(I’m Canadian, but I’m visiting my French cousin and helping him do some repairs on his cafe. While we’re working, a large family passes by, obviously lost. I’m wearing a shirt with a large Canadian flag on the back.)

Mother: “Excuse me! I’m sorry to bother you, but are you Canadian?”

Me: “Yes, I am.”

Mother: “Thank god! We’ve been lost for hours.”

(She shows me her map. Ultimately, I work out they’re trying to cross the border into Germany, but got lost trying to find out how to get there.)

Father: “Good thing the signs are all in French, or else we wouldn’t have managed to find our way around anywhere!”

Me: “Yeah, it sure makes things easier for Canadians, eh?”

(Suddenly, there’s a scuffle behind me. My cousin comes out dragging two of their sons behind him.)

Cousin: “They were trying to steal bottles of juice! I heard them planning it!”

Son #1: *to Son #2* “Well, how was I supposed to know they speak French here? They all sound so different!”

(Quebecois and French speakers do sound somewhat different, but angry mothers are universal!)

(A couple of regulars comes into our cafe and sits at table nine. While taking another order, I clearly hear them ordering two flat whites. After coming back from taking my other order, I see my boss pointing at the flat whites.)

Me: “Oh, two flat whites? I’ll take them to table nine.”

Boss: “NO! No, no no! Stop jumping ahead! I will tell you where to take them!”

Me: “But I saw them come in and I heard them order. They’re right over there on table nine.”

Boss: “Stop jumping ahead! I’ll find them!”

(She proceeds to search the tables for two minutes while swearing under her breath. I patiently wait, knowing what’s coming.)

Boss: “…You take those to table nine!”

(A regular walks into the shop, makes his usual order, and pays for it. But instead of waiting at the bar, he pulls out an empty litre plastic bottle. He then pulls out a little funnel and fills the bottle to the brim with our coffee shop’s milk and stands at the bar looking smug until his drink arrives.)

Coworker: “That’s a lot of milk you’ve got there.”

Customer: “I know… I have to make ends meet somehow, with the prices that you charge. That’s like five bucks worth of milk in there.”

Coworker: “Well, sir, the other customers might want some, too.”

Customer: “I’m setting an example. How much do these cost to make? Milk, coffee, energy, wages. Less than I just paid for it. So, according to Marx’s theory of materialist dialectics, you’re extracting surplus value from me, the consumer. I’m just getting back some of what you owe me, and all the other customers should too.”

(At this point, everyone is looking at us, and the manager comes over to intervene.)

Manager: “Sir, our margins are pretty tight and that…” *points at the milk* “…is WAY more than the surplus value. Anyway, I haven’t done the calculation but I’d say most of the surplus value you contribute goes to homeless people and the ones who come in here and make themselves cinnamon milk to drink. You pay according to your ability, and they get according to their need. Yeah?”

Customer: *goes quiet and walks out, leaving his milk on the bar*

Manager: “Don’t try and school me on Marxist theory, a**hole.”

(A customer in maybe her late 40s or early 50s walks up to the counter while she waits for her drink.)

Customer: “Oh honey, are you okay?”

Me: “Well, yeah…why?”

Customer: “Your skin… it’s so pale!”

Me: “Oh, I’m just naturally very fair-skinned. Whole family is.”

Customer: “But sweetie, you look awful.”

Me: “…I’m sorry?”

Customer: “You look just AWFUL! So sickly.”

Me: “Well, thank you for your concern, but I feel just fine.”

Customer: “No, really, you look TERRIBLE!”

Me: “Gee, thanks.”

Customer: “What?! I’m just trying to be helpful! You should really see a doctor about that skin of yours, you just look horrible!” *takes her drink and leaves*

Me: “Uh… what just happened?”

(At this point, another younger, female customer speaks up.)

Another Customer: “Some giant piece of old burnt toast trying to reclaim her long lost youth.”

(I work in a coffee shop. I’ve been having a pretty rough day, and I’ve just been dumped in a relationship. Then a family with of three, a father, an eight-year-old girl and a four-year-old boy all come up.)

Me: “Hello, what can I get for you!”

Father: “Could we get-”

Four-year-old boy: *interrupting* “You’re so beautiful!”

Me: “Oh. Thanks!”

Four-year-old boy: “When I grow up, I’m gonna marry you! Do you have a boyfriend?”

Me: *slightly forlornly* “Not really…”

Four-year-old boy: “What? Men are crazy! You’re too beautiful to not have a boyfriend! I’m too little now, but one day, I’m gonna marry you!”

Me: *laughing* “Thank you! So, what’ll it be?”

Father: *smiling* “Three hot chocolates, please. And can I get cream and sprinkles and all that jazz?”

Me: “Sure! It usually costs extra, but since you’re my future father in law, I’ll give it to you for free!”

(The father laughs, and before they leave, the little boy points at me and gives me the thumbs up!)