I worked at a high-end steak house for years. I live in the South, so when someone orders tea, you ask them if they want sweetened or unsweetened tea.

I was waiting on a table of four businessmen, and I went to take their drink order. All ordered a drink from the bar, and three of the four wanted water, as well. The other gentleman ordered tea.

Me: “Sweet or unsweet?”

Customer: “Just as sweet as you are, sugar.”

Ugh, gross. So, I brought him an unsweetened tea.

Me: “Here. It’s just as sweet as I am.”

The look on his face when he sipped it was priceless. The laughter from his colleagues when they figured it out was also priceless.

And my tip? About fifty percent and more than $100. Not bad for a four-top!

Honestly, they were a fun group, and I’m glad we could all get a laugh!

Years and years ago, I worked as a bank teller. Ninety percent of my job was just cashing cheques and being a living ATM. This was back when pennies were still in use.

One day, this guy comes in.

Customer: “I need a lot of pennies — a ridiculous amount of pennies. [Local Business] screwed me over, and I want to pull the classic: pay for something with an inconvenient amount of loose change.”

He’s super excited to explain how this business screwed him over. I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s pretty clear even in his telling that it is perfectly fair he is being charged this money. He’s practically giggling as he explains how inconvenient it will be for the people he’s paying.

But here’s the thing. Maybe this works down in the States, but in Canada, there is a very reasonable limit to how much you can pay with change. The payee is allowed to reject any loose change payment over a certain amount.

Thinking I might be able to save everyone involved a bunch of hassle — myself included — I explain this to my customer. The guy isn’t having it. He just keeps saying:

Customer: “Pennies are money, so I’m allowed to do it, and you’d better give me my pennies!”

At this point, I figure it’s not really my problem what he wants to do with his money, and I get to work.

He wants a few hundred dollars in pennies. That might not sound like a lot, but it’s like 300 pounds. It’s so many pennies that I have to tell him we don’t actually have enough on hand. We have to make a special order for him. There’s a small fee, but he doesn’t care.

A few days later, he happily loads up boxes and boxes of pennies and leaves.

A week later, he’s back — only now, he’s dragging in a hockey bag of loose pennies. I guess he spent some time opening all the rolls just to make it harder.

Customer: “[Local Business]’s owner refused to accept my payment. So… I’d like to deposit this bag of pennies back into my account, and I’ll bring the rest in later.”

Me: “Sir, we only take rolled coins; you’ll have to do that first.”

I’m not sure when Coinstar machines came out, but my small town definitely didn’t have one.

I missed the man’s return, but I heard that he eventually came back after going through the trouble of rerolling all his money — a lot of trouble to get right back to where he started.

If only he had listened.

A mother is checking out with her young child, who is having a tantrum about not being able to buy candy. I shoot the mother a look of sympathy as I know it can be trying in moments like this.

Mother: *To her child* “I’m sorry, sweetie, I’d love to buy you some candy but…” *shoots me a quick look* “…but the mean old lady in the checkout doesn’t want you to have any!”

Me: “What?!”

Child: *Looking at me through watering eyes* “But whyyyyyyyy?!”

Mother: “Yeah, it’s such a shame that the mean old lady isn’t letting me; otherwise, I’d buy you so much candy!”

I don’t know if what I did was appropriate, but I didn’t think much about it until after.

Me: “Well, since the only barrier to getting candy is my permission, I grant you permission to get candy, little guy!”

Mother: “No, wait…”

The child stops crying and just stares at me, sniffing. We have a deal for four candy bars for $1.99, so I know I can swing that with my staff discount.

Me: “I’ll let you have four of these candy bars! Pick any four you want! And since your mommy is giving me the power to grant permission, you can have all four of them to eat right now, and you don’t have to have dinner tonight or eat any nasty vegetables!”

Mother: “Now, wait just a minute!”

Me: “Ma’am, I know it’s tough being a mother, but we could have just gone through this transaction in silence, and you would have had my respect. But you made me the bad guy instead of dealing with your child, so now I’m going to be the bad guy.”

Child: *Hugging four candy bars* “I’d like these ones!”

Me: “You got it, little man!”

The mother protests silently (not wanting her child to hear), but I run the candy through using my staff discount and I top up my checkout with my own cash: $1.69. The boy skips toward the exit with his candy bars.

Mother: “This is going to be so much worse because of you! I’m going to have to take those away from him.”

Me: “That’s what you get for bringing me into your parenting.”

Lucky for me, she didn’t complain!

Did the checkout clerk go too far? Let us know what you think in the comments! For some perspective, here are another 23 Stories Of Truly Terrible Parent Customers!

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I am shopping in the frozen meat aisle. I am perusing the shelves when another woman is slowly making her way down the aisle while on her phone. She is speaking loudly, which doesn’t usually bother me, but what she is saying is.

Customer: “Yeah, I need to get the chicken thighs to make that [n-word] fried chicken that they seem to like down at church. You know, the [n-word] kind that has all those spices.”

Shocked at her brazen use of a racial slur (she’s white), I stare at her for a moment, which is when I catch the eye of an employee who is walking past, also in shock from what they just heard. The customer continues.

Customer: “Yeah normally I wouldn’t eat any of that ethnic crap but the kids seem to like it and one of the kids is – y’know – slow and special and they’re bringing that [r-word],[n-word] friend that they seem to like. Put the [n-word]s and [r-word]s together in the corner and they stay out of trouble for the rest of us.”

Still in a trance about how much more offensive this woman can be, I realize I am standing in front of the frozen chicken thighs. Without even thinking, I grab all nine packs and put them in my cart. The woman finally makes it to the thighs section and sniffs in disappointment when she sees that they’re all gone. Then she sees my trolley.

Customer: “Hey, you don’t need all those thighs, do you? I needed some.”

Me: “Sorry, I kinda do. I’m feeding a bunch of special and slow people who also happen to be black. You know how it is.”

Customer: *Eyes wide.* “That was a private conversation!”

Me: “Not at the volume you were speaking, lady.”

Customer: “Give me some of those thighs!”

Me: “Sorry, they’re in my trolley. They’re mine.”

The customer turns to the employee and points to him.

Customer: “You! She’s taking all the thighs! Tell her to give me some.”

Employee: *Who is black.* “Sorry, I’m just a slow [n-word] that doesn’t know anything.”

He walks away and so do I, leaving her sounding like she’s about to screech.

When my husband asked over the next few months why we were always eating chicken thighs I told him we were fighting discrimination.

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Thanks to some assistance and other factors, I end up going to a high school that usually costs a lot of money. It’s a big deal in my family that I get to go! While the vast majority of the costs are covered, I still don’t want to be a burden on my family, so I get a part-time job on the weekends working the checkout at a grocery store.

The grocery store, like my school and most things in the area, is quite high-end and so attracts a certain “type” of customer.

I am scanning items when I hear my name called. I look up, and the customer I am serving is with one of my schoolmates.

Schoolmate: “Oh, hey, [My Name]! I didn’t know you worked here!”

Me: “Yes, just at the weekends to help out the family.”

Schoolmate’s Mother: “[Schoolmate], how do you know this…” *gives me a quick look up-and-down, her disapproval palpable* “…person?“

Schoolmate: “Mom, this is [My Name]. I know her from school.”

Schoolmate’s Mother: “Do you work there, too? The cafeteria?”

Schoolmate: *Laughs* “No, Mom! Silly! Remember I told you that I got extra help in science the other day? That was [My Name]!”

Schoolmate’s Mother: “Oh, so you’re a teacher’s assistant?”

Me: “No, ma’am, I am a student, same as [Schoolmate]. I helped her with a science project the other day.”

Schoolmate’s Mother: *Looking like she’s having a stroke* “But… but why are you working?“

I want to say, “Because I’m poor,” but she’s still a customer, so I pull out some BS to get this conversation over and done with.

Me: “Oh, I just think it will make me a more open-minded person and allow me to appreciate the value of hard work.”

Schoolmate’s Mother: “Nonsense! I’ve never worked a day in my life, and look how I turned out.”

Schoolmate: “Mom… that’s not the flex that you think it is.”

Later that year, this crazy lady actually complains at an open parents’ night that “people like me” shouldn’t be allowed in the school and certainly shouldn’t be mingling with the “real students.”

A few months later, she ends up in my checkout lane again! I don’t think she notices me at first as she is on her phone, but she realizes something is up when I’m not touching any of her items.

Schoolmate’s Mother: “Well?”

Me: “Oh, hi there, Mrs. [Schoolmate’s Mother]. Sorry, I would love to check you out, but I can’t. I’m not real, y’see. You said I wasn’t a real person, so there’s nothing I can do.”

The penny has dropped; she remembers.

Schoolmate’s Mother: “That’s not what I meant, and you know it! Check me out or I will call over your manager.”

Me: “Oh, well, y’see, we could do that, but I’m seventeen and I am amazing at my job here, just like I am amazing at school — y’know, that same school where I don’t belong — and I think I am safe at both. Now, please feel free to use another checkout where real people exist, but since I am not real and therefore unable to serve you, you’ll just be talking to yourself. Bye!”

She stormed off, and she must have complained to my manager; said manager came over near the end of my shift to give me a high-five after I explained my side of the story.

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