(I am cleaning out the locker room, which involves taking all of the towels out of a towel bin and bringing them to the washing machine. At the bottom of the bin lies a human turd. I run out of there as fast as I can to talk to my boss.)

Me: “Uh, [Boss]?”

Boss: “Yeah?”

Me: “Well, there’s a turd in the locker room towel bin.”

Boss: “Oh, God. Come with me.”

(We walk to the locker room.)

Me: “What should we do?”

Boss: “We gotta clean it up.”

(He looks in the bin.)

Boss: “I’ll clean it up; you don’t get paid enough to do that.”

Customer: “Are your fish over there?” *pointing to the dog toy aisle*

Me: “No, sir. The fish are under the giant sign that says fish… where the huge wall of fish is.”

(My grandmother’s friends come into the room and sit down next to me.)

Male Friend: “How are you doing, [My Name]?”

Me: “Okay.”

Male Friend: “Just okay? Not fabulous? Not superb? Not fantastic?”

(I turn and look at my grandmother, who is laying in a hospital bed on life support and is predicted to pass sometime in the next 24 hours.)

Me: “Well, maybe if circumstances were different, I’d be more than okay.”

Male Friend: *stiffly* “Well, you should be using other adjectives than ‘okay.’”

(A mother walks in with her eight- to ten-year-old son who is wearing a superhero-like mask over his eyes. The mother asks for some pizza and is looking at the pastries while her son stares at the cookies.)

Mother: *to son* “Which do you want to bring?”

Son: *jabbing finger into cookie display case* “That one, that one, that one, that.”

Mother: “Which?”

Son: *jabbing harder and bellowing at his mother now* “THAT ONE, THAT ONE, THAT ONE, AND THAT ONE!”

Mother: *fed up* “Okay, I’m not getting you anything.”

Son: *freaking out and still jabbing the glass with his finger* “NO! I WANT THAT ONE, THAT, THAT, AND THAT!”

Mother: “Which ones?”

Son: *just as loud and rude* “THAT ONE, THAT ONE, THAT ONE, AND THAT ONE!”

(As the mother is repeatedly asking her son which cookies he wants, I have been watching him through the glass behind the display case and already have his cookies. My eyes are completely bugging out of my head. This is by far one of the rudest children I’ve seen in a while. I meet the mother at the counter and her son has gone to the door where there are chimes to let us know when people come into the store. He is messing with them and making a lot of noise.)

Me: *to her son* “Honey—“

Mother: “Yeah, you tell him.”

Me: “Please, don’t do that.”

Son: “Why?”

Me: “Because it’s loud and annoying.”

Son: “Oh.” *stops and goes over to a baguette in a basket* “Hey, Mom, look!” *grabs the exposed part of the baguette*

Me: “Okay, I can’t sell that now because he touched it.”

(The mother and son are starting to leave.)

Me: “Ma’am, I can’t sell this because he touched it.”

Mother: *to son* “You touched it! Now I have to buy it!”

Son: “So, if we touch stuff, that means we get it for free?”

Mom: “No!”

Me: “I can’t sell it to anybody else because you touched it.”

Son: “Oh.”

Mother: “You’d better eat this since I had to buy it!”

(If I had done ANY of that when I was his age, my Nanna would never have taken me anywhere again. I would have been RUSHED out of the store and called by my middle name until I felt the fear of God. Parents aren’t willing to correct their own children, but of course, they’ll let a total stranger do it!)

Customer: “Where are all your carts?”

Me: “They are right outside the door.”

(I walk the customer back the fifteen feet to a large line of carts parked directly outside the front entrance and grab one for him.)

Customer: “Ah. I came in the other entrance, so I didn’t see them.”

Me: “We only have one entrance.”