(I’m re-stocking shelves in the pet food aisle in, when a lady angrily shoves a pig’s ear (a type of dog treat) at me.)

Customer: “Where is this made?”

Me: “I’m not sure, but it usually says so on the packaging.”

Customer: “I bet it’s not Australian-made.”

Me: “Well, ma’am, if it is it usually states it on the packaging itself. Australian-made is a pretty big deal to local companies, so they like to put it on there if it is.”

(I take the pig’s ear and sure enough it is made locally in the state we are in, by a local company.)

Me: “Made right here in South Australia. Right there.”

Customer: “I bet it has that disgusting Halal certification crap all over it too! You know your company supports terrorism by allowing this Muslim garbage all over our food. And us customers have to pay for it!”

Me: “You are aware that Muslims are forbidden to eat pork, right? And that this is a pork dog treat? For animals, right?”

Customer: “It doesn’t matter. Your company supports terrorism by allowing Halal on it’s products.”

Me: “Be sure to inform your dog of his choice then, ma’am. Have a nice day.”

(She angrily shoved the locally-made, obviously not-Halal certified, pork dog treat back on the shelf and stormed off.)

(It is a typical day at the ‘upscale’ grocery store I work at, in the bakery section. An older gentleman walks up.)

Customer: “I’ll have one brownie, please.”

(Right as he orders, the ground begins to shake. Glass bottles are clinking on the shelves, signs are swinging. It is pretty obvious we are having an earthquake which is not a normal occurrence in my state. It only lasts about 20 seconds but I stand there in shock for a few more before looking back at the customer.)

Me: “Whoa, that was crazy. Never felt anything like that before. Do you think that was an earthquake or what?”

Customer: *looks at me with a completely straight face and says in a very loud voice, enunciating each syllable very clearly* “I. Said. One. Brownie. Please.”

(I gave him his brownie and he walked away like nothing ever happened with the signs above his head still swinging…)

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Boyfriend: “Baby carrots are $0.99 for a one-pound bag and $1.99 for a two-pound bag.”

Me: “I need two pounds.”

(My boyfriend grabs a two-pound bag and a customer next to him does as well.)

Me: “You know, it’s technically cheaper to buy two one-pound bags—”

(The customer next to my boyfriend suddenly SLAMS his carrots down, snatches two one-pound bags from the display and SPRINTS away.)

Me: “…by one penny.”

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(I recently started working at a local grocery store as a cashier. One of my duties is to inspect eggs to make sure they haven’t broken in their carton before the customer buys them. I do this as a woman is unloading the rest of her groceries. I pick one up delicately with my recently-washed fingers because I thought I saw a crack running to the bottom. The woman mutters something about needing to get more eggs and disappears. I think nothing of it until she comes back and hands me the new eggs. I open the carton to check them.)

Woman: “I already checked them! You don’t have to do that!”

Me: “Sorry, miss. Force of habit.”

Woman: “Well, stop it! That’s the whole reason I went back to get another carton! I don’t like people manhandling my eggs!”

(I become very embarrassed because I have impaired hearing in the ear that was facing her and realize I didn’t hear her asking me to not touch the eggs with my hands.)

Me: “I’m very sorry, miss! I didn’t hear you. It’s policy for me to check—”

Woman: “No! No one has EVER done that to me before! Where is your manager? This is unacceptable! I WILL NOT TOLERATE YOU MANHANDLING MY EGGS!”

(She thrusts the first carton of eggs at me and instructs me to get rid of them. I finish the transaction as quickly as possible, apologizing profusely as I go, but nothing placates the customer and she continues to rant about how I’m “clueless” and “no one has ever manhandling her eggs like that before.” She leaves in a huff and my next customer comes forward. He gives me a good-natured grin.)

Next Customer: “You can manhandle my groceries anyway you want!”

(I’m walking down an aisle, minding my own business, when I feel a tug on my jacket. I see a little boy who is about eight years old smiling up at me.)

Little Boy: “Miss, miss! I like your Deadpool jacket!”

Me: *smiling* “Thanks! At least you knew it was Deadpool. Most people think it’s Spider-Man!”

Little Boy: “What?! That’s not Spider-Man! How could they confuse them? Spider-Man has black web designs on his mask!” *turns around and calls down the aisle* “Mom! Mom! She has a Deadpool jacket! Where did you get it?”

Little Boy’s Mom: “I’m so sorry!”

Me: “It’s okay!” *to the little boy* “I got it from Walmart a couple weeks ago.”

Little Boy: “We’ll have to look for one for me! I like Deadpool more than Spider-Man!”

(Best. Kid. EVER!)