(I work as a manager in a high-end restaurant. During one shift I notice a woman has barely touched her rib-eye steak — our steaks are well-known at this establishment — so I approach their table.)

Me: “Hello, ma’am. I noticed you didn’t touch your rib-eye. Was everything okay?”

Customer: “I’m so sorry. Everything else was delicious, but I don’t like this rib-eye.”

Me: “I’m so sorry to hear that, ma’am. We can make you something new, if you’d like. But I will certainly take this off the check for you.” *it’s a $30 steak* “May I ask what was wrong with it?”

Woman: “It was cooked just fine, but it was too tender and very fatty. I hate fat, and it’s all throughout it.”

(I facepalmed as I threw out this delicious-looking steak. Why did she order the rib-eye when it’s known for being tender, and one of the fattiest and most delicious cuts of steak?)

(The latest ad we have shows patterns at six for $15, or $2.50 each. I start to ring up patterns and the customer interrupts.)

Customer: “You’re charging me too much. You’re ringing them up at $2.50, and I’m buying six.”

Me: “Yes, ma’am. $2.50 is the correct price.”

Customer: “But I bought six. I should get the sale price.”

Me: “$2.50 is the sale price.”

Customer: “But that makes them $18.00.”

Me: “No, ma’am, that makes them $15.00. If they were three dollars each, they would be $18.00.”

(The customer doesn’t believe me, even after I total the sale and it comes to $15.00 plus tax.)

Customer: “I’m sure that’s wrong.”

(Finally, I just start handing them a calculator so they can check, and I still hear, “That can’t be right.” Don’t know who at corporate thought up that promo, but whoever it was never worked at the actual store.)

(My sister is a waitress at a bar and restaurant. She comes home one day with this very interesting story. She’s in the kitchen and the bartender runs back into the kitchen.)

Bartender: “I can’t do it!”

Sister: “Can’t do what?”

Bartender: *wheezing* “Go. Look.”

(My sister goes to the bar. There is a woman in a head-to-toe — hoof? — fursuit of a horse, waiting at the bar.)

Sister: “Um… What can I get you?”

Horse Girl: “[Alcohol], please.”

Sister: “Can I see your ID?”

Horse Girl: *takes off horse head and hands her her ID*

Sister: *red-faced, nearly crying trying not to laugh* “A horse in a bar, huh?”

Horse Girl: *nonchalantly* “Yeah?”

(Horse Girl does not see the humor in this.)

Sister: “So… where’re you heading?”

Horse Girl: “To the convention center to watch a wrestling match.”

Sister: *nearly losing it* “Which convention center?”

Horse Girl: “Uh… The one right next door?”

Sister: *stares at her expectantly*

Horse Girl: “The Trotter?”

Sister: *f****** loses it*

(I work in automotive. I get a very flamboyant male customer who pulls up. He gets out of his car and walks into a service bay. I’m male, as well, and this is a family-owned shop.)

Me: “Hi, how can I help you?”

Customer: “I need you to go check my tire pressure; it’s low.”

Me: “Okay, well, it’s going to be a second.”

Customer: *fuming* “No, I need it done now.”

Me: “Okay.”

(As we walk out of the service bay:)

Customer: “You were just going to ignore me because that’s how you religious people are here in Arizona, and that’s how you treat gay people!”

Me: “Not at all. I was a little busy finishing—”

Customer: “Save it. You’re a hateful person.”

Me: “I was busy finishing with another customer. However, I, nor anyone here will help you now. See that guy over there?” *pointing to a mechanic in a bay* “Yeah, he’s my fiancé, so that gay victim card won’t work here.”

Customer: “I want to speak the owner.”

Me: “You mean my fiancé?”

(I’m a full-time sales professional in the ladies’ department, and for some reason, customers have been real buttheads lately — even more so than usual. I’m covering for a coworker who’s talking with our manager about her goals and sales for the month, when a lady comes up to me, clearly irate. I’ve got a customer in line who is one of my regulars.)

Customer: “I demand you help me immediately!”

Me: “Ma’am, it’ll be just a moment; I am in the middle of a sale, but I’ll be happy to assist you with whatever you need.”

Customer: “Look, I’ve already talked to that other b**** who was over here earlier, and she refused to find what I needed. Quite frankly, I’m getting rather pissed off that literally no one in this g**d*** store will help me.”

(At this point my elderly regular customer is clearly offended by her language, and gestures for me to go and help this woman to get her to shut up. I put on my best Shining Customer Service face, when really all I want to do is tell her to please get out of my store and never come back.)

Me: “All right, miss, what can I help you find?”

Customer: “I need a shrug to wear for my father’s funeral to match the dress I’m wearing now.”

Me: *pulling a couple of examples off the four-way* “Okay! We have these he–”  

(Before I can even finish speaking, she cuts me off, grabbing them out of my hands and tossing them down.)

Customer: “I said I needed a shrug to wear, and that is not a shrug. God, you’re a f****** idiot! I need a shrug. DO YOU NOT KNOW WHAT A SHRUG IS? I NEED IT TO WEAR UNDER MY DRESS TO KEEP MY CLEAVAGE FROM SHOWING.”

Me: *goes and pulls a dressy tank top from the rack with one eyebrow raised* “Is this what you’re looking for?”

Customer: “YES. A shrug. See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Me: “Ma’am, that’s a tank top.”