(I’m waiting tables in the cocktail area of a chain restaurant. This area is first-come-first-serve even with the one-hour wait currently at the door for the main dining room. I walk up and greet a couple that just sat at a table. I have seen them occasionally before.)

Male Diner: “We’re in a hurry.”

Me: “Okay, well, since we are busy you will want to order something fast like—” *rattles off the fastest items to make*

Male Diner: “What do you mean, you’re busy?”

Me: “Well, you just walked by the hour-wait at the door, right?”

Male Diner: “Whatever. Maybe if you hired some real cooks instead of those [racial slurs] you have in the kitchen, you could handle it.”

(My jaw drops and I just stare for a beat. I turn around and walk away shaking mad, as I’m close with my cooks and know how much harder they work than most of the people I have ever known. I walk up to my general manager who knows I pride myself on handling any situation.)

Me: “I won’t wait on that table. I mean it, I won’t wait on them. I’ll be out back.”

(I walk out to compose myself. I come back a minute later and the bartender is waiting on them. I ignore them and continue taking care of the rest of my customers. Just before they leave, I decide I can’t keep my mouth shut.)

Me: *coming close and speaking low* “That was pretty brave. I made sure those [racial slurs] knew that that was your food.”

(This was a lie, but I was willing to risk them telling the story to try and get me in trouble and to see the color drain from his face. His wife never said a word through the whole thing. On the plus side, I never saw them again.)

(I’m a nursing student in my brightly-colored scrubs visiting the supermarket, getting snacks for my overnight clinical time. The uniform here is a blue polo and pants, and I’m in a very obviously different color head to toe, with an ID plainly labeled “Student.” As I’m speed-walking up this aisle, a very tall man stops me with his hand on my shoulder.)

Customer: “Excuse me, where are your protein bars?”

Me: “I don’t work here.” *immediately tries to keep going*

Customer: “Um, sorry if you’re off the clock or something, but is it seriously that hard to tell me where protein bars are, really quick?”

(His wife taps him on the shoulder and quietly tries to tell him I’m not an employee, but he grabs her hand and throws it off of him. His wife gives me a woeful look.)

Me: *firmly* “I do not work here! These are scrubs. I’m trying to go to the hospital right now!”

Customer: “Look, seriously, just tell me where the protein bars are! It’s ten seconds of your life, and you could already have told me where they were and been on your way if you hadn’t been so rude.”

(He’s not shouting but he’s getting in my face and blocking my way to the canned coffees, and he’s much bigger than me. It’s here that I promptly lost my s***.)

Me: “Are you stupid or something? I’m in bright [color] scrubs with a school patch, and I have a student ID on my chest—” *shoves it in his face* “—and a stethoscope around my neck! What part of what I’m wearing suggests to you that I work in a [Supermarket]? And what part of your behavior right now is at all acceptable for a grown adult? I DON’T WORK HERE! GET OUT OF MY WAY!”

(I’m almost shouting in sheer nervousness; this guy is a giant.)

Customer: *stares at me for a moment* “OH! There they are. I’m sorry, they’re right here!”

(He was actually staring past me, at the protein bars right behind me on the shelf. He instantly brightens and calms down.)

Customer: “Sorry, I really wasn’t paying attention; it’s been a long day. Have a good break!”

Me: *thinking* “You should visit your optometrist, you big, blind brat.”

(I had very little time so I just snagged my coffees and sped out. I’m in bright, solid-colored scrubs and I look very like a nurse; how do you mistake that for a grocery clerk?)

(This story was told to me by my store manager. We have a kids’ play kitchen set in a damaged box. A customer has gone to every single sales associate wanting a discount on this toy because of the packaging. When she can’t get her way, she demands to see a manager.)

Store Manager: “Yes, ma’am, how can I help you?”

Customer: “I want a 50% discount on this playset. The packaging is damaged.”

Store Manager: “I’m sorry, but we don’t give discounts on damaged packaging.”

(The customer then lets out a loud and dramatic huff, similar to that of a dying moose.)

Customer: “OH. MY. GOD. Are you serious?! I’m the consumer, and I know for a fact that the price is 80% the packaging and 40% the product. I should get a discount!”

Store Manager: “If the product is damaged, that’s a different story, but I’m sorry, we don’t hand out discounts on beat-up cardboard.”

Customer: *huff* “OH. MY. GOD! I’m the consumer!”

Store Manager: “Well, let’s go take a look at it and see if the product is damaged at all, or if it’s just the packaging.”

(Desperately trying to get her out of the store, the SM removes the tape and opens the box. She finds that there are several pieces missing, part of the microwave is broken and has sharp plastic edges, and the sound effects don’t work. It’s so damaged that we aren’t allowed to sell it. Not to mention that, right beside the damaged playset, there is an identical one in perfect condition.)

Store Manager: “Well, ma’am, I’ve got good news and bad news. The bad news is that the playset you’re interested in is too damaged to sell. The good news is that there is another set in pristine condition for you to purchase.”

Customer: “I want 75% off of the damaged one.”

Store Manager: “I can’t sell this one to you anymore; it is very damaged. I need to take it off of the sales floor. Please excuse me.”

Customer: *huff* “OH. MY. GOD. I can’t BELIEVE THIS! I’m the CONSUMER!”

(The customer continues to repeat this phrase as the SM takes the toy to the stock room. When she comes back out, the customer is right in her face.)

Customer: “What did you do with that playset? I want 75% off of it.”

Store Manager: “I have removed it from our inventory. It is no longer for sale.”

Customer: “What do you do with the stuff you can’t sell? Are you going to throw it out?!”

Store Manager: “Well, yes, ma’am, we have to.”

Customer: *huffs* “OH. MY. GOD.”

Store Manager: “Ma’am, I’m not sure I understand. There’s a perfectly good playset right over there–“

Customer: “I DON’T WANT THE TOY! I WANT A DISCOUNT! I’M THE CONSUMER!”

Store Manager: “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. If there’s nothing else I can help you with, you’ll have to excuse me.”

(As the SM walks away, the customer lets out another, even louder huff that I’ve been told could be heard throughout the store.)

Customer: “BUT I’M THE CONSUMER!”

Customer #2: *who watched the entire thing go down* “Lady, we know. Now can I call you an ambulance or something? You sound like you’re having a stroke.”

A woman comes in to argue with us about a return she made. She had originally made the purchase with a credit card, and had just received her statement showing she made that purchase. Last week, she had come in to return this edible dip she bought. We refunded it to her in cash, not to her credit card.

She came in because she was not going to pay for the item twice since she returned it to us. I tried to explain to her that we refunded her the cash, so it wouldn’t show up on her credit card. She insisted that she wasn’t going to pay for an item that she had returned. I tried to explain to her multiple times that she wasn’t paying for it twice. She finally asked for a manager. The manager ended up having us refund her again to her credit card. My coworker even told her we were refunding her twice, and she disagreed!

She never did understand that because we gave her cash, her credit card statement would not reflect the refund.

(I work at a large chain auto parts store. I don’t mind answering the phone, but sometimes it gets… interesting.)

Me: “Thank you for calling [Auto Parts Store]. This is [My Name]. How can I help?”

Customer: “Yeah, I need some parts for my van.”

Me: “Okay. Make, model, year?”

Customer: *silence*

Me: “Sir?”

Customer: “I don’t know, but it’s blue.”

Me: “I really can’t do much without knowing what kind of van you have.”

Customer: “I told you. It’s blue.”

Me: “Unless you’re looking for touch-up paint, I can’t do a lot with that information.”

Customer: “I have called three different stores and nobody has been able to help me! It’s not that hard to look up parts for a blue van!” *hangs up*

(At this point, I am not sure if this guy is serious, a prank caller, or of one of my coworkers messing with me. I forget about the call after laughing about it with the other guys for a few hours… until a blue van rolls up and its driver walks in.)

Customer: “I need parts for my blue van.”

(It was a Chrysler, for those curious.)