(I work at a chocolate shop over the summer to help pay for college. I started last summer, when I took over from my roommate who was the manager. I’ve been managing on my own for about three days when a five-gallon bucket full of leak-water crashes through the ceiling, nearly flattens a customer, and leaves a giant hole in our ceiling. Since the store owner doesn’t speak English very well, especially over the phone, I am the one to make all the calls and get the repair estimates. The following takes place about two days after what I’ve come to call the “Bucket F***et.”)

Me: *walks into the store to find the owner up on a ladder, gluing a piece of paper over the hole* “Hey, [Owner]!”

Owner: “[My Name]! Look! Look at this!” *excitedly waves a small jar of glue at me*

Me: “Look at what?”

Owner: “This! This! I am clever! Smart! Look at this!”

(I inspect the jar. Our store makes caramel apples, and we make the caramel from scratch. We’re supposed to use a set recipe from our corporate office, but the owner loves to experiment, with unfortunate results. This past week, he has produced a batch of caramel that is so tough and sticky, it is literally impossible to eat. Sure enough, what I thought was glue or rubber cement is actually some of that super-sticky caramel! I stare from the jar to the square of white paper covering the hole in our ceiling.)

Me: “[Owner], did you just use caramel to glue that to the ceiling?”

Owner: “Yes! Yes! I am clever. Tricky!” *immensely pleased with himself*

Me: “Um. Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Owner: “Yes! Yes! Is good!”

(I tried in vain to convince him to take down the caramelly paper. It stayed there for a good two weeks before he finally installed a light over the hole. To this day, he doesn’t understand how bad of a decision that was, or how many health code violations he made, and remains immensely proud of his “glue”!)

(I go to a pet store to purchase some food for my pet bird. I am describing my lovebird, who happens to be a blue mutation, black-masked lovebird. When I describe him, I say he has a “black face, white collar, blue body, and a purple spot on his tail.” Some lady — who happens to be holding the leash of a black lab — gives a massive gasp, does the pearl-clutching gesture, and proceeds to lecture me:)

Woman: “Don’t say… that term! That’s racist! How can you be in public when you use that language?!”

Me: “Ma’am, I was talking to the cashier who inquired about my bird food purchase. I have a lovebird. I was describing his colors to her.”

Woman: “And you responded with a racist slur?!”

Me: “No… I didn’t. He is a black-masked lovebird. That’s literally his species. I said he has a black face.”

Woman: “You can’t say that!”

Me: “I just did.”

Woman: “Hasn’t your mother taught you to have respect for other ethnicities? That’s racist!”

Me: “Ma’am, there’s a difference between putting on makeup to offensively portray an ethnicity and using a similar term as a physical description for an animal.”

Woman: “There is no way to use… that term… inoffensively!”

Me: “Okay, I’m done trying to educate you.”

Woman: “You can’t ‘educate’ someone by claiming that racial terms are okay!”

Me: “Look, lady, I’m buying food for my bird. Buy the dog food for your black lab–” *she gasps again and looks outraged* “–and leave me alone.”

Woman: “You’re doing it again! Don’t call him a ‘black’ lab! Call him a ‘dark lab’!”

(I just rolled my eyes and walked away. I don’t understand this mentality.)

(I work at a non-profit rehab for teens as a counselor. During their lunch, a new resident is having a heated argument with other staff over her dietary restrictions.)

Teen: “I can’t eat this; it has cheese. I’m vegan.”

Staff: “We’re trying to accommodate. The cooks have been made aware and are working on fixing you something else.”

Teen: “You shouldn’t be eating this stuff. Do you know how badly dairy and meat harms your body? You guys are all disgusting.”

Me: *screaming internally* “You shouldn’t lecture anyone when you smoke meth!”

I was in the grocery store with my mom and I was wearing a shirt with the same color of the employees uniform I was just standing there looking through stuff ( I was only 11) when a random female came up to me and said: hey where are your hairbrushes? Me: uhhhm *walks away* she was silent for a couple seconds when she grabbed my arm and she had long nails so it hurt! Her: I’m taking you to your manager your going to get fired! Me: let go of me lady MOM HELP THIS LADY IS HURTING ME! Mom: let her go right now she’s only 11! Lady: runs away. We ended up getting got items half of because she drew blood.

(I used to work in a sandwich shop that toasted its subs. It happened to be right next to one of the city’s air force bases, in addition to a very large police station. Thus, there were always at least two men or women in uniform in the store during all of our business hours. One day, a regular 50-something civilian customer who had usually been fairly pleasant came in and ordered his regular sandwich, which he always ordered with double meat and double cheese and hadn’t had problems with before.)

Customer: Gimme my regular. And this time, I want you to run it through the toaster one extra time!

Me: I can do that, sir, but since we already toast it twice, I think three times is going to burn the sandwich bread. Did you want us to try heating the meats first or–

Customer, cutting me off: Just toast it ! I’m on my lunch break!

Me: Okay, but I just wanted to let you know that the sandwich will probably burn.

(We make the sandwich and run it through three times. Sure enough, the bread’s burnt on the edges, but everything else is nicely heated through. The customer snatches his sandwich from the pickup counter and storms to his seat. One bite later, he storms back.)

Customer, shouting: It’s COLD in the middle and my bread is BURNT! Why can’t you morons make a f*cking sandwich correctly!? I’m in here every d*mn day and I’ve never had a problem before!

(By now, several of the uniformed folks in the store are staring at the man, having heard the entire exchange.)

Me: Would you like us to make you another sandwich, sir? It’s hard to heat it through when you’ve ordered so many extra toppings. We can try and heat the meats fir–

(The customer cuts me off again by throwing his sandwich and plate on the counter.)

Customer: Just get it f*cking right this time!

(We make him a new sandwich, but one of the other employees is so flustered by the normally pleasant customer’s outburst that he accidentally puts sauce on the bread, when this customer prefers the sandwich dry. Unfortunately none of us realizes the mistake until we’d served the customer the sandwich. He took one bite, jumped up from the table with a roar and marched up to the counter again, looking like he was ready to reach across and strangle someone.)

Customer: IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE F*CKING DRY!

(By now, two of the uniformed men at one of the tables stand up and approach the irate customer. They tell him that he needed to calm down and be polite to us, since we were really trying to serve him what he wanted. He whirled on THEM and launched into another tirade about how he wasn’t about to be threatened by a couple of [insulting slurs] — which automatically had the REST of the uniformed military personnel leaping to their feet, ready to throw down with this jerk — when two police officers walked in. The man’s expression turned from rage to a classic “I’m screwed” stare, and they marched him out of the store and told him not to come back in until he could behave like a civilized person. The next time we saw him, he was incredibly meek and polite.)