(I am shopping with my mother for funeral attire since my father just passed away two days ago. We are quietly doing our own shopping on opposite sides of the store. Employees at this store must dress formally, while I am wearing a sweatshirt that reads “I Can’t Adult Today,” ripped jeans, and gym shoes. A random lady is watching me for a couple minutes, but I figure she’s just visually browsing the clothing behind me on the wall. I am checking out some black blouses when she approaches me.)

Customer: “That isn’t very appropriate, is it?”

Me: *glancing around* “I’m sorry?”

Customer: “Your shirt!”

Me: “What about it?”

Customer: “It is not appropriate!”

Me: “Okay.” *turns to walk away to go browse elsewhere because this lady is freaking me out*

Customer: *following me* “I don’t think you should be wearing that at work!”

Me: “I don’t work here.”

Customer: “Sure, you don’t.”

Me: “No, I really don’t. Leave me alone.”

(I am a very blunt person, so I immediately turn my back to her and go on shopping.)

Customer: *holding a shirt literally inches from my face* “Well, do you at least have this in a size medium?”

Me: “Listen, lady. I do not work here. I never have worked here. I never will work here. I am 22 years old; all the employees here are at least 40 years old. I work in a hospital, and I am trying to find a dress for my father’s funeral. Leave. Me. Alone!”

(The customer’s face turned red and she scurried away.)

(As I’m working as hostess one night, a woman with two children around the age of 12 comes in.)

Me: “Hi, welcome to [Restaurant]. How many are in your party?”

Customer: “Hi, we have eight and two kids.”

Me: “Oh, okay, so, ten. Let me just set up your—”

Customer: “No! Are you dumb? I said, ‘eight and two kids.’”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that is ten.”

Customer: “ARE YOU STUPID? EIGHT AND TWO KIDS!”

Me: “Ma’am, as long as your kids are old enough to sit in regular seats, you have a party of ten. If I sit you at a table for eight, you won’t have room for two people.”

Customer: “Oh, okay. Party of ten.”

Me: *internally screams*

(I have a relative who is obnoxiously self-righteous. Race, politics, the environment, gender issues, it doesn’t matter; she is insufferably “enlightened” and seizes every opportunity to lecture everyone else on their lack of political correctness. Fortunately, we don’t see her very often, but she’s visiting locally and I’ve invited her to supper. I’m setting the table, wearing an apron over my work clothes.)

Relative: “You know aprons are a badge of servitude, don’t you?”

Me: “Only to people with a really fragile self-image and a lot of emotional baggage.”

Relative: *huffily* “Well, I just don’t understand why any woman would want to wear one!”

Me: “I’m a sloppy cook.”

(I’m in my college’s cafeteria and am listening to some conversations going around me as a project for one of my writing classes. I need to hear a few lines of conversation and then fill it in with the rest of the story. I wish I had heard more from this conversation so I could use this, but all I got was this single line:)

Student: “…and it was like Kim Jong-un with giant baby hands!”

(I work in a food court inside an office building. Our customers are the building’s employees. Some of them are nice and friendly, but a lot are condescending and rude to us every day because they can get away with it. It doesn’t take me long to get fed up with their nastiness.)

Me: “Hello, ma’am! What can I get for you?”

Customer: “One slice of cheese pizza.”

Me: “Will that be for here or to go?”

Customer: *in a loud, angry, nasty voice* “ONE! SLICE! OF! CHEESE! PIZZA!”

Me: *in same voice as customer* “FOR! HERE! OR! TO! GO!”

Customer: “Oh! Sorry. To go.”

(Somehow I did not get reported and fired for that, and soon moved on to a job with less abuse.)