I’m in line behind my friend at a now-defunct steakhouse chain whose slogan is “More Bigger, More Better! Nicer!” It is set up cafeteria-style, where you order your steak at the start of the lane and then proceed down the line to get all your sides, drinks, dessert, etc. You pay at the register at the end and they bring your steak to your table once it’s done. My friend gets to where you can choose your type of potato and he chooses French fries. The server places a noticeably small amount of fries on his plate, so few that you could count how many fries were on his plate.

Friend: “Excuse me, could you please put more fries on my plate?” 

Server: “I’m sorry, but that’s the standard amount we give out.”

Friend: *Incredulous* “Seriously? You’re telling me that this is the standard amount of fries I get? That’s not how it’s been at your other locations.”

Server: “I’m sorry, but the amount we’re told to give out.”

Friend: “Hey! Your motto is ‘More Bigger, More Better! Nicer!’ Put more fries on there!”

The server then picks up the service tray holding the fries and dumps the whole thing — which was more than a quarter full — out on my friend’s plate, which is now overflowing with a mound of French fries.

Friend: *Sarcastically* “Thank you!”

Server: “You’re welcome!”

Me: *To the server* “I think I’ll have the mashed!”

This exchange happens almost every day with different customers.

Me: “Hi. May I get you started with something to drink?”

Customer: *To their toddler* “Honey, can you tell the lady what you would like to drink? “

Toddler: “Chocolate milk!”

Customer: “It’s ‘chocolate milk, please.’ Remember, we use our manners.”

Toddler: “Chocolate milk, please.”

Me: “Okay, and for you?”

Customer: “A Coke.” 

No “please,” just exactly what they’d scolded their child for. I don’t think they’re being rude; I just find the exchange to be amusing every time it happens.

I work self-checkout and hear many times through the day how “unethical” it is and how I’m “supporting the loss of jobs.” I normally just bow my head and apologize but keep doing my job.

A gentleman approaches and tells me not-too-kindly:

Customer: “You! Ring me up!”

I point to the open self-checkouts.

Me: “Sir, the self-checkouts are open for you to use.”

Customer: “You need more g**d*** registers open!”

Me: “We have as many as we can, sir; we are understaffed today.”

Customer: “That is not good enough!”

Me: “We are hiring, sir. That’s the only way to remedy the situation.”

Customer: “Using the self-checks means I am doing your job for you!”

Me: “Well, then fill out an application and you can get paid for it.”

My managers know I’m not normally this much of a smarta**, so I doubt they believed him when he went to them. Made my day.

It’s the mid-1990s. I’m a young, female employee. I have recently fallen in the kitchen and have seriously damaged my knee. As a result, I am in a brace that goes from hip to ankle, locking my knee straight. It goes on the outside of my clothing and fastens with about eight three-inch wide Velcro strips. Getting in and out of it is a process, and with my injuries, I need space to get in and out of the brace in order to use the facilities, as well as the bars for support.

As such, I am in the bathroom, making use of the handicapped stall, when the following occurs. I am removing the brace with a great deal of loud, velcro-ripping sounds. While I normally feel a bit guilty for making use of the handicapped stall, for the first time in my life I feel justified. Just as I get the last velcro free, someone starts POUNDING on the stall door. 

Me: “One moment!”

I hear a huff from the other side of the door. I do what I need to do in a hurry, while this person POUNDS periodically on the door. I try to hurry with getting the velcro fasteners back on, but I can only move so fast and getting them right takes fiddling. 

Still, the pounding continues. I finally pop out the stall door to find this old woman in a wheelchair glaring at me. Upon seeing me, she snaps.

Old Woman: “Are you handicapped?!”

Speechless, I sort of waved at my braced leg and tried to get out of the way as she shoved past.  Once out, she complained to my manager about me. Luckily, he told me not to worry about it; I was in the right!

I am in line at the customer service desk to pay some bills. The lady in front of me is returning a chicken because she didn’t get the discount. Instead of keeping it in her buggy, she drags it along the length of the counter, getting chicken blood EVERYWHERE!

She looks at us, daring us to say something, so I say:

Me: “Oh, my gosh, what kind of inconsiderate idiot would spread chicken blood all over a counter when they have a buggy?”

She slunk out of the store while the cashier and I wiped it up.