(It’s about 3:00 pm on a busy Saturday at the grocery store where I work. We have every check stand open and there is a line at each of them. A woman and her child, maybe around two or three, are at my register and I’ve got a line of four people behind her.)

Customer: “Oh, by the way, can I get a balloon for her? She loves coming here since the last checker gave her a balloon!”

(We don’t usually give out balloons; they are decorations that sit on top of our display cases for sales, new products, etc.)

Me: “Oh, sorry, but we are unable to give out balloons right now.” *looks at the little girl* “But I can give you some stickers! Do you want to pick some out?” *hands her our sheet of stickers*

Woman: “UGH, no.” *snatches the stickers from her daughter who just looks confused* “The last time they gave us a balloon! If she leaves here without one, she will be disappointed!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I cannot give out balloons right now.”

(To give her a balloon would require me to leave my check stand with a line, get a ladder, and climb to the top of the closest soda display and take one down. I’m not going to make everyone else wait because she wants a balloon.)

Customer: *talks to her daughter, ignores me* “Guess we will just need to shop at [Competitor] from here on out, since they give you balloons there!”

(She shoots me a dirty look.)

Me: *holding eye contact* “Yeah, maybe you should do that. Sounds like it would be for the best.”

(I am in my early 20s but have an invisible disability. It attacks my muscles and, when I’m in a crisis, makes it very hard to do ordinary things, like even standing up for long periods. I am just getting past a flare-up in my disease, and I’m out alone on a bus for the first time in ages, having a really great day. The bus is fairly full when an older lady, late 50s or early 60s, gets in. Since I’m on such a good day, I decide to offer my seat.)

Me: “Here, ma’am, you can have my seat.”

Lady: *rudely* “I should hope so. You young people have no business even standing on a bus, much less sitting. You should be walking or at least using a bike! Lazy! You’re all lazy!”

(I was gathering my things to stand, but as she begins to rant, I sit right back down.)

Lady: “What are you doing? Why aren’t you standing?”

Me: “Well, ma’am, you clearly would rather complain than sit down, so I’m giving you more reasons to do that.”

Lady: “That’s outrageous! You owe me respect! What kind of parents did you have that they didn’t teach you to respect your elders?”

Me: “Pretty good ones; they taught me to stand up for myself. And that means no bus seats for people who insult me. So, you can stand, instead, and keep complaining!”

(After complaining some more, and trying to cause a scene, she appealed to the bus driver. But since I had a disabled pass, meaning I can sit on even reserved seats, there was nothing he could do. And since everyone around heard what the woman was spouting, nobody else offered her a seat. I continued having an even better day, having hopefully taught someone to keep their mouth shut!)

This story is part of our Brazil roundup!

Read the next Brazil roundup story!

Read the Brazil roundup! 

(A customer is buying a Rated-M game.)

Me: “Are you 17 or older?”

Teenager: “Uh, no.”

Me: “Then you’re going to have to get someone who is to buy this game for you. Legally, I can’t sell it to anyone under 17.”

(He then goes to get his mom.)

Mother: “What? The other [Game Store]s don’t make me do this. They just ask me to confirm I know it’s M-rated. This is so gay…”

Me: *hoping I misheard her* “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, ma’am, but it’s the law.”

(As the PIN-pad asks the customer to type in their PIN, the son reaches to do it.)

Me: “Unfortunately, she has to enter the PIN, as well. You could just whisper it to her, or…”

(I’m interrupted by the son grabbing his mom’s hand and physically entering the PIN that way.)

Mother: *laughing* “Wow, that’s gay. I can’t believe I have to do this!” *turns to her daughter, also with her* “Isn’t this gay?”

(As the receipt prints, I’m supposed to tell them about a survey at the bottom, but instead, I put on my fakest smile and just silently hand it to her as I hear her continue to talk about how “gay” it is that she follows the law.)

Me: *a gay man* “Have a nice day, ma’am.”

(I work the till at a marine supply store that sells almost everything a boater could ask for. We get a lot of regular customers that many of my coworkers and I know by name. It’s late in the day, so it’s a little slow, and it’s just me and two other coworkers at the registers. A customer I’ve never seen before comes over to my coworker’s register with about $300 worth of product. She begins to ring him out and while he waits, he walks over and picks up a can of electronics duster — compressed air. He proceeds to spray the can of air into his hand for a good, long spritz and then places it back on the shelf.)

Me: “Um, sir, I think you need to pay for that since you just used it.”

(Both my coworkers simultaneously agree with me.)

Customer: “Oh, I was just checking the air pressure. Don’t worry about it.”

Me: “Okay, but you could have asked us about that, instead of spraying a good amount of the can into your hand. We can’t sell that now that you’ve used up a good bit of it.”

Customer: *irritated* “Like you would know what the air pressure would be like when I sprayed it.”

Me: “No, but we have our own cans. You could have asked us first before you wasted one that we can no longer sell. You really should pay for that since you used up a decent amount of it.”

Customer: *irritated and acting like he owns us because he’s spending lots of money* “I’ve been shopping here for twenty years; besides, I’m buying a few hundred dollars’ worth of your stuff. I can just leave here and not buy any of it!”

Me: “Okay, then you should be able to afford that $8 can of air you just wasted!”

(The customer begins to turn red and looks about like he’s ready to explode. My manager, after overhearing the entire conversation, quickly interjects by taking the can of air from the guy.)

Manager: *while walking away* “I’ll take care of this; just get him rung up.”

(The customer stands there, red-faced and angry, while my coworker finishes up his order. All the while, my other coworker and I glare at him. He notices my coworker giving him her best and scariest glare and quickly puts his head down for the remainder of his transaction. Once he’s been rung out, he quickly and quietly leaves.)

Coworker #2: “That guy was such a narcissistic a**hole.”

Coworker #1: “Yeah, he said he’d been shopping here for 20 years, but I’ve never seen him before and he didn’t even have an account with us.”

(I decide to try out a new restaurant that just opened a few days ago a couple of blocks from my apartment. After taking a look at their menu, I order a buffalo chicken sandwich. Despite the place not being at all busy, it takes about fifteen minutes for my food to be delivered to my table. When I cut my sandwich in half, I discover that the chicken breast is still raw in the middle. I flag down the server and show her the sandwich, and she takes the plate back into the kitchen to be remade. This time, it takes about 20 minutes for me to get my food, and it is delivered by the manager, who apologizes for the inconvenience. After he leaves the table, I cut open the sandwich and it is even rawer than the first one they made. I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the sandwich. The manager notices what I am doing and comes over.)

Manager: “Is there something wrong?”

Me: “Take a look for yourself.” *turns the plate so he can see the raw chicken*

Manager: “Oh, I’m so sorry. Let me get that fixed for you right away.”

Me: “No, thanks. At this point, I’m not going to eat anything that comes out of this kitchen. I’ll get my lunch elsewhere.”

Manager: “Okay, I’ll be right back with your bill.”

Me: “My bill?”

Manager: “Yes, it’ll just be a moment.”

Me: *standing up to leave* “I’m not paying you for raw chicken.”

Manager: *as I’m leaving* “Then I’ll have to call the police.”

Me: “Go ahead and do that if you feel you need to. I’ll be over at [Old Restaurant].”

(About half an hour later, I was just finishing my lunch at the second restaurant when a police officer came in and asked if I’d been at [New Restaurant] that morning. I told her that I had, explained what had happened, and showed her the picture I’d taken of the raw sandwich. I gave her my name, address, and phone number for her report and she left. A couple of weeks later, I was walking past [New Restaurant] and I saw a sign on the front door: “Closed by order of City Health Inspector.” They never reopened.)