(I work for an ice cream parlor with a 1920’s style. It is a fun place to work, but we have our share of pranking. I am leaning on the counter of the main soda fountain.)

Jerk: “Hey, [My Name], don’t lean on the counter! It warps the marble.”

Me: “Oh, BS. No, it doesn’t.”

Jerk: “Sure it does. Look at the surface!”

(He gets his eyes level with the marble counter top so I mimic his behavior to look for myself, but unknown to me he’s armed with a whip-cream can almost on empty so it’s capable of spewing foam like a squirt gun. I got a face full of whipped cream from across the counter. Oh, and “Jerk” is the job title for a soda jerk. Come to think of it, he was just a jerk. Other times we would get a new hire to go hunting in the back room for blueberry topping. Plausible, I suppose, but there was no such thing. One time the rookie managed to get two others helping him look. Sometimes we would send a new guy looking for something in the basement. The restaurant was built on a slab and it was obvious (I certainly didn’t bite when it was tried on me). Eventually the new guy would discover that a basement was impossible. But to complete this prank, you needed a manager’s help. It went a bit like this:)

Employee: “Hey, the manager says to get a box of straw hats from the attic.”

New Hire: “Yeah, right. Pull the other one. I already got taken by the basement gag.”

Employee: “No, seriously, the manager said to get them from the attic.”

New Hire: “Go away!”

Employee: “Suit yourself”

(Shortly after that the manager storms up to the new hire.)

Manager: “You were supposed get hats from the attic.”

New Hire: *stammering* “But there’s no attic!”

Manager: “Come here!”

(The manager leads the employee to a conspicuous chain by the break room and tugs down the ladder. The employee turns red, but never actually gets in trouble. On one of my last days there, late in the year, one other employee (also about to quit) tells me he’s put liquid detergent in the gas tank of the lawnmower. That sucker was never going start. I pitied the poor employee who got the task of trying to start that thing in the spring. The last I checked, lawnmowers don’t run on soap suds.)

(For the past seven years I have worked in the same local ice cream shop, where I am now the assistant manager and am good friends with the manager. Today, it being the end of Fourth of July weekend, we have run out of many popular ice cream flavors and because of this have to bring some odd flavors up from our sub zero freezers downstairs. When we do this the ice creams need quite a while to thaw, as they are pretty much rock solid. Because some of these ice creams have to go right in to be scooped, the following exchange happens.)

Manager: “Jesus Christ, why is this ice cream so hard?!”

Me: “Well, you know, [Manager], life is hard.”

Manager: “Yeah, you know what, [My Name]? Lots of things are hard! Ice cream is hard. Cookies are hard. D***s are hard!”

(For a second we both just froze and then completely lost it. Two other employees had to finish the order we were working on because we were laughing too hard.)

(I and five other of my friends go to a ice cream parlor for a birthday.)

Me: “Oh, okay, it’s not busy today.”

Friend #1: “Should we buy three and share?”

Friend #2: “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Me: “Can we please have three scoops of chocolate please, all separate.”

Worker: *monotone* “Okay. Is that it?”

Friend #3: *looks around at everyone*

Everyone Else: *nods*

Friend #1: “Holdup! My mom said we all can get one instead of sharing.”

Me: “Sorry, can we get three more of the chocolate.”

Worker: *slamming the glass door covering the ice cream* “I asked you if that was it! God…”

(I am the customer at the drive-thru, trying to decide what size cup I want for my treat.)

Me: “How big is a small?” *expecting an answer in ounces or something similar*

Employee: “Oh… It’s not as small as a ‘mini’, but not as big as a ‘medium’ or ‘large’. It’s an ok size.”

Me: *pausing, then bursting out laughing* “That was probably the worst description ever!”

Employee: *also laughing* “I know. I’m kind of bad at this!”

(Most ice cream vendors sell a scoop for one Euro or less; I’ve decided to try out a vendor which sells ‘original handmade Italian ice cream’ which charges 10 cents more.)

Me: “Hi, one scoop of vanilla, please.”

Vendor: “Okay, here you go, that’s 1.10€.”

Me: “Here you go.” *hands over correct amount*

Vendor: “Excuse me, miss, we charge 1.10€, so…”

Me: “Oh, didn’t I give you enough? I’m sure it was 1.10.”

Vendor: *looks at money on counter* “It actually is. Right on the first try!” *beams* “Enjoy your ice cream!”

(I wonder how often a day he has to have this conversation until he automatically has to assume that no customer has read the price sign.)