I work in a restaurant in a rather touristy area. To avoid awkward situations, we have signs stating the expected customs. One of these is that tipping is neither expected nor wanted.

A patron walks up to the bar to settle their bill and is just staring at the sign, and then flags me down.

Customer: “You don’t want tips?”

Me: “No, we don’t.”

Customer: “But why not?”

Me: “In our culture, it’s seen as insulting, and we don’t expect tourists to tip us either.”

Customer: “Insulting? Why would it be insulting?”

Me: “Well, firstly, it implies that you think that the owner is cheap and isn’t paying the workers sufficiently, so it insults the owner. And secondly, it implies that you think the workers are poor and would need your loose change, so you’d insult the worker too.”

Customer: “But you’re a server, of course you are poor!”

I settled their bill in silence, and they had the audacity to wonder why I acted like they had insulted me.

I am in line at Dublin airport at the bag drop off. A passenger ahead of me is mouthing off to the ground staff:

Passenger: “This is not oversized! You just think it’s oversized because everything is small here but where I come from this is normal-sized!”

The ground manager, a stern-looking older woman with a cold stare, is just letting her mouth off.

Manager: “I understand that variations between airlines can be frustrating but since this is a small domestic flight with smaller planes we do have restrictions that are clearly stated on the websi—”

Passenger: “—I don’t care! This is obviously not oversized! Anyone can tell it’s not oversized! Just do your job and let me check it you frumpy old b****!”

Manager: “It seems you think you can do my job better than me! Let’s get you a uniform and see, shall we? Because if you keep up the complaining, you aren’t getting on this flight and believe me it is in my power to make that happen, Madam.”

She shut up and paid the €20 upcharge.

Related:
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 5
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 4
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 3
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 2
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman

I’m an Irish Italian who’s spoken Irish at home since I was a kid. An old guy who lived up the road from our shop came in and started speaking Irish with me at the counter. He was from a Gaeltacht – a part of Ireland where Irish is the predominant language. We’re talking back and forth and this guy in an Irish rugby jersey pushes the old guy to one side:

Customer: “I’m sick of you f****** foreigners in my country speaking this s***.”

Upon hearing this, everyone else in the shop bursts out laughing and the guy behind him taps him on the shoulder:

Other Customer: “They’re speaking Irish. Not everyone can be fluent in f***wit like you.”

A group of women are celebrating in a reserved area of the bar. Based on how they’re dressed they appear to be on some kind of hen do (bachelorette party). They’re being loud but happy, the kind of vibe you want in a bar like this.

One of the women comes over to order another round of tequila shots.

Me: “Wow, must be having some party!”

Customer: “Yeah, it’s that part of the drinking where everyone’s having epiphanies.”

Me: “Oh, haha, I’ve been there.”

Customer: “Sandra just realised she might be bi.”

Me: “Good for her.”

Customer: “…and Tiffany realised she never wants to get married or ever have kids.”

Me: “Well it’s good to figure these things out.”

Customer: “It would be, except this is Tiffany’s hen do and she already has two kids…”

I work in a government building that operates on an advisory basis for citizens. We’re next door to a post office depot. On one of the days we’re closed to the public (only taking calls), the doorbell rings. I go and open it and there’s a guy standing there. I ask him what he wants.

Visitor: “I’m an American. I’m a tourist.”

Me: “Okay.”

Visitor: “The police took my car.”

Me: *Getting confused* “Okay.”

Visitor: “I didn’t have insurance or tax or something.”

Me: *Definitely confused now* “Okay.”

Visitor: “So, they took my car.”

Me: “Yes, you said. How can I help you?”

Visitor: “Well, they told me to go to Smithfield and pay this fine.”

Me: “Okay, well, this isn’t Smithfield. That’s miles away.”

Visitor: “Yeah, I rang them and they’re closed. But this is a government office, right?”

Me: “Yes, but A, we’re not open to the public, and B, we don’t take payments for fines or anything like that. We don’t take cash here. It’s not that kind of office.”

Visitor: “Well… what can I do?”

Me: “The police station is about a hundred meters that way.”

I point directly to the station; it’s behind him.

Me: “They can probably help you.”

Visitor: “Okay.”

He wandered off in the opposite direction. Tax or no tax, I don’t think this fool should be driving.