(I’m a woman, and I’m in the feminine product aisle. I hear a loud noise behind me.)

Old Woman: “AHEM! Where are your [items]?”

Me: “I dunno. Try [the section likely to have said item].”

(I turn back, still trying find my preferred item.)

Old Woman: “EXCUSE ME! I ASKED YOU WHERE [ITEM] WAS!”

Me: “And I told you that I don’t know. Here’s a pro tip. Go find it yourself, or go ask someone who actually works here.”

(It is worth it to note that I am wearing a black shirt with [horned Disney Villain] on it. It is very much NOT a uniform employees would be allowed to wear. I find my necessary package of product and put it into the basket on my arm, before turning around and walking away. I’ve moved on three more aisles when an enraged-looking manager suddenly looms over me.)

Manager: “What the f*** did you think you were doing?”

Me: “Beg pardon?”

Manager: “What. The f***. Did. You. Think. You. Were. Doing?”

Me: “I would appreciate some context, please?”

(While this is delivered in the most non-sarcastic, genuinely confused tone of voice I can muster, it sets him off.)

Manager: “Maybe you’re new to this, but the Christmas season? You know, the time when we have a bunch of customers pouring in to buy presents for their kids? Yeah, that’s happening right now, and you’re sitting here f****** around with your g**d*** baby wipes! And a customer who asked you an honest question doesn’t need your attitude.”

(I look to him, then the basket in my hand, then at my black [Disney villain] shirt, and back to him.)

Me: “I don’t—”

Manager: “I don’t care what you think!”

(He gets really close to me at this point, and actually backs me into a corner.)

Manager: “You need to work on your customer service skills!”

(I try to say my side, that I don’t work at this business, and that I’m trying to shop, and all that gets an explosion before I get two words out.)

Manager: “I’M NOT HERE TALKING TO YOU SO YOU CAN ARGUE BACK! YOU WILL LEARN RESPECT! YOU WILL SHUT UP AND ACTUALLY LISTEN TO ME! YOU WILL NOT ACT LIKE A SPOILED F****** BRAT TO CUSTOMERS—”

Me: “I didn-“

Manager: “STOP. TALKING. I DON’T WANT TO F****** HEAR IT. SHUT! UP! NOW! YOU’RE A WASTE OF SPACE! YOU’RE GOING TO GET YOUR F****** A** INTO MY OFFICE!”

Security Guard: “Excuse me. Just what the h*** is going on over here?!”

(This situation looks bad from every angle. I’m a woman, backed into a corner by a much taller, screaming man. I have this man in my face, screaming obscenities and abuse. Tears streaming down my face, I look at the security guard and scream hysterically:)

Me: “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GET HIM AWAY FROM ME!”

(Somewhere in my hysterics, I vaguely recall reality had apparently snapped back into the manager’s brain, as he jumped back from me and spluttered something that sounded vaguely apologetic and explanatory. I have flashes of a lady leading me away from the scene, flashes of the security guard planted between myself and my assailant, and a single, crystal clear image of a box of tissues getting pressed into my hands. It took quite a bit of time to get me back into a position of “functioning human” and away from “blubbering, traumatized mess.” By the time I was stable again, police were very much involved. Statements were taken, and yes, I wanted to press charges against this psychopath. This couldn’t possibly be his first incident, after all. The company got in contact with me right away, doing a frantic dance of appeasement, apology, and PR rescue… but regardless, I don’t think I want to shop there again for a long while.)

(For the holidays, my mother always makes an apple pie from her grandmother’s recipe. It’s a completely lovely pie, but she’s made the same one every year for Thanksgiving and Christmas since long before I was born. One Christmas, my brother and I decide to get on her case and tease her about it, asking why she never makes any other variation.)

Brother: “You know, you could mix it up a little, and make something different for once.”

Mom: *sassy* “Oh, like what?”

Me: “I don’t know; try a different fruit. How about blueberry?”

Mom: “No one likes blueberry pie!” *meaning she doesn’t like it, therefore no one does*

Me: “Um, [Brother] does…”

Mom: “Oh, please…” *turns to the rest of the family gathered in the living room, not paying attention to our conversation* “Who here likes blueberry pie?”

(Everyone reacted positively, raising hands or shouting, “Me!” or, “I do!’ My elderly, schizophrenic uncle turned around in his chair and started to shakily struggle to stand up, wondrously crying out, “There’s blueberry pie?!” My brother and I cracked up as my mother rushed to stop my uncle from standing. She had to explain to him that there was no pie but apple, and promised to make him one next time. That moment was the most alert my uncle had been in years, and sadly, my mother never followed through on her promise to make him his pie.)

My stepdad currently works for a national pizza chain as a delivery driver. It is no secret that people intent on stealing from pizza delivery drivers will call in fake orders, and when the driver shows up, they take money and sometimes even the car the person is driving.

My stepdad got one those orders one night. He showed up at the house and was held at gunpoint, and thieves took the car and what little cash he had on him.

After two weeks of my mom thinking they would not get their car back, my stepdad called from work and told my mom he was on his way to pick her up. Come to find out the two idiots who stole the car two weeks prior had attempted to sell it.

While they were trying to sell the car, they told the person that they were trying to sell it to that they had stolen it from a pizza delivery driver for the company my stepdad worked for. The guy got the idiots to let him take it for a test drive, and when he was far enough away he found the registration to the car and called all the [Pizza Chains] in the area until he tracked down my stepdad and returned the car to him and my mom.

Let this be a lesson to all criminals: if you are going to try and sell a stolen car — or anything for that matter — do not mention it is stolen and from whom you stole it.

My cousin is 17 and has been home alone for an entire month while her parents are on a trip. Though family often visit, she’s by herself every night.

There have been several reports by a neighbour about someone playing guitar too loud at night. My cousin has heard it, too, but a security guard often comes up the next day to tell her to stop, even though she says it wasn’t her.

One night, when the playing starts, she goes downstairs to the guard so they can see it isn’t her. He, however, refuses to go up and investigate ASAP. The next day, a different guard comes up to my cousin to tell her to stop again!

This time my cousin proudly sticks all ten of her one-and-a-half-inch, brightly-colored, real fingernails in the guard’s face and asks if the guard really thinks she is the one playing.

That finally gets an investigation, and the guard check every apartment nearby and find other neighbours that heard it but never reported it. Apparently, the issue was also with the first neighbour, who reported the sound coming from the wrong direction.

(I work at a deli that also serves hot food during the day. We have a hot case with various pieces of chicken and potatoes to make combo meals from. It’s the very end of the day and we’ve run out of breasts to make the combos with, so it’s by-piece or bust. It should be noted we have a discounted eight-piece meal that’s incredibly popular at the moment, so it’s a quick grab for most. It features two of each piece: breasts, thighs, wings, and legs. A customer walks up about twenty minutes to close, an older gentleman with frazzled hair looking a bit… out of it.)

Customer: *looking over the meals* “I want some chicken.”

Me: “Can do, but fair warning that we’ve run out of breasts, so I can’t make you any combos. Can’t substitute for ’em.”

Customer: *seeming a bit out of it* “That eight-piece chicken.”

Me: “Sorry. No more breasts for the night; can’t do any combos.”

Customer: “That eight-piece chicken.”

Me: “No breasts? Single pieces are all we have.”

Customer: *quietly, with a tinge of annoyance* “I want an eight-piece chicken!”

Me: *sighing internally, trying a different tactic* “I can give you thighs and other pieces, but no breasts—” *gesturing to the case FULL of the other pieces* “—perhaps a few of those?”

(At this point, the customer stares off into space, as if this decision would blow up a sun somewhere in the universe. He pauses for a minute.)

Customer: “Oh. Uh.” *stares* “Chicken?”

Me: “I, um… How about I just grab you a few of each and make you a box?”

Customer: *hazy* “Chicken?”

(I just nodded and made him a box. He ended up requesting five of everything, something close to nearly $25 of chicken. I handed it over, and he happily tottered off to the checkout. Enjoy the chicken, eight-piece dude.)