I work at a bakery in a food court in a large superstore named after a bullseye symbol. Our doughnuts and muffins are put in a small case near the register, about the size of two bread boxes side by side. It has a little door that opens in the front and a removable back to take the tray out.

I normally ask the guests which doughnuts or muffins they want so that I can grab them with gloves on. There was a regular guest who had a four-year-old who constantly jumped up and picked his muffin out, touching each and every one.

Me: *To the mom.* “Ma’am, I’ve told you to please not let him do that, because now I can’t sell any of these ones.”

Customer: “Ugh, you’re the only one who has an issue with it! I shop here every week!”

Me: “And every week you get me. Please don’t let him do it again.”

Next week, she comes back in, and I turn the case around because he’s already diving for it.

Customer: *To her son, but glaring at me.* “Oh, sorry hun, we aren’t allowed to do that when that mean man is here.”

She then snaps at me.

Customer: “Such an overreaction! You turning that case around the second you saw us, like we got a disease or something!”

Me: *Trying to ignore her and get the transaction back on track.* “He cannot reach in and get it. If he tells me what he wants, I will get it.”

The little boy is getting frustrated at being unable to stuff his hand into the case, and because his mom is letting it happen (practically encouraging it), he breaks down into a full-blown tantrum.

Customer: “Now see what you did! You’re an evil man! We’re not gonna buy any muffins from you anymore! We’re gonna buy them from Walmart next door!”

She walked away with a smug look as if that was in some way hurting me.

In the department store where I worked, if you were under eighteen (such as I was at the time), your name on your name tag was highlighted red.

Two guys, easily mid-to-late thirties, come in and beeline straight for me.

Guy #1: “Where’s the underwear department?”

Me: “Fourth floor.”

Guy #2: “No, that’s the guys’ underwear. Where’s the underwear for the ladies?”

Me: “Second floor.”

Guy #1: “Wanna come with us and maybe try some on for us? We’ll buy you the ones that look good on you.”

Ick.

Me: “No, thank you.”

I immediately turn to get away, and I think it’s apparent how freaked out I am about their behavior based on how quickly I want to get away.

Guy #1: “Hey! You gotta help us!”

Me: “No, I don’t.”

Guy #2: “Yeah, you do, or we’ll tell your manager you’re being an absolute b****.”

Me: “And I’ll tell my manager you’re trying to get a sixteen-year-old girl to strip out of her underwear.”

They both look a combination of horrified and shocked.

Me: “So back off, dumba**!”

They both got out of the store so fast it was practically a sprint.

I told my manager about it, and he found their faces on the store camera footage and added them to the banned customer list. The faces also go on a wall of shame that we keep near the entrance to help greeters identify banned customers.

I wasn’t here for this next part, but my manager told me that a woman wanted to speak to a manager to ask:

Woman: “Why is my husband’s face on that wall?

The manager told her. She did not look happy… or stay in the store very long after finding out.

Actions have consequences, d***-head!

I really fancied burritos, so on my way home from work, I popped into my local small supermarket, grabbing the ingredients as I went along. There was only one pack of tortillas left, but when I picked it up, the contents were visibly rotting. There was green and blue mould all over the top and bottom tortilla, and black water gathering in the bottom of the packet.

I hastily changed my mind (I went and got nacho chips instead – basically the same recipe) and went to check out, taking the ex-tortillas with me. 

At the checkout, I handed them to the assistant.

Me: “I picked these up, but as you can see, they’re not doing very well!”

She looks at them, looks at me, looks at them again, then puts them through the scanner.

Me: “No, I don’t want them! I just thought they shouldn’t be on the shelves; they’ve obviously gone off!”

Assistant: “So you don’t want them?”

Me: “No, they’ve gone bad. Look at them.”

She picks them back up, looks at them, looks at me, looks at them again, then voids them from the scanner and puts them behind her.

All well and good.

Until almost a week later. I still wanted burritos, so on my way home from work, I went into the supermarket again. 

The packet of rotting tortillas was back on the shelf, now almost entirely liquid. 

I abandoned my basket and have never been back.

Customer: “Your ham keeps going bad!”

The customer places a half-eaten deli ham from a factory-sealed pouch on the counter. I could smell it before I saw it.

Me: “Sir, when did you open the package?”

Customer: “When I bought it.”

Me: *Looking at the receipt.* “So… two weeks ago?”

Customer: “Yes, but the expiration date is tomorrow! It’s going bad early!”

Me: “Sir, the expiration date is if the pack remains sealed and unopened. When opened, you have less time to eat it before it goes bad.”

Customer: “Hmm, no, that’s not right. Your ham is bad before the expiry date. I want a refund.”

Since we couldn’t prove when he opened the package, the manager did the refund.

He did it two weeks later when the customer came by with the same type of ham again. The manager gave him a more detailed explanation of how long the ham should last after being opened.

When the customer tried it a third time, the manager said:

Manager: “Sir, either you’re incredibly stupid, or you think we’ll keep refunding you so that you can get free ham, which is also stupid, since we have memories. I won’t be refunding this again.”

The customer stopped after that, but man they’ll try anything!

I work in the office of a company that staffs home health aides (HHAs assist with non-medical care, assist with daily living tasks, etc.). I get a call from one of our clients.

Client: “I am furious! No! Worse! I am livid!”

I gloss over the immediate need to create a list of synonyms for anger based on intensity (ADHD brain!) and ask the client:

Me: “Can you please let me know the issue that’s causing you distress, ma’am?”

Client: “That new woman you sent over! She’s a busybody! She’s getting too much into my business!”

Me: “The home health aide, [Name], who was assigned last week?”

Client: “Yes! Her! She got into my fridge and threw away all my jams!”

Me: “Did she say why?”

Client: “Yeah, but it was only a little bit of mold! I usually just scrape around those bits, and it still tastes fine on toast!”

Me: “Ma’am, it sounds like she was doing her job and assisting you in removing potentially hazardous food from your home.”

Client: “But I didn’t ask her to!”

Me: “Actually, you did, when you signed the contract to allow our HHAs into your home to assist your day-to-day living. The contract also involved monitoring your health, including any potential impediments to your health.”

Client: “Well… she had better replace all my jams! I had them organized just how I liked them!” *Click.*

When I mentioned the call to the HHA in the office, she just rolled her eyes.

HHA: “Yeah, technically she had them organized… from least to most moldy!”