I am in sixth grade when this happens and we are doing end-of-year testing in our first-period classes. I am very happy with this because my first-period class is Intro to Spanish, which is taught by a very nice teacher. The first day of testing goes by without any problems, but when I get to class the second day, I find out that my Spanish teacher is gone and my math teacher will be supervising us in her place.

My math teacher that year is not overly sadistic, but he acts like he knows everything and that the people who taught us math in elementary school are idiots. He is also the type who picks favorites, gives us only three bathroom passes per trimester — using any more gets you a lunch detention — forbids any socializing at all during regular class time — for example, if you turn around in your chair you get lunch detention –and gives you lunch detention if you needlessly disrupt class more than three times a week. His classes can be fun sometimes, and he does teach useful stuff, which makes me feel kind of guilty for disliking him, but I just do not like him at all.

During the time period where everyone is working on the huge test we are fine, but when everyone is finished, he decides to turn on a movie. The movie that he chooses is one that I have recently seen and I am terrified of because a scene involves something I have a phobia of, so I go to ask him if we can change the movie because I’m scared of watching it. He refuses. I keep asking him, but he keeps refusing and turns on the movie. I get multiple questions about why the movie scares me on my way back to my seat and I simply answer by saying that there is a scene that really scares me. Fast forward a bit, and we’re almost at the part that terrifies me. Because it’s close to the end of class, I ask to use the bathroom and get permission to leave the classroom. I spend the rest of the class in the bathroom. Faith in humanity crushed.

The next day, my Spanish teacher is back and, since the class is done with the test, she goes to turn on a movie. I ask her if we can switch to a different movie, and when she asks me why, I explain and some of my classmates explain how scared I looked while the movie was on and how I had to go to the bathroom to calm down. This catches me off guard because middle schoolers aren’t usually the kindest and because I’m probably the least popular person in the class. The teacher agrees to not watch the movie and chooses a different one, which I enjoy.

Then, when class is about to end, I am handed a small hall pass that is only issued for when students need to serve lunch detentions. I see that the room I’m supposed to go to for lunch detention is the one my math teacher’s class is in, so at lunch, I go in and ask my math teacher why I have lunch detention. He tells me that it’s because I used up my three bathroom passes for his class for the trimester and that I used a fourth the day before. He gave me a lunch detention because I used the bathroom in a class that wasn’t even his. Faith in humanity crushed again. I serve the lunch detention and go on my way, wondering how my math teacher could possibly think this was acceptable, but as I write this I wonder if he gave me lunch detention because I didn’t want to watch the movie.

(I work at an electronics repair shop — a highly-regarded one that deals with some pretty advanced repairs. A customer has a tablet that he keeps breaking the charge port on. He has broken it repeatedly and this is our fourth time fixing it. He has left the tablet with another tech for us to order the part. As soon as it arrives, I have it installed and call the guy. The wholesale cost of the part is $18, so we do have a tangible minimum cost to maintain.)

Me: “Hey, [Customer], this is [My Name] at [Shop]. I’ve got your tablet here. It’s all put together, fully charged, and working perfectly. You can—“

(I’m updating the work order and see the dates. He had picked it up three days before he dropped it back off again. It was an easy fix, and repeat customers and word of mouth are invaluable in this field.)

Me: “—oh, wow. You were just here. Let me drop that $20 labour charge for you real quick… And that totals out to $21.70 after tax now.”

Customer: “I’m not f****** paying that. You people gave me a bad part! All I did was plug it in once and it didn’t work! You’re going to warranty this, a**hole!”

(If he had worded this like a decent person, he could have easily gotten it for half of our cost. We don’t bend to abusive customers.)

Me: “The plug looks like the cable was put in upside down. The warranty covers defects in the parts and workmanship. If it didn’t work and was in good physical condition, it would definitely be under warranty, but this is physical damage. I’m already pulling the labour cost as a show of good faith.”

Customer: “No! You put some kind of ching-chong China part from some ‘tee-uh-wani’ place! Just admit it! I want an American-made part this time!”

Me: “It’s an original equipment manufacturer Samsung part. It’s all made in Taiwan, Korea, and Vietnam. You’re already getting the repair at half of what you agreed on when you dropped it off. I’m not charging you extra or anything like that.”

Customer: “F*** you! Who’s the manager there?”

Me: *fire and joyful demons cackling fill the background of the shop as I say my favourite words* “I am the manager.”

Customer: “Who else is there, then? Who’s in charge?”

Me: “I’m in charge here. I’ve got my assistant manager here.”

Customer: *now huffing in anger, effectively, over saving $20* “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that. When I get there, I’LL SHOW YOU WHO’S IN CHARGE!” *hangs up*

(Ten or fifteen minutes go by. I spend the time updating the notes with the interaction, make paper copies of everything we did, and dig out the old part to show him. I mention to my other tech that I think this guy might be the type to do something violent.)

Customer: *storms in the front door* “Are you [My Name]?! You think you’re tough? Want to say it to my face that I broke that f****** thing?”

(I’m not the stereotypical nerd. I deadlift three times my body weight, bench almost double, and keep my core and reflexes tight by trail riding dirt bikes. I look like a meathead, until I open my mouth and start talking about how cool it is that we’re at twelve-nanometer silicon microprocessors already. This guy is the peaked-in-high-school, overweight forty-something who tries to dress like a Harley biker, but doesn’t ride.)

Me: “Yeah, I’ve got the old part here. You can see how it’s stretched out on the bottom from the wider top edge of the plug being put in upside down.”

Customer: *leaning across the counter, trying to intimidate me* “That doesn’t prove anything.” *smacks part out of my hand* “You faked that. Or it was like that when I got it.”

(Around this time, one of our regulars comes in — a sweet old lady who usually just needs basic tech support. She’s a time waster, but always nice. This is also the point when I stop being polite. As soon as he smacks that part out of my hand, I decide he is going to pay for his repair and be blacklisted.)

Me: “No, we did not. That’s the exact condition it was in when it came in here. It got like that after you broke it, again. And it takes a lot of nerve to come in here and make that claim when this is your fourth repair for this exact problem.”

Customer: “What did you say to me? Give me a refund, now! All those parts broke, too, and you’re going to pay for it now!”

Me: *quite firmly, hitting the sale button on the register* “The total is $21.70 after tax.”

Customer: “You know what?” *grabs the tablet off the counter, walks halfway across the room, and turns back* “Sue me.”

Me: “Oh, we will.”

(I point to one of the security cameras that got a clear shot of his face, and then I read off his license plate number out loud and write it down. He sort of runs out of the door.)

Old Lady: *in the most stereotypical, sweet, old lady voice* “Well, that man was just a f****** c***, wasn’t he? I had my hand on my pepper spray the whole time. You say the word and I’ll run out there and get him while his window is down.”

(The poor assistant manager is a pacifist and is shaking from how stressed even listening to the whole thing made him. The owner comes by after being called and filled in. Shortly after he gets there, we get a call from corporate saying they’ve got an angry man on the phone demanding I be fired.)

Owner: “Oh, you’ve got him on the phone? Great. Let him know I haven’t finished filling out the police report just yet, so if he wants to be an adult he can call me and we can settle this.”

(The customer calls back a few minutes later and screams at the owner. I can’t hear the whole conversation, but at one point I hear the owner say, “Yeah. And if you’d talked to me like that you’d have got a h*** of a lot more than rude. I went back to jail for less than that.” The customer hangs up. Maybe three minutes later, he calls back. This time he is put on speaker phone.)

Customer: “My lawyer just advised me to pay you. Do you want a credit card over the phone?”

Owner: “Lawyer, huh? That’s pretty cool your wife is a lawyer. Yeah, a credit card will work.”

(He paid, contested the payment, lost the claim, and took a hit off his credit score, plus the fee. He called back weeks later threatening to protest the store. Over $20. Pepper Spray Grandma never paid full price again.)

(I run a small bar in western Washington. Since I regularly step in to help my employees, I’ve had plenty of the usual fare of customers with no ID, customers who look too young to drink, customers who’ve already had too much to drink, etc. This one, however, will always take the cake.)

Customer: “Pint of [local brew].”

Me: “Certainly. Can I just see your ID first?”

Customer: “No need. Pint of [local brew].”

Me: “I’m afraid there is a need, sir. You’re a handsome but young-looking kid, so I’ve got to check your ID.”

Customer: “Seriously? Do you know who I am?”

Me: “I’m afraid not; that’s why I’m asking.”

(The customer leans over the bar, pushing his face into mine.)

Customer: “I am a paying customer; that means I’m right! [Local brew], now, or how about I come around this bar and kick your d*** a** into the street? A few words to your boss and he’ll fire you on the spot for losing this place my money!”

Me: “I see. Unfortunately, I’m afraid there’s one fatal flaw in your logic there.”

Customer: “Yeah? What’s that?”

Me: “I own this place, meaning it’s up to me to decide who is and is not a paying customer. You haven’t bought anything, and you refuse to show me ID; therefore, you’re not a customer. Also, you’re threatening me, which means you’re not welcome in here anymore, either.”

(The customer’s bravado starts to falter and his face pales as I pull out my phone.)

Me: “So, how about you leave now before I call the police? That way no one has to be kicked into the street.”

Customer: “But… you… gah! You don’t look smart enough to be the owner!”

Me: “Sir, please leave and stop making this worse for yourself.”

(I started dialing the police, while the man thankfully wised up and exited the premises.)

I work in a theme park renting out strollers and wheelchairs to customers. Customers pay a fee, and when they return their stroller or wheelchair they get a deposit back.

A customer comes in wanting their deposit for their wheelchair. The problem with this is I saw them return a wheelchair earlier to a different coworker. They claim they never got that deposit. They have a receipt for renting a wheelchair, but it is really windy and our receipts are literally littering the ground, so anyone could grab one.

I had a $200 variance the day before and I don’t want another one. I call my manager and it escalates to my supervisor, who decides that a five-dollar deposit isn’t worth this much trouble and just gives it to them.

Hope they spend their $10 well!

Me: *singing under my breath* “Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys…”

Roommate: “Huh? Why not?”

Me: “Um, because they never stay home and they’re always alone, even with someone they love.”

Roommate: “That’s deep. You should write that down.”