I start working seasonal retail at a large store that is known to be “better” than some other retail establishments and has a fancy nickname to some people.

This particular store is located in a city that is gradually being taken over by a large, conservative Christian college, and some of the parents that come to visit their college-age children can be a lot to handle. They are pushy and entitled, and they tend to make a scene about the tiniest things.

I have naturally light brown hair and decide one day to dye my hair a darker shade of brown. I pick out a really nice cola-brown color and go home and dye my hair myself. It looks great and I absolutely love it!

When I return to work the next day, I am busily refolding the sweaters when I hear a loud, horrified gasp. I turn, thinking something is wrong, and see a short woman in a fur coat and overly-permed hair gaping at me. Standing next to her is her confused-looking daughter who attends the nearby college. I have seen this woman and her daughter before and have even served them on the registers when we get super busy. She is extremely religious but is always polite to me, telling me to have a “blessed day” at the end of our transactions.

I smile and wave, and before I can even open my mouth to greet her, she suddenly says loudly:

Customer: “She dyed her hair! She gave up her God-given hair color! She is the antichrist! She is the spawn of Satan!“

I gape at her, and her poor daughter looks like she wants to crawl under the clothing racks and die, but the mom continues:

Customer: “I rebuke you in the name of Jesus Christ, sinner! Beg for forgiveness or He shall smite you where you stand!”

I lose it. I unapologetically burst out laughing and walk away — I need to take my break anyway — and laugh my way to the break room. My coworkers ask me what’s funny.

Me: “I hope you guys don’t mind that [Store] hired the Spawn of Satan!”

I recounted the interaction with the guest. We all had a good laugh, even the store manager thought it was funny, and I didn’t get in trouble for walking away from a guest!

I am driving a truck full of livestock and I need fuel, so I pull up to the pump and pop in a credit card, shove the nozzle in my tank, and set it on “auto.” I start getting trash out of the truck, checking on the livestock in the trailer, and cleaning the windshield. I notice, barely, another vehicle pulling up to the other side of the pump.

I’m driving a full cattle trailer heading back to my farm. I’m wearing a well-worn duster, hat, and boots, and I don’t actually smell that great, as I’ve been around various farm animals since 4:00 am and it’s the afternoon.

As I’m cleaning my windshield, there is a “clearing of the throat” behind me. I ignore, as one does. Then another. I also ignore. Then there’s a “tap” on my back.

Customer: “When you’re done with that truck, I need Premium and a full tank.”

I’m really confused. This is a small mom-and-pop gas station, and it’s “pay at the pump” as, well… credit card readers and everything!

Me: “Feel free to fill up. If you don’t have a credit card, you can go inside and give them cash and they will turn on the pump.”

He gets a look on his face that makes me wonder if I insulted his mother in another language. Only THEN do I notice that his car is sporting New Jersey plates; you aren’t allowed to pump your own fuel in New Jersey. He’s likely just confused or uneducated about the workings of a self-service fuelling station.

Customer: *Demanding* “Take this cash and fill up and service my vehicle!”

Me: “I don’t work here; this was a self-serve station. There is no one to pump for you.”

Customer: “You’re a liar. You just don’t want to do your job because I have a Mercedes! If you don’t service my car, you’ll be sorry.”

His wife and kid are sadly watching. I’m tired, I smell bad, I have three more hours to drive, and I want a shower and a beer. I’m in my late fifties and too tired for nonsense, and my new livestock are stressed.

Me: “You either have to pop a card in the reader or pay the person inside in cash, and they will turn on the pump.”

He screams — not yells, not raises his voice, but screams. He pulls out a cell phone, hits three digits and “send” (I’m thinking 911), and turns around so his back is toward me. I can’t hear what he was saying.

I am still filling up — the truck has twin tanks: one in the truck and one in the bed that is used for the truck or whatever diesel tractor or whatever I’m running — so I have time.

Three — THREE! — police cars pull up. Idiot-boy still has not pumped the first ounce of fuel nor paid for any… but he is yelling that I have threatened him, called him names, and disparaged (that’s the word he used) his entire family, and he wants me arrested!

They ask me what happened, and I give my account. Idiot-boy is still being… well… an idiot. His wife and kid disappear into the gas station while dear old pops is being a pain.

He is almost — and would have been — arrested had I pressed charges for him touching me, but the police accept my account of what transpired.

This customer isn’t happy.

Me: “The gas station likely has video/audio recordings. Oh, and my truck has front/rear cameras, with full audio also. I’d be happy to give you the memory card for your investigation.”

In the end, the customer was left looking confused at the pumps, and I drove off. My wife had a very cold beer waiting for me once I got home.

I was really good at math as a kid. We’re talking traded my stupid third-grade crosswords and word searches for my sister’s sixth-grade math homework kind of good… at least until Mom found out and made me stop. I wasn’t in trouble; she just explained that I was doing Sis a disservice by denying her the chance to understand math concepts she would need and be tested on. Busy work exchanges were still cool, though.

Then, I took Algebra 1 from a retired sailor who couldn’t teach to save his soul. And I had knee surgery on September 15th, the day the class learned what y=mx+b meant. When I returned from surgery the following week, I was still high as a kite on pain meds until some time in October. And the teacher flat-out refused to help me catch up. When I asked him to explain that formula, he’d just parrot, “It’s the slope-intercept form of a line!” without ever telling me what that meant.

At one point the following spring, during a conference with my parents, he had the gall to say that I was “too stupid to learn math” and “the stupidest kid in the whole school.”

Dad nearly rage-flipped the table, but Mom put her hand on his knee and then punctured the teacher’s ego.

Mom: “Every student must have aced the math section of their standardized tests, then! I demand to see proof of that.”

He was caught off-guard, with a dazed “Huh?” expression. Then, Mom pulled my test results (just back that week) out of her folio and practically purred:

Mom: “[My Name] only missed one question, so if they’re the stupidest kid in the school, then everyone else must have aced the test, right? Oh, they didn’t? Well, then, perhaps the problem is not a stupid pupil. Hmm…”

We left the teacher gaping like a fish and the school counselor laughing at him. 

That night, my dad went through my entire algebra textbook with me, right from chapter one. He started to gloss over that same equation with the same recursive answer the teacher gave until I stopped him.

Me: “What. Is. Y? What is X? What is M? And what the heck is B?”

Dad: “You don’t know that?”

Me: “NO!”

Dad: “Oh! Well, that explains everything!”

And he proceeded to actually break it down for me. It took less than two minutes, including drawing multiple graphs to illustrate how the formula works. Two freaking minutes would have saved me an entire school year of frustration.

After that, we zoomed through the entire text in about 4 hours. The next day, I took my final. I aced it.

But my love for math was gone. The teacher in question “retired” at the end of that year.

My mother has been looking for a customized Christmas gift for my step-dad for a while. His name is Mark, which is fairly common, so there are a lot of options. She decides to go for one that isn’t just the name, to make it a little more special.

On Christmas morning, my step-dad unwraps a coffee mug and reads it out. 

Step-Dad: “‘The man, the myth, the legend…’”

My mom smiles wide, happy that the gift arrived on time.

Step-Dad: “‘…Kyle.'”

My mom was devastated that the wrong name was printed on the mug, but the rest of us were dying laughing. The Kyle mug is proudly displayed in our kitchen.

I’m a cashier at a dealership. I’m brought a customer who will be making a down payment on a car. She hands me a check. When we get checks, we run the check through a system right then and there that tells us if the check is good or not. The entire time I’m running the check, the customer is nothing but polite. Her check is approved, I print out the approval form, and I make her a receipt.

Me: “Okay, I just need a signature here saying your check was approved.”

The customer signs. I start handing her her things. One of the service advisors brings up a customer to pay for their service ticket.

Me: “Okay. Here is your copy of the check approval, here is your receipt, here is your driver’s license back, and we processed the check electronically, so you may have that back.”

The customer switches from polite to furious in seconds.

Customer: “Hmph. You should’ve told me.”

Me: “Pardon?”

Customer: “You should’ve told me I was going to get my check back before you ran it! Now I’ve wasted a check! I would’ve used my debit card if I had known!”

Some snarky comments start running through my head, but I don’t dare say them out loud, so I end up letting out a nervous chuckle.

Customer: “You think this is funny? I just wasted a check! You need to tell people they’re going to get checks back!”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Customer: “Hmph!” *Grabs her things*

Me: “Have a good day.”

The customer dashes off. I look around. The service advisor, the other customer, and the loaner agent — whose station is right next to mine and has heard everything — all look horrified.

Me: “That came out of absolute nowhere, right?”

Loaner Agent: “Yeah.”

Service Advisor: “What was her problem?”

Me: “I don’t know. Has she never gotten a check back before?”

Service Advisor: “I don’t know.” *Gesturing to [Customer #2]* “He owes $20 for the state inspection.”

Customer #2: “I’m paying in cash. You can do whatever you want with it.”

We saw the first customer head off in the direction of the sales manager’s office, but no one ever came to talk to me about it, so she either didn’t talk to them or they calmed her down somehow.