I’m a college student living at home to save money. On class days, I have an extremely late lunch break, so I make myself a big breakfast in the morning, so I don’t need to carry snacks around.

One morning, I’m frying eggs and peppers for a breakfast burrito while my younger brother sits at the table waiting for our mom to bring him to school.

Brother: “You should get a job torturing people.”

Me: “…Why?”

Brother: “All you have to do is cook stuff and not let them eat it.”

I know he’s at the “bottomless pit” stage of adolescence, but a compliment is a compliment!

I’m a self-checkout attendant in a grocery store. I’m helping an elderly customer who’s having trouble navigating our produce selection menu (the scanner HATES the barcodes on the produce stickers for some reason). She’s using the search bar, but the letters she’s typing don’t make sense.

Me: “What are you trying to type?”

Customer: “Kiwi!”

Me: “…Ma’am, you’re holding an avocado.”

Related:
Avocado-No-No, Part 4
Avocado-No-No, Part 3
Avocado-No-No, Part 2
Avocado-No-No

I work in a convenience store in a shady part of town. Whenever I’m on shift, I get this one young guy, either late teens or early twenties, who just… shows up. He talks and dresses like a gangster, but doesn’t really cause any trouble. He just hangs out in or around the store. 

He walks in again this morning:

Me: “Hey, [Gangster], are you gonna buy anything today?”

Gangster: “Chill, homey. I might get a Gatorade if you gots the color I like.”

Me: “[Manager] told you that you can’t loiter here. You scare some of the other customers.”

Gangster: “I got nuthin’ but love, baby!”

He walks toward the back of the store, and I roll my eyes. In the two years I’ve been here, he’s never really caused a scene, and another customer is walking up to me, so I shift focus to the transaction that’s about to happen.

At least I think it’s about to happen, but the customer keeps walking toward the door.

Me: “Sir, you gotta pay for those.”

Customer: “I don’t think so.”

Me: “Hey! You can’t just walk out with those!”

Customer: *Walking out the door, triggering an alarm.* “Looks like I can!”

My gangster friend walks out from the back, Gatorade in hand, looking for the source of the alarm.

Gangster: “Did that mother-f***** just…?”

Me: “Yeah. All I can do is report it.”

Mr. Gangster walks up to my counter, places the Gatorade down, and says:

Gangster: “I’ll be back.”

I see him follow the ‘customer’ (now thief) as he walks toward his bike. The thief looks nervous and picks up the pace, now running to the bike. Mr. Gangster casually power walks up to the bike, brandishes a pocketknife, and in a motion too quick for me to register, slashes both tires on the bike. Then, Mr. Gangster (still acting all casual), puts his hands out, receives the stolen goods, and starts to casually walk back to the store.

Not a word was spoken by either man during the entire interaction. By the time Mr. Gangster is standing in front of me with the returned stolen items, the thief has forlornly started walking his bike away from the lot.

Me: “Uh… thanks, but you know I can’t condone any of that, right? Don’t do that again!”

Gangster: “Nah, nah, shawty. I gotta look out for you and this place. This the only place that keep the Gatorade color I like.”

He then pays for his Gatorade in exact change, gives me a wink, and walks outside to enjoy his drink on the small bench outside.

I let him sit there as long as he wanted.

A customer comes over with no discernible accent to indicate he is not from here, rural Michigan.

Customer: “I can’t find the gray ham crackers.”

Me: “Uh… what kind of crackers?”

Customer: “Gray ham.”

Me: “You mean graham crackers?”

Customer: “No, Gray Ham.” 

I walk over and pick up a box of graham crackers.

Me: “These?”

Customer: “Yes!”

He grabs the box and is about to leave, when he stops to ask:

Customer: “Why do they call them gray hams when they’re yellow and got no ham?”

My parents have very different philosophies about food: my mother is just a few almonds short of being a full-blown health nut, while my dad doesn’t much care beyond “it tastes good” and would probably live off frozen pizza and wings given the chance. I ended up somewhere in the middle; I love cooking, but I like a good salad as much as I do a good burger.

One day, I received a cookbook as a gift from my grandmother. As I thumb through it, I mark down a few recipes that look interesting. One thing I stumble across is something called “cheeseburger meatloaf” that appears to be the author’s attempt at making a Big Mac in brick form.

Naturally, I decide to show this to my mother, purely for her horrified reaction. As expected, she recoils when I show her the picture and recipe.

Mom: “Why would anyone make that? I can feel my arteries atrophy just LOOKING at that thing.”

Dad: “What are you two looking at? Cheeseburger meatloaf?! That sounds good! Honey, can we try that?”

Mom: “No! We’re trying to extend your lifespan, not shorten it!”

I reassured him that if he really wanted to try it, I’d copy the recipe for him, and he could make it. He declined.