS were looking up from their meals in the seating area! Thankfully, it was too garbled to actually make out words… or the customer was having an apoplexy. The general manager listened for all of ten seconds and then hung up on the customer. He proceeded to void his purchase — which was going to be cash on delivery, so no refund needed to be made — and split the extra-large into fresh slices to put in the pizza warmer from which people can buy by the slice. Thankfully, the customer never called back again or came in, and the general and district managers were very good friends, so no one got in trouble.)

(My older sister, who is in her early 30s, has a steady job, and owns her own home, has recently gotten a tattoo on her wrist. It is a two-inch long portrait of her beloved pet rabbit done in a style reminiscent of the classic Winnie the Pooh illustrations. I knew beforehand she was planning it, but we both kept quiet about telling our more conservative mother about it. After it is done and my mom learns about it, she calls me over the phone, very distressed about it:)

Mom: “I just can’t believe my daughter would be the one to do this. What are people going to think of her now?”

Me: “Mom, did you even see what the tattoo was a picture of?”

Mom: “No, as soon as she told me, I refused to look at it and left.” *sniffs, as she’s been crying* “What is it?”

Me: “It’s a very tasteful upside-down pentagram.”

Mom: “…”

Me: “Mom? MOM?! It was a joke! She didn’t get a pentagram!”

Mom: *heavy exhalation* “You little b******! I might need to go to the hospital after that!”

(She has since calmed down on the issue, though she probably still wants to hide it from my grandparents. My sister told me that my joke actually made things better as it has reminded that her tattoo isn’t the worst thing ever.)

(An LGBT group at my university has hosted a lecturer to speak about trans issues. I decide to go along and bump into my friend, who is trans, who decides to tag along. This happens shortly after we leave.)

Me: “So, what did you make of it?” 

Friend: “I found it very uncomfortable to sit through. You shouldn’t have dragged me to it.”

Me: “I’m sorry you didn’t like it, but I didn’t ‘drag’ you. I was already going.”

Friend: “Whatever. I just found it incredibly misogynistic for a man to talk about what happens to my body when going through the transition.”

(I find this strange, as the speaker, who quite clearly is a woman, introduced herself as a trans woman who had undergone a full transition.)

Me: “Okay. I assume she wanted to share her experiences, and who else to share them than someone who has actually transitioned.”

Friend: “THAT WAS A WOMAN? Well, he needs to try harder if he’s going to be like us.” *laughs*

(I don’t know if this was internalised transphobia or if she was just joking, as she had only just started the process and was confused quite a lot on campus for being male, to which she reacted badly and with hostility. I can’t imagine why she would put someone else down who had gone through what she was about to. Either way, I’ve stayed away from the issue since then, and only talk about it when she introduces the topic herself.)

(I am female and work in the call center for an industrial supply company. We are trained to handle most situations in basic troubleshooting of our products, and our customer service is somewhat renowned. Part of our training also includes, unlike a lot of other call centers, that we DO NOT have to put up with foul language, sexism, or otherwise abusive or demeaning behavior.)

Caller: “Can you put me on the phone with a guy in parts, honey?”

Me: “I’m in parts. What can I help you with?”

Caller: “No, I need a guy.”

Me: “We all get the same training. What can I help you with?”

Caller: *actually laughs* “Oh, I know. I know you all get the same training, sweetheart, but you see, with this technical stuff, there’s just a difference between the way a guy and a gal understands things. Do you understand? Can you connect me with a guy now?”

Me: “Certainly. You’re free to call us back and see if you get a guy next time.” *click*