(I operate an ice cream parlor in a small seasonal family resort. Business is slow and the shop is intended to be run by one person. Ice cream is served in the customer’s choice of a cup or in one of three different types of cones, which are stored in plain sight, right behind the ice cream freezer. A couple walks into the shop; they are my only customers at the time.)

Me: *genuinely happy, because these are the first people I have seen in a while* “Hey, guys! How are you doing today?”

(Neither of them responds; they just walk up to inspect the different flavors visible through the glass freezer. I don’t really let it get me down; this happens a lot.)

Me: “Let me know what I can get you, whenever you’re ready.”

Woman: “Cookies and cream.”

Me: “Sure thing! In a cup or a cone?”

Woman: “Cone.”

Me: *I point to each of the types of cones on display as I say their names* “Sure. Would you like a sugar cone, cake cone, or this big waffle cone for an extra 50 cents?”

Woman: “Regular.”

Me: “Sorry, which type of cone? I have this smaller sugar cone here on the left, this flat one in the middle is the cake cone, and this big one here on the right is the waffle cone that costs an extra 50 cents.”

Woman: “I said, ‘regular.’”

(She jabs her finger vaguely in the direction of the entire rack of cones from the opposite end of the counter, but I have no way of telling which one she’s pointing at. I make a judgment call based on my best guess at where she pointed and pick up a cake cone.)

Me: “Sure, would you like one scoop or t—”

Woman: “No, d*** it. Listen to me. I want a regular cone. Regular. I’m speaking English here!”

Man: *to me* “Yeah, dude. Come on, she said it three times now. Are you having a bad day or something?”

Me: “Woah, hey. Different people mean different things when they say, ‘regular.’ I’m just trying to get you what you want. Is that the small sugar cone on the left, or the big waffle cone on the right?”

Woman: *yelling* “I DON’T CARE WHAT OTHER PEOPLE MEAN! I’M AN AMERICAN AND I WANT A REGULAR F****** CONE. I AM NOT SOME [RACIAL SLUR]. I AM SPEAKING F****** ENGLISH. REGULAR! REEEEEEGUUUUULAAAAR!”

(My patience is wearing thin. I carry the whole cone rack over and put it on the counter in front of her.)

Me: “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to stop yelling. I still don’t know what kind of cone you want. ‘Regular’ isn’t one of the options, no matter what country you come from. The small cone on the left is the sugar cone. The big cone on the right is the waffle cone. Say one of those words, or point to one, or leave. Those are your choices.”

Woman: *points to the sugar cone, which is the smaller one of the two* “That one! The regular cone! We call that a regular cone in America!”

Man: “How do you work in an ice cream shop and not know that?”

(I scoop her the ice cream and try to recollect myself before handing it to her.)

Me: “There you are. Sorry about the confusion. Can I get you anything, sir?”

Man: “Yeah, rocky road on a big regular cone.”

(I guess correctly that “big regular” means “waffle,” since at least he used some sort of descriptive word for me to go by. I scoop his ice cream and ring them both up. The man pays for them both with cash, and I hand him back the change.)

Me: *in complete cheerful customer service autopilot* “There’s your change. Have a nice day!”

Woman: “F*** you.” *she grabs the man’s hand with the change, fishes through it, extracts two pennies, and slams them angrily into my tip jar* “Here’s what your customer service was worth to me!”

(I am the collections buyer for a comic book store. This involves going through however many comics the customer brings us. I ALWAYS tell the customer they are not going to get market value for their comics, and I give them options of where they can go to get market value, or close to it, for their comics. One day I am with a repeat customer. We get on well and chat away while I am checking his collection. Halfway through, a teenager comes up to me and thrusts a handful of comics in my face. Literally, he is holding them in his hands. They are dripping with moisture. The pages are dark brown, bits are falling off, and all I can smell now is mold and acid.)

Customer: “How much for these?”

Me: “Nothing. I’m not going to buy them off of you.”

Customer: “How much? They’re comics!”

Me: “Sir, they are falling apart! They are unreadable.”

Customer: “How much will you buy them for?”

Me: “If I buy those off of you, my bosses will fire me within the hour.”

Customer: “You have to buy them! They’re comics!”

In high school, I took a political theory class that was essentially a series of role-playing games. One of the first ones we did had each student as the ruler of a 100 mile square country, with our grades determined by our country’s economic status at the end of the game.

A group of five other students banded together to invade my country, leaving my country super poor. My solution? I legalized the growth and export of opium poppies. By the time the guys who had invaded my country figured it out, their economies were suffering due to rampant narcotic use. They threatened to take a ton of money from my country, but I told them I would make it illegal again.

While I did make opium poppies illegal again, I let the teacher know that I wasn’t going to enforce the law, so I avoided losing my country’s money while still making bank with the export of opium. Some of my classmates legalized medical narcotics in their countries, so I was also making money by exporting to them.

In the end, pretty much every country in the class had a ton of opium use. Mine was fairly mild, but all the classmates who had originally invaded my country had their economies ruined. I ended up regaining most of my lost grade and getting a B+ or A-, while they all got poor grades.

(The store I work in is being re-modeled and the closest bathrooms are downstairs.)

Customer: “Where is the bathroom?”

Me: “Downstairs. The elevators are just over there.”

Customer: “Is it far? My son really has to go.”

Me: “It’ll take you two minutes to get there.”

Customer: “I don’t think he’ll make it.”

(She walks away at this point with her son. I turn to my coworkers to figure out who is going to clean the jean wall, empty the dressing rooms, and straighten the tables. I do the jeans.)

Coworker: “OH, MY GOD! I JUST TOUCHED PEE PEE!”

(She really says, ”pee pee,” as it is the kids department. The woman has let her son pee on the clothes in the dressing room. I put trash bags on my hands and grab the trash can.)

Me: “I’ll pick it up. They could have peed on the cheap clothes. He peed on the Dockers.”

(That’s when I picked up the top pair and found the poo poo.)

(My friends and I are having a discussion about the different words for soda during lunch. [Friend #2] in particular uses the word “pop.”)

Friend #1: “Pop is a sound. Soda is a drink. Coke… is a drug?”

(Cue us trying our best not to choke on our food.)