(My parents own two Chinese restaurants in succession beginning when I was born. Starting fifth grade, my parents allow me to help out by cleaning dishes, peeling veggies, and bringing food out. This particular event occurs during my seventh year. My mom is just beginning to train me on how to take orders from the phone. Because of this, the speaker on the phone was normally on, and we trained during the dead hours of three to four pm.)

Customer #1: “Hi, I’d like to place a pick-up order! I have a party that starts soon!”

Me: “Sure! May I have your first and last name, please?”

(Insert exchanges of information and orders of a lot of food. At this point, the order is finalized.)

Customer #1: “And I’d also like to add six free egg rolls to that order. I’m a close friend to the owner, and she does this all the time for me.”

(This was a red flag, since I knew who the close friends were thanks to my relationship with my mom. My mom nods for me to continue.)

Me: “I’m sorry, we don’t have that offer.”

Customer #1: “Listen, I can tell you’re new. The manager and I have known each other for a long time and she wouldn’t be happy to know you’re treating me like this.”

Me: “Um… I’m sorry, we don’t have that offer.”

Customer #1: “Excuse me; I can get you fired for treating me so rudely! You’re probably some stupid twerp in high school that finally got their first job after years of being a lazy b****. Let me speak to the manager!”

(My mom motions for me to give her the phone. The customer proceeds to say obscenities about me and how I threatened her while she was ordering. She proceeds to screech how shitty my parents were for raising a shitty, disrespectful kid. In the meanwhile, the waitress notified my dad and he’s standing at the desk listening in as well.)

Customer #1: “And you need to fire that little b****! Having horrible f****** teenagers like her will ruin your restaurant’s reputation!”

Mom: “That’s my daughter.”

(There was a moment of silence on the phone line, and then the lady hung the phone up. Since the order was for a party, she still came to pick up her food. My father, a 6’2”, beefy, Asian man with a large collection of cleavers, stood at the door staring her down the whole time. She never came back.)

(My sister asks me to lunch in an upscale restaurant that I’ve never been to before. We’re both in our 30s, but I look very young, and I have no makeup on and my hair is in a messy bun. My sister looks older, very made up, and hair styled.)

Waiter: “Good afternoon. What would you like to order to drink?”

Me: “This [alcoholic drink] sounds good. I’ll have that.”

Sister: “Me, too!”

Waiter: “May I see your IDs, please?”

(We fish them out and hand them over, the waiter gives mine back with a doubtful frown at my face. He gets the drinks and brings them over. We sip.)

Me: “So good!”

Sister: “I agree.”

Me: “But I can’t taste any alcohol…”

(I tried her drink, and noticed it had a lot more alcohol in it than mine. We figured the waiter thought I had a fake ID, didn’t want to call me out on it, and didn’t put any alcohol in mine. It still tasted good, so I didn’t complain. We laughed about it for hours after.)

(I work at a fast-food place on Coruscant. A couple of robed customers come up.)

Customer #1: “I’ll have the Boba Fettuccine pasta salad with some Sarlaactose-free dip, some Darth Tatertots, and a Grand Muffin Tarkins.”

Customer #2: “I’ll get the Obi-Wan-Kebab, a side of Chewbaklava, and some Qui-Gon-Ginger-snaps.

Me: “Okay, that all comes to 159 galactic credits.”

(The customer then does a weird hand movement.)

Customer #1: “This food is free.”

(As weird as it sounds, I feel compelled to agree with them.)

Me: “This food is free.”

Customer #2: “And you will give us coupons for future free meals.”

Me: “And I will give you coupons for future free meals.”

Customer #1: *really getting into it now* “And you will bring back the McRibba-The-Hutt—”

Customer #2: *interrupting* “Dude, c’mon. Even Yoda can’t bring that back.”

Customer #1: “Fiiiiine.” *to me* “Please let us know when our order is ready.”

Me: “Certainly, sir. I’ve put that order in for you.”

(They walk aside and I serve a few more customers, when I see that their order number has come up but not been collected. I turn to my coworker who prepared the order.)

Me: “Why didn’t those two guys collect their food?”

Coworker: “I don’t know. I called out ‘Order 66 is ready!’ but then they just went all pale and just ran out the door…”

(I’m hanging out with a bunch of friends outside a restaurant where we just had dinner. While we are figuring out rides, I’m giving one friend a shoulder massage (I’m good at them and don’t mind giving them to close friends). I move on to another friend, and have just barely started.)

Friend #1: “Ouch!”

Me: *stops and stares before trying again*

Friend #1: “Ow, yikes, stop!” *he moves away*

Me: “You’re kidding? How does that hurt?”

(I have small hands, and not a lot of hand strength.)

Friend #1: “It just does!”

(I stare at him for another second before reaching out and pressing a thumb into his shoulder.)

Friend #1: “Hey!” *moves away again*

Me: *gleefully* “I barely touched you!”

(Our other friends have been paying attention. With predatory grins, we all advance on him with our fingers outstretched. Friend #1 has to spend the next few minutes dodging people trying to poke his back and shoulders.)

Friend #2: *fascinated* “Oh, my god, this is great.”

Me: “We need to take him to get a shiatsu massage, and videotape the screaming.”

Friend #1: “I hate you all!”

Customer: “I’d like an Arctic Rush.”

Me: “What flavor?”

Customer: “Red.”

Me: “Cherry, watermelon, or strawberry kiwi?”

(I had this conversation nearly every time someone ordered an Arctic Rush.)