When I was twenty years old, I was a server at a sports bar. When it was slow, the men that would come in and sit at the bar would often start conversations with me. One of them was talking about his daughter.

Customer: “She had to go to medical school to get a good job because she’s not pretty enough to make money off tips like you do.”

I just called him a weirdo and walked away, but that moment — and many other moments from that job — made me so disgusted by men.

As a Scotsman living in Switzerland, I often get asked “The Question” about my kilt — the answer to which, of course, is, “Mind your own d*** business.” However, sometimes people go a little further than simply asking. Over the years, I have had a number of women and men (usually drunk) try to lift up my kilt to verify for themselves. Usually, I am polite and gentle with them whilst steering them away. Usually.

This case was particularly egregious. I was attending a major concert with my son, and naturally, we were both kilted. While he was off getting some drinks, a very drunk woman in her sixties came up to me and tried the usual moves. I gently eased her away and she staggered off.  

Then, my son arrived back with some beers. The woman came back, this time wielding a phone. My son thought she was asking to take a picture with him. (We often get that, and it’s always a pleasure to take a snap with someone.)

But no, she was asking to take a picture UP HIS KILT! I saw her swoop down, and that was enough; Papa Bear saw red.

I stepped in and walked her backward from him, yelling:

Me: “NO! NO! YOU DO NOT DO THAT! GO AWAY! GO AWAY NOW! GO AWAY AND SIT DOWN!”

Those were my actual words; I did not swear at her despite the provocation.

She had a look on her face that showed she had no idea that she was doing anything wrong, yet if I had tried to lift up her skirt or take a photograph in the same manner, I would (rightly) have been treated as a criminal.

Scotsmen are people; treat us with respect, folks.

I’m the author of this story.

Back in the long, long ago — that is, the ancient times of 2013 to 2014 or so — I work at a student-run bar, one of the many centuries-old student-run clubs in the town. They are run in accordance with the strict Swedish alcohol laws, where over-serving someone is technically a jailable offence for the bartender (though that rarely happens). The bartender is also always right, so if I say someone has had enough, they have.

It is a big club night, the last one before the end of the semester. The drinks are quite cheap (by Swedish standards), and a lot of people are a bit desperate.

A sleazy guy with an open shirt and a not-very-comfortable lady come to the bar.

Guy: “Two [cheap cider]s!”

Me: “Right-o.” *Uncorks and serves them* “That will be 58 kronor.” *About $6*

Guy: *Handing me a 500-kronor (50-dollar) note* “Keep the change!”

He is obviously trying to impress the lady, who seems unimpressed.

Me: *Incredulously* “Are you tipping me 442 kronor?”

Guy: “Yeah. It’s yours! I study economics! I’m gonna be really rich!”

The lady remains unimpressed.

Guy: “In fact, I am, like, top of my class and, like, really smart!”

Me: “Oh? I’ve heard that economics is simple.”

Guy: *Removing his arm from around the woman* “Yeah, it’s simple for someone like me!”

He starts a rambling story about how you can use “economics” to make money by tricking people into giving it to you. The woman looks even less impressed and slinks away while he talks (giving me a thankful glance), and he finds that he is alone after a few minutes. I keep serving other customers meanwhile, and he pays little attention to me. 

Guy: “Hey, where did the little slut go?” 

Me: “I think she went that way.”

I point in the opposite direction, and he runs off. I keep working for a few hectic hours, and then the guy returns, fuming but pretending to be polite. 

Guy: “Yeah, so, do you remember me?” 

Me: “Sorry, not really.”

Guy: “Yeah, I tipped you a, a, a lot. Like loads. I had a super hot slut with me. She disappeared, and you probably helped her get away so you could get the slut yourself!” 

Me: “Please don’t call women that.” 

Guy: “Whatever. I want my tip back.” 

Me: “Sorry?”

Guy: “I gave you 500 kronor, and I bought, like, just a cider.”

Me: “I remember you now. I asked if it was a tip and you said yes. So, no.”

Guy: “No, see, I need that money now.”

Me: “That’s not gonna happen.”

Guy: “No, but, I can’t tip that much! I gave you my bus money home. I’m, like, broke.” 

Me: “Sorry. You could probably walk, though.” 

Guy: “DO I LOOK LIKE A F****** [slur for Roma people]? Give me my money!”

He drunkenly fails to climb over the bar. I flag down a passing security guard.

Me: “No. You are to leave, now.”

The guard intervened and the guy was dragged away. I was told that he disappeared right into the back of a drunk-cell with some hefty fines after he decided to call the non-European-descended guard every slur in existence.

Related:
Putting The “Toxic” Into “Intoxicated”, Part 2

I’m doing some grocery shopping, standing at the candy aisle next to a young woman who is also trying to decide which candy to get. Some twenty-something guy walks into the aisle and stands WAY too close to her.

Customer: “Hey, Chicky!”

Woman: *Turns to me* “They sell live chickens in here and one got out?”

Customer: “Hey, Chicky, I’m talking to you!”

Woman: “Ooooh. Oh, young man, you must need glasses. I am not, in fact, a baby chicken.”

Customer: “…what?”

Woman: “You just called me a baby chicken.”

Customer: “What you on about? I’m just tryna get with a fine girl like you.”

Woman: “I’m not a girl.”

Customer: *Shocked* “You a trans b****?”

Woman: “No, I’m thirty-six. Why are you trying to date children? You could be arrested for that.”

Customer: “…what?”

Woman: “I am a woman.” *Points at him* “Stop traumatizing children by trying to date them!”

Customer: “Wait… What?!”

The woman then gets a pad of sticky notes and a pen out of her purse, scribbles something on the top note, and slaps it on the guy’s forehead.

Woman: “And here’s your prescription for some of that. You can get that filled anywhere.”

She walked away. The guy stood there dumbstruck long enough for me to read the note. It said, “A life. A grip. A dose of reality.”

CONTENT WARNING: Eating Disorders, Body Shaming

I’m a woman who has a long history of anorexia. Even thirty-plus years on from the worst of it, I will still fall back into not eating for weeks if under a lot of stress.

My coworker has gotten into some mindset that, because I’m fat, I require his tips on dieting, and he has taken to criticising everything I eat. Even salads (which I love) have him lecturing me on how I must be hiding a load of junk food in my bag and am secretly bingeing on it. The constant critiques push me into not eating at all during the day.

Eventually, I lose it.

Me: “Please stop talking about my food and my weight. I don’t appreciate it, and you’re doing a lot of harm.”

Coworker: “I’m just saying, you’ll never find a husband or have kids at your weight.”

Me: “I’ve been married for over eighteen years, and I don’t want kids, but again, this is none of your business. Please, please stop.”

Coworker: “If me telling you how to stop being a lard-a** is damaging your mental health, then you’re just stupid.”

Me: “Seriously, you need to stop. Further criticisms of my body will mean an official complaint.”

He refused to stop and started harassing me about joining a gym. I went to our boss and Human Resources, but they did nothing.

Three weeks later, I passed out at work after not eating anything for several days. [Coworker] said it was “a step in the right direction” and that anorexia was actually a good thing for fat people.

After more therapy for my eating disorder, I took to telling him loudly in the office to leave me the f*** alone. So, now he has a reputation for being a creepy guy who won’t stop harassing a woman. As it turns out, that’s more damaging to his career than being fat is to mine. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it.

Related:
Not Your Body, Not Your Business