(I work at the supermarket deli, and there is a regular I always hated serving. She is a grouchy old fusspot who always seems to find a problem in something. She comes up to the counter and I’m readying myself for another miserable experience.)

Fusspot: “I want some of that meat, sliced.” *points to case*

Me: *trying to see where she is pointing* “The olive mortadella?”

Fusspot: “Yes.”

(In case you don’t know, mortadella is Italian sausage meat that tastes similar to bologna, but is fancier and made of higher-quality meat. The olive mortadella is stuffed with green olives, and the olives themselves are stuffed with tiny pieces of red capsicum, or bell pepper for my American readers. I pick up the opened chub of olive mortadella to bring it to the slicer, but she starts protesting.)

Fusspot: “No! I want the other one!” *points again*

Me: *putting a hand over the chub she’s pointing at* “This one?”

Fusspot: “Yes!”

Me: “Yes, that’s the olive mortadella. The one you’re pointing at is unopened; I have the opened one here.”

Fusspot: “No, they’re different!”

Me: “They’re the same, and I can’t open a new one until we use up the opened one.”

(The deli workers often make an exception upon request, if the chub is very close to the end, but this chub has barely been used; it’s only had maybe a quarter of it taken off, if that.)

Fusspot: “No, the one I’m pointing at has something else in it. It has that red thing in it.”

Me: “That’s the red capsicum stuffing in the olive. This one has the same stuffing, as well; once you slice through the olive you’ll see the red stuffing inside it.”

(After some back and forth, the fusspot stalks off to the customer service desk. She comes back shortly after with the customer service worker in tow, who is a lovely person but doesn’t know much about the deli. By this time, I’ve explained what transpired with my coworkers in the deli.)

Fusspot: *points to me* “This girl refused to serve me what I wanted.”

Coworker: “Which meat did you want?”

Fusspot: *points again* “That one.”

Coworker: “That’s the olive mortadella. This is the unopened one; it’s the same thing.”

(The fusspot starts arguing with my coworkers and me, and we reiterate our policy that we can’t open a new chub when there is so much left on the opened chub, and that we guarantee that the olives in both chubs are stuffed with the same red capsicum, but it almost always falls out when it hits the slicer. Initially, the customer service worker suggests we slice the opened one and discard the first slices until the stuffing appears, but as the stuffing ends up predictably falling out, it just results in a pile of wasted sliced meat. We try to show her this, but she won’t accept this explanation or that the same thing will happen when we open the new chub. Eventually, the customer service worker tells us to just open the new chub anyway and give her what she wants. My coworkers are fed up and comply. As the first slice comes off the slicer, lo and behold, the red stuffing that the fusspot had been coveting falls out, and the slice is identical to the ones we’ve already sliced. I have been teased before by my coworkers for always being “mellow” in the face of problem customers, but at this point, I am well and truly pissed off. I pick up the slice of mortadella from the new chub that she requested, and march over to the customer, displaying it to her in all its stuffing-less glory.)

Me: *not making any attempt to mask the steel in my voice* “There’s the slice from the new chub that you wanted. As you can see, the stuffing has fallen out.”

Fusspot: *looks down meekly and mumbles something*

Me: *unwavering death glare for five seconds before I silently turn around and continue about my business*

(I know it sounds like a minor thing to get worked up over, and maybe it is, but I hate wasting perfectly good food, and I had reached the end of my rope with this crazy lady. To my pleasant surprise, however, the fusspot returned many times after this incident a reformed customer. She never gave me any problems after that. Somehow I must have scared her into being nice.)

(I’ve just opened a new package of white American cheese made by a company whose initials are LOL. I set a large plastic bag on the counter and write on it the date, the product code, and “LOL White” as a scowling old man walks up and sees what I’m doing. For reference, he’s white and so am I.)

Old Man: “What the h*** do you think you’re doing?!”

Me: “Huh?”

Old Man: “Laughing at the white man?!”

Me: “What are you talking about?”

(He slams his palm down on the bag I’m writing on.)

Old Man: “Right there! ‘Laughing out loud at the white man!’ F****** millennial [racial slur]-loving libtard feminist SJW socialist traitor!”

(I groan. Oh, joy, another one of those.)

Me: “That’s not what that means.”

Old Man: “Shut up! I know what all those stupid things your generation write on your liberal chat rooms mean! You millennials almost ruined this d*** country trying to destroy the white man! Well, you ain’t gettin’ away with it ever again now that Trump is in charge! Trump’s gonna send you all to Hell where you belong!”

(I grab the block of cheese and slam it on the counter right in the man’s face. Over the course of about three seconds, the look on his face goes from, “What the hell is he doing?” to, “Uh-oh, is that what I think it is?” to, “Oh, God, I’m an idiot,” to “NO, I CAN’T be the idiot!” to, “ENEMY! DESTROY! DESTROY!”. He slams both hands down on the counter and leans over it to scream in my face.)

Old Man: “TRUMP 2020! TRUMP 2020!”

(He turned around and stomped out of the store muttering about “f*****’ [racial slur]-lovers.”)

(I am just about to finish my long shift at the deli when a middle-aged lady on her phone wanders up to the counter.)

Me: “Good afternoon. How can I help you today?”

Customer: *doesn’t glance up from phone* “I would like the ham you have on special today.”

Me: “Of course. How much would you like?”

Customer: “Three kilograms.”

Me: “Um, you want three kilos?”

Customer: “Yes.” *still hasn’t looked up*

Me: *slowly starts to get the ham out* “You’re sure, three kilos?”

Customer: “Yes.” *annoyed sigh*

Me: “Okay, then…”

(I start to get all the ham out, a little confused.)

Me: “There isn’t enough ham in the case; I’ll have to slice some up for you from out the back. It will take an extra few minutes. Is that okay?”

(The customer rolls her eyes but nods anyway, still not looking away from her phone.)

Me: “Just double checking that you would like three kilos of ham?”

Customer: “Yes! It’s not that hard.”

(I finish it up and go to hand it to her.)

Me: “There you go, have a great day!”

(The customer finally glances up at the wrapped ham, taking it and looking at the label.)

Customer: “What?! Three kilos? That’s way too much! I wanted 300 grams, not three kilos! Are you an idiot? It’s not that hard!”

Me: “I double and triple checked with you; you asked for three kilos. I’m afraid I can’t take it back after you’ve ordered it.”

(The customer screams for the manager who has been serving a customer next to me and has heard the whole thing.)

Manager: “I’m sorry, miss, but I also heard you ask for three kilos. I’m afraid you will have to purchase that ham.”

(The customer ranted and raved about how this is the worst store in town, etc. The manager eventually walked her to the registers and made her pay for the $45 worth of ham she’d ordered!)

(It’s early afternoon and my department is taking down the food in our hot case that was made early this morning and replacing it with fresh food for the afternoon. One of the night shift guys, who didn’t see the morning food being made, is perplexed and disgusted by one of the things just removed from the case.)

Coworker: “What in God’s name is this, and why does it look like it inspired The Dunwich Horror?”

(I look at the dish he’s pointing at, which appears to be mangled shreds of belt leather mixed with Spanish moss above some crusty brown substance.)

Me: *sarcastically* “Well, back in the ‘good old days,’ when men were men and certain folks weren’t allowed in fine restaurants, that was corned beef and cabbage.”

Coworker: “No, I’d say this is definitely some kind of Lovecraftian abomination.”

Me: *pointing to the baked fish from the morning* “Then this must be what inspired The Shadow Over Innsmouth.”

Coworker: “And this—” *pointing to the cornbread stuffing* “—looks like Herbert West definitely got his hands on it.”

Other Coworker: “I have no idea what y’all are talkin’ ‘bout.”

Both Of Us: “Cthulhu stuff.”

Other Coworker: “Uh… huh. I need a smoke.”

Customer: “What’s the difference between the honey ham and the smoked ham?”

Me: “Well, one is sweet and the other is salty.”

Customer: “So, what’s the difference between sweet and salty?”

(Pause.)

Me: “That’s literally as clear as I can possibly explain it.”