(I work in the deli of a big grocery store. It is around eight pm; our department closes at nine and, since we are a slow store, we usually have two of our three slicers cleaned and non-operational by 7:30. Our deli also doubles as a sandwich shop. I am on the deli counter helping a regular who is ordering an abnormally large number of products; meanwhile, an older lady comes up to be served at the deli. After about a minute, the lady approaches me while I’m helping the gentleman in front of her. Keep in mind that my coworker is helping a line of about three people at the sandwich shop while this occurs.)

Customer: “Is there anybody else working here that can help me?”

Me: “Sorry, ma’am, but it’s just me and [Coworker] tonight; I will be with you as soon as I’m done helping this gentleman!”

(About five minutes pass and I finish helping the customer in front of her; it is now her turn in line.)

Me: “How are you today, ma’am? I apologize for your wait. What can I get for you?”

Customer: “Okay… Are you ready?”

Me: “Uh? Ready for what?”

Customer: “DON’T YOU EVER LET ME STAND HERE WAITING LIKE THAT EVER AGAIN! I’VE BEEN STANDING HERE TWENTY MINUTES WHILE YOUR COWORKER HAS HELPED TWO PEOPLE THAT CAME UP BEHIND ME!”

Me: “Ma’am, I apologize, but we are down to one slicer; even if [Coworker] came over to help you, still—” *customer interrupts loudly*

Customer: “I don’t f****** care! You should have done something about it, knowing that that man had such a large order!”

Me: “I actually didn’t know he had such a large order, ma’am. Since we don’t take numbers here I—”

(The customer interrupts me again and continues her tirade; she asks for a manager, so I have my coworker page him over. My coworker has finished with her line and walks over to me to see what is going on.)

Coworker: “Ma’am, what seems to be the problem today?”

Me: “I stood here for twenty f****** minutes while you helped those people who came up behind me! You should have come over here and helped me first!”

Coworker: “I understand, ma’am; however, even if I had came over here, I would’ve had to wait for [My Name] to finish with his customer to use the slicer. Your wait would’ve been just as long, and then the customers at the sandwich shop would’ve been left there with nobody helping.”

Customer: “I don’t care about them! You saw me standing here for twenty minutes!”

Me: “Ma’am, I don’t believe it was quite twenty minutes; the gentleman before you came up at 7:55 and it is now 8:04.”

Customer: “Oh! So, now you think you’re going to tell me how long I waited? Oh, perfect!” *right at this time the store manager walks up to address the super-patient lady*

Customer: *directed at manager* “Oh, my! My long-lost friend!”

Manager: “What seems to be the problem, ma’am?”

Customer: “I waited here for twenty minutes while [My Name] and [Coworker] did nothing about it! I fully expect you to take disciplinary action against those two lazy people! They both deserve to be fired!“

Manager: “Absolutely, ma’am. I’ll take care of it right now.”

Customer: “Good!”

(Our manager starts yelling at us in front of the customer. I am appalled because normally he would have us go to the office to talk about it. The customer gives me a smug look and walks away. Once she is out of sight my manager stopped yelling.)

Manager: “So, guys… what did that crazy b**** want this time?”

(Apparently this pleasant human being is a repeat offender.)

Me: “I’m not sure; she actually didn’t even order anything from the deli…”

(I’m standing behind a woman in line at the checkout who has put her groceries on the belt and has picked up her tiny baby out of the seat, as the baby started fussing. The customer in front of her is a sweet, older man who is having trouble getting his card to work. The woman is swaying side to side, something I don’t think much of because I did the same to calm down my kids when they were small. The older man turns to apologise for the wait, and gets a funny look on his face.)

Older Guy: “Are you okay, ma’am?”

(The woman spins around to face me and I see her face is slightly purple and her eyes are completely unfocused and darting around. Before I can react to try to catch her, she shoves the baby in my direction. I drop my items and catch the baby just in time, and the old man tries to catch the woman as she drops and starts twitching. They both end up on the floor, though he does break her fall. The cashier calls for help and there’s a flurry of activity, with managers calling for an ambulance and helping the woman. The old man scrambles back to his feet, and he and I step aside — me still holding the baby — while the ambulance officers show up and diagnose her with a seizure and start loading her into an ambulance. They take the baby with them — she has regained consciousness at this point and screams for her baby, thinking she had dropped them when she fell. In all the activity, the older man stays at the end of the checkout, waiting to finish paying for his groceries and leave. I look down and see he is holding his arm strangely.)

Me: “Sir, are you okay?”

Older Guy: “Ah, landed on my arm a bit funny.”

(Upon closer inspection, his arm is clearly broken quite badly near his wrist.)

Cashier: “Oh, no! Why didn’t you tell the ambulance guys? They would have taken you, too!”

Older Guy: “Oh, no, they were busy with the young lass. I’ve had my time; youngins are the future! I’ll get it looked at later.”

(We did eventually convince him to let me drive him to the hospital, with a promise of dropping his groceries off at home to his wife. She was beside herself and let me drive her back to her husband’s car so they wouldn’t have to worry about it later. Given the amount of stories on here about old people being cranky and mean, I was touched to find one who was willing to sit quietly through immense pain just so someone else would receive medical attention.)

(I am a customer service manager in a grocery store. I come in to work one day after a couple days off to find two milk crates full of markdown Halloween merchandise behind my customer service desk. As a general rule, we only hold merchandise for 24 hours, and then it’s returned to the shelf, but we do not hold markdown merchandise at all. The cashier tells me the merchandise has been there for at least three days, so I instruct the cashier to return the markdown stuff to the appropriate area, and go about my duties. Sure enough, I am called up to customer service to handle the upset customer who asked for the markdown stuff to be held. The customer turns out to be my crazy ex-sister-in-law’s twin sister, who is also crazy.)

Ex-Sister-In-Law’s Sister: “Why did you tell her to put my stuff back?”

Me: “We don’t hold markdown merchandise. It’s first come, first serve.”

Ex-Sister-In-Law’s Sister: “But you hold stuff all the time for me.”

Me: “Not markdown merchandise. We’ve had this discussion before, so you know that.”

Ex-Sister-In-Law’s Sister: “But I couldn’t afford it the other day. I want to buy it now.”

Me: “It was just returned a bit ago, so it might still be back there. You can go look.”

Ex-Sister-In-Law’s Sister: “I can’t believe you put my stuff back. I even had them put your name on it!”

Me: “I could be fired for holding merchandise for myself, especially markdown merchandise. Do not ever use my name again.”

Ex-Sister-In-Law’s Sister: “That’s not how you treat family!”

Me: *taking a step back* “We—” *pointing to her, then to me* ‘”—were never family. And whatever family we were ended when your sister served my brother with divorce papers and a restraining order on Father’s Day.”

(With that, I turned and walked away. She had the cashier call the store manager on me, but he backed me up and told her we would no longer hold any merchandise for her. For a while, she would get stuff from the food bank and try to return it for cash, including private label stuff from other chains. My niece recently told me that the food bank banned her.)

(I work as a cashier at a big, popular grocery store. We have customers who constantly try to buy alcohol although they aren’t 18, which is the legal age here. A couple walks up to the register. The man, who is much older than the woman and almost looks like he could be her dad, is on his phone and seems very distracted. The woman looks about 23, is dressed in a fluffy fur coat, and wears lots of trendy jewellery, visibly trying to look a lot older than she actually is. Store policy says that we have to card anyone that looks younger than 30, so when I see her loading several cans of cider and long drink — a bitter-tasting alcoholic beverage popular in Finland — onto the belt, I automatically ask her for her ID.)

Woman: “Do you really think that is necessary?!”

Me: “Yes. We have to card anyone who looks younger than 30. May I please see your ID?”

Woman: “How dare you?! It’s actually my 22nd birthday today! Do I f****** look like I am under 18 to you?”

Me: “Well, happy birthday. But I still need to see proof.”

(At this point, the man with her — who has been on the phone all this time — finishes his call, and looks confused.)

Man: *leaning in to whisper quite loudly to the woman* “Babe, just say you’re with me.”

(He then proceeds to show his own ID, and I see that he is born in January of 1973. When I ask about her ID for the third time around, she screams at me, loud enough for half the store to hear.)

Woman: “What is wrong with you?! What’s your name? I’m going to report you to your manager for age discrimination!”

Me: “Uh… What? It’s my duty to card anyone who doesn’t look older than 30.”

Woman: “Just because an ugly little b**** like you can’t find a rich boyfriend like mine doesn’t mean you’re allowed to discriminate just because my boyfriend is older than me!”

(I can now see the way out of this situation, if she is dumb enough not to see where this is going.)

Me: “How much older?”

Woman: “Twenty-seven years!”

Me: “Ma’am, your boyfriend just showed me his ID, and he is born in January 1973. With simple math, I came to the conclusion that you’re either 16 or 17 years old, not old enough to buy alcohol for at least a year, depending on which month you were born in. Please remove yourself from the store before I call security.”

Woman: “AAARGH!”

(She then stomped off, screaming at her boyfriend for “being dumb enough” to show me his ID. To be honest, I think she was the dumber one, in this case!)

(I work in a small, local grocery store. I’m at the checkout, where I also handle lottery ticket sale and the small bakery section we have. It’s around Easter, and there is a glass display with cakes and the like. Customers usually decide what to buy whilst waiting in line. On this day, there are many people, and I’m handling them as fast as possible, but it still takes some time. A woman is in the line and is looking at the display. She has a boy around the age of seven with her, who is really more interested in the cakes. When she’s third in line, the kid suddenly speaks up.)

Boy: “Mommy, I want that one.”

(The woman can barely be bothered to look down, upon which she looks at a giant cream puff cake with brown icing on it. It’s larger than the kid’s head. It’s aptly named ”Easter Bomb,” and is identical to our ”Christmas Bomb” we had at Christmas, only this one has brown icing on it instead of white, with a lot of colourful sprinkles.)

Woman: “No.”

Boy: “But I want one!”

Woman: “You can’t eat one on your own.”

Boy: “You don’t know that.”

(He looks downright offended by now. It’s finally their turn, and they have A LOT of stuff. I ring them up, and it takes several minutes. All the while, the boy is getting more and more aggressive about the cake, and the mother ignores him completely.)

Me: “Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

Woman: *thinking* “Hmm, have you tasted the large cake?”

Me: “The Easter Bomb? Well, no, but I can tell you what’s in it. It’s a cream puff cake—”

Woman: *cutting me off* “If you haven’t tasted it, just never mind, then!”

Me: “Oh… Well, are you sure? It’s really just cream-filled and…”

Woman: *cutting me off again* ”Well, it looks like the one you had on Christmas, which I only bought once; it was terrible! I need to know if this one is better!”

Me: “Oh, you tasted that one? Well, you’re in luck, then; it’s actually—”

(Suddenly, the kid starts screaming that he wants cake, and that he NEVER gets to have any sweets at all, which I can tell is not true as the woman has bought several items of children’s candy.)

Woman: “Honey, I have just bought you…”

Boy: “NO! NO! NO, NO, NO! I WANT THE CAKE! THE CAKE! THE CAKE! THE CAKE!”

(The boy sprints back to the display, pushing other customers along the way. Neither of them says anything, and he starts pounding on the glass.)

Me: “Please stop that.”

(The kid doesn’t listen, and doesn’t care at all. The woman is showing no sign of actually doing anything about this, so I ask him repeatedly to stop.)

Woman: “[Boy], calm down; I’ll buy the cake.”

(The boy instantly stops and looks at his mom with the fury of a thousand suns.)

Boy: “You better.”

Woman: “And an Easter Bomb, please.”

(I hate when brats get their will, but knowing that it’s identical to the Christmas Bomb, I pack one for them and ring them up.)

Me: “It will be [total].”

(The woman pays whilst the son just stares at her in anger. When they’re done, and I finally get to the next customer, the son takes the bag with the cake in it and squeezes it. It’s visible that the cake is being ruined.)

Woman: “Sweetheart, no, be careful. You’ll ruin the cake, okay?”

Boy: “IT’S MY CAKE! MY CAKE! I CAN DO WITH IT LIKE I WANT TO!”

(Just as they walk out the door, I see the boy open the bag and find the cake totally smashed.)

Boy: “MOMMY, THE MEAN LADY RUINED MY CAKE! BUY ME A NEW CAKE!”

(The last I hear is the woman saying:)

Woman: “No, that’s your cake, and that’s what you get for being a brat.”

This story is part of the Easter roundup!

Read the next Easter roundup story!

Read the Easter roundup!