(I work at a well-known retail chain as a cashier. We’re doing a temporary fundraiser for diabetes research and have to ask each customer if they’d like to donate some money towards the cause. My father has diabetes.)

Me: “Hello! Would you like to donate to help diabetes research today?”

Customer: “No, sweetie. I believe that if you just don’t eat white flour or sugar, the whole diabetes thing disappears!”

Me: *stares at her in disbelief for a few seconds* “Would you like a bag?”

(She needs to either get her head out of the organic movement or do some research on diabetes. It can’t merely be fixed by eating differently, ma’am!)

Related:
What A Diabeetus, Part 5
What A Diabeetus, Part 4
What A Diabeetus, Part 3

(I am at a restaurant known for their southern cooking from scratch with my daughters for my eldest’s 12th birthday. As we are seated, we can overhear the woman at the table behind us.)

Customer: *to waitress* “Honey, I am absolutely allergic to gluten. I cannot have any gluten on my plate. Please tell the chef, or else I’ll blow up like a balloon and have to go to the hospital!”

Waitress: “Of course, ma’am. We take customer allergy very seriously here. We have a lot of items for those with a gluten allergy to choose from. Have you decided what you would like?”

Customer’s Husband: *orders*

Waitress: “And for you, ma’am?”

Customer: “Yes, honey, I think I will have the double-fried chicken, with side salad, mashed potatoes with gravy, and two of your delicious drop biscuits.”

(The waitress gets a pained look on her face and the woman’s husband just buries his face in his palms because he surely knows what’s coming next.)

Waitress: “Um, ma’am, our chicken is coated in a flour base, our gravy is made with flour, and so are our drop biscuits. The only things you ordered that are gluten-free are the mashed potatoes and salad.”

Customer: *without missing a beat* “Oh, no, honey. Listen. I can have flour; I just can’t have any of that gluten stuff.”

Waitress: “But, ma’am—”

Husband: *interrupting the waitress, looking at her with a pained expression* “It’s fine.” *he gives her the “I’m sorry” look* “She isn’t allergic to flour.”

Waitress: *sensing what the husband was doing* “My apologies, ma’am. Let me go put this in for you.”

(As soon as the waitress leaves, the wife starts to complain about how none of these waitresses know what they are talking about when she tells them she’s allergic to gluten.)

Customer: “It means I’m allergic to the gluten they put in the food back in the kitchen, not flour! Why doesn’t anyone understand this?! Everywhere I go, I get told there is flour in everything I order! I’M NOT ALLERGIC TO FLOUR, JUST GLUTEN!”

Husband: “Yes, honey, I know you’re not allergic to flour… just gluten.”

(Two minutes later, the waitress came out and set down a bowl of salad. The woman quieted down. Just as she finished her salad, her food arrived, and she happily ate everything on her plate without swelling up like a balloon and needing to go to the hospital.)

(A coworker comes in late because he had to take his wife to the doctor.)

Me: “Hey! How’s your wife?”

Coworker: “She’s fine. She was showing some symptoms of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. The thing you can get from ticks?”

Me: “Isn’t that more an out-east thing?”

Coworker: “You’re thinking Lyme Disease. This area gets Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.”

Me: “Okay. I once had symptoms of Rocky Horror Picture Show Fever.”

Coworker: “Yeah, I heard that was common back in the early 80s.”

(I laughed. At least he had the timeline right.)

(I am a teenager, working in a department store. One day I am on the shop floor with my mum, who has come to meet me on my lunch break. Due to a combination of the hot weather and having skipped breakfast, out of nowhere, I faint. My mum puts me in the recovery position and some of my colleagues start to come over to see if I’m okay. Amidst the commotion, a customer comes over, sees my uniform, and bends over to where I am LYING ON THE FLOOR.)

Customer: “Excuse me. What time do you close today?”

Me: *too woozy and shocked to think of another response* “4:30.”

(The customer walked off without even a thank-you.)

This story is part of the second Heatwave roundup!

Read the next second Heatwave roundup story!

Read the second Heatwave roundup!

(I’ve recently hurt my knee and am wearing a brace that allows me to walk, but walking or standing for too long is painful, so I park as close to the grocery store as I can. As I’m getting out of my car, I notice a woman parked a few spaces down and across the aisle is glaring at me as she helps an elderly woman out of her vehicle. I force a smile to be polite, close my door, and lock my car up, then take off toward the store.)

Woman: *loudly* “Mom, look at that one! Bet she’s not even hurt. Stupid, lazy teenager. And look at her brand new car! I bet she’s never paid a dime on it! Entitled teenage brat.”

(I would usually ignore an idiot like her, but I’m in a bad mood and my knee is throbbing, so I whirl around as best I can and flip her off.)

Me: *shouting back* “Actually, I’m a spoiled 30-year-old housewife, with a three-year-old used car, not a spoiled teenager! Thanks for playing, b****, but you don’t win the golden Kewpie doll!”

(I turn and start for the store again as the elderly woman starts cackling gleefully.)

Elderly Woman: *loud enough for me to hear* “Serves you right for being a judgmental c***!”