(My friend is running a cash register in the express queue. There are usually at least two very clear signs posted about how many items you can bring into the queue. Normally we don’t say anything unless it’s busy or someone is way over the limit. We aren’t allowed to kick them out of line, but we have to tell them at the end of the order that they aren’t supposed to come through the queue. My friend is ringing through someone who has way too many items.)

Friend: “There you go! And just so you’re aware, this is the express lane, and we reserve this line-up for people with 12 items or fewer.”

Customer: *angrily* “Well, I didn’t know.”

Friend: “That’s fine, but we do have signs posted at the entrance to the line-up to let people know.”

Customer: *condescendingly* “Well, I’m American.”

Friend: *wide-eyed* “Oh, my god. I didn’t realise the education system in the US was so bad! They don’t teach you to read?”

Customer: *flustered* “I thought Canadians were supposed to be nice!”

Friend: *cheerily* “Nope! We’re supposed to be polite. Have a nice day!”

(The customer didn’t say another word.)

(I’m selling an old set of rims online and receive a message about them.)

Potential Buyer: “Hi, are these still available?”

Me: “Yes, they certainly are!”

Potential Buyer: “Would you consider dropping the price a bit?”

Me: “Well, since they’re used, I’ll accept a reasonable offer.”

Potential Buyer: “Great! Would you accept [$100 less than my asking price]? Oh, and could you deliver to [City five hours away]?”

Me: “I’m sorry, but gas alone to get there and back will be about $150. I can accept that offer on the condition you pay for the travel since it’s very out of my way and inconvenient.”

Potential Buyer: “That’s ridiculous! I’m not paying for your gas! This is horrible customer service! Why won’t you deliver for free?!”

Me: “Um, wow. Okay, well, in that case, I’m going to refuse you service. Good luck in your search. Please don’t message me again.”

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(I am a manager at a mom-and-pop Chinese restaurant. A group of three ladies comes in, sits down, and places their orders. Fast forward to when they’ve finished their meals and want their bill.)

Customer: “I want to talk to a manager. There’s a hair in my food!”

(I go to check and see that all three of them have finished their meals.)

Me:  “I’m sorry, ma’am, what was wrong with your meal?”

Customer: *shows me a blonde hair* “I found this in my rice! What are you going to do about it?”

(Considering NO ONE on staff has blonde hair and they actually ate everything, I apologize and offer her 50% off her meal, even though I’ve been doing this long enough to see through this scam.)

Customer: “WHAT?! THAT’S IT! We usually get ALL our meals for free!”

Me: “I see you’ve done this before. I’ll tell you what, ma’am. My daughter works as a forensic scientist for the police department. Let me call her to come and get this hair and run a DNA test on it. We will compare it to the DNA you’ve left on your coffee cup. If it’s not a match, I will give you free lunch every day for life. If it’s a match, we will waste our judicial system’s time and we will have you charged with fraud. What will it be, ma’am?”

(They paid in full. And my daughter is not a forensic scientist; she’s a veterinarian technician. I don’t particularly like scammers.)

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Friend: “Hey, what’s the name of the Beatles song? You know, the one where his guitar gently weeps?”

Me: “…While My Guitar Gently Weeps.”

Friend: “No, that doesn’t sound right.”

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(I am six. My mother has always had a lewd sense of humour which I seem to have developed. She is buying various items including men’s underwear for my dad.)

Mother: *to me* “You should ask the cashier lady if these underwear come with the lump in the front.”

Me: *having no clue, we eventually reach the checkout desk* “Do those underwear come with the lump in the front?”

(My mother turned beet red and apologized for me. She couldn’t get out of the store fast enough.)