(I used to work at a well-known non-profit thrift store. My job was to take donations from customers and then sort the donations so they could be priced and sold. We aren’t allowed to take certain items if they are damaged, wet, or gross. It rains a lot in western Washington and on this particular day, it is dumping. Most donors who bring furniture cover it up with a tarp or something. Then, these donors show up.)

Me: “Hey, guys! How’s it going?”

Donor #1: “Pretty good, bud! Just dropping off some furniture. It got a little wet, though.”

(I look at their truck; they have a recliner made out of some kind of fabric, and it’s soaked.)

Me: “Uh, guys? We won’t be able to take this.”

Donor #1: *while unstrapping the chair* “What? Why not?!”

Me: “Dude… it’s soaked. Why didn’t you cover it?”

Donor #2: *standing uncomfortably close to me* “Hey, man, you’re taking this chair. It’s a great chair; magical even. You see that chair? I bet you’d love that chair, so you’re gonna take it.”

Me: *getting frustrated* “No, I’m not gonna take it; it’s soaked.”

Donor #1: “Well, what the f*** am I supposed to do with it, then?! I came all the way from [Next Town Over, about 20 minutes away]?”

Me: “I suggest the dump, to be honest.”

Donor #1: “Thanks for nothing a**hole. I’ll be back for you. I know where you work!”

Me: *as they are getting in their truck, calling me every profanity they can think of* “Have a good day!”

Donor #1: “F*** off!”

(I never saw them again, and we still got attempts to donate soaking wet furniture all day, along with the pissed-off people to go with them.)

(I’m picking up a sandwich at what looks like the start of the evening’s dinner rush – there’s a fairly consistent line going, but the place is still understaffed, with only two workers behind the counter. The guy on breads and meats is jumping around like a jackalope in between customers, restocking and cleaning things where he can and rushing to the end of the line to ring people up. The girl on vegetables is methodically zipping through sandwich orders with the robotic patience of someone who’s been doing what they’re doing for way too long. My sandwich makes it to the vegetable section.)

Me: “…and can I get some dijon mustard on that as well, please?”

(The vegetable worker picks up the large bottle of mustard, squirts some on the sandwich, and goes to put the bottle down with the other sauces. Very nondescriptly, the bottle hits the counter and slips straight back, shooting directly into the trash can. She freezes. I freeze.)

Vegetable Worker: “…um. [Bread Worker?]”

(The guy zips around, out of breath.)

Bread Worker: “What’s up? More parmesan? Lettuce? Avocado’s looking a little low—“

Vegetable Worker: “No.”

(She points. He looks. They both stare at each other. He looks at the pantry, then back at the trash can, his expression defeated.)

Bread Worker: “…Well, s***.”

Vegetable Worker: “Yeah. Um… I’m going to go on break now.”

(I work at a confectionery shop. It is one of the first gorgeous days of summer, so we are packed, especially at the gelato counter. We make our own waffle cones but have run out, and my coworker and I are making them as fast as possible to order. I have this exchange with a female customer:)

Customer: “Can I get a scoop of pistachio in a waffle cone?”

Me: “Sure thing. Just to let you know, our waffle cones are being made to order right now as we catch up; it will a couple minutes and the cone will be warm so your gelato will melt faster.”

Customer: “Oh, yummy! That sounds great!”

(While we’re waiting, I scoop for a lot of other customers who aren’t waiting for cones and the woman keeps interjecting to make chit chat with me:)

Customer: “Do you have bacon ice cream?”

Me: “No, ma’am, we only carry [Local Brand] gelato and I don’t believe they have a bacon flavor.”

Customer: “Oh. Well, the shop near my house in [Town] has a bacon ice cream, and it’s delicious. You have to try it.”

(Whenever the customer refers to [Town], she stresses it as if it were an exclusive, private community. It just so happens to be where my boyfriend lives and I know exactly the shop she’s talking about.)

Me: “Oh, you’re talking about [Ice Cream Shop]? My boyfriend lives right by it; we walk there a lot. I’m a fan but also a vegetarian, so I’ll have to take your word for it on the bacon.”

(The customer gives me a raised eyebrow about being a vegetarian and continues to tell me all about the neighborhood, dismissing anytime I acknowledge that I’ve been somewhere she mentions, and then makes another comment about the ice cream shop she previously mentioned.)

Customer: “You know, they make their own cones at my shop in [Town]. I’ve never had to wait this long.”

Me: “Well, ma’am, we’ve been making cones all morning to meet the demand on this gorgeous day.”

(Finally, her cone is ready and I let her know. My coworker passes me the waffle cone and I scoop her gelato. This all takes place while the customer is watching, and I pass it off to her.)

Customer: “What are you trying to pull!?”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Customer: “This cone is warm; my ice cream is cold.”

(My coworker and a couple of other customers who’ve been waiting on waffle cones all let out a laugh because the situation had been clearly explained and demonstrated to this customer. She huffs toward the door, stops, and turns back to us.)

Customer: “It’s. Not. Funny! STUPID IDIOTS!”

(The customer then huffed away, slamming shut the door that had been propped open behind her, and I had a good laugh about it along with my coworkers and the other customers that had been waiting.)

I work in the bakery section of a large warehouse chain, and am in charge of turning the daily breads and pastries. As I’m wheeling out a rack of muffins, I happen to notice a customer who is carefully going through almost every item we have out on the tables. As I’m placing items out, I watch her look at her hands, lick both hands, then rub them together as if she just put lotion on them.
I run back to the bakery rather nauseous and tell my coworker what I just saw.

Coworker: I’m feeling sick just from listing to that!
Me: I’m still recovering…

I still feel sick every time i think about it.

(I just started work at popular fast food restaurant. Every morning we get nice old people who come in for coffee. It’s my first morning shift.)

Me: “Hi. Welcome to [Company]. What can I get for you?”

Customer #1: “I’d like a large, non-fat mocha with extra ice cream in it, please. Oh, and hot.”

Me: “Umm… do you mean extra whipped cream?”

Customer #1: “NO. I don’t mean extra whipped cream, I mean ice cream!”

(Confused by her order, I punch in a regular mocha.)

Me: “Okay, your total is [amount].”

([Customer #1] pays and waits for her mocha. Once she gets it, she comes back to the counter and butts in front of the line.)

Customer #1: “THIS IS NOT MY MOCHA! WHERE IS THE ICE CREAM?”

Me: “Mochas don’t normally have ice cream in them.”

Customer #1: “WELL, I COME IN HERE ALL THE TIME FOR IT! MAKE IT!”

(I call a manager over, and he tries to take the order but is just as confused as I am. [Customer #1] gets more upset and shouts profanities at both me and my manager. The line has built up, but everyone is just watching her.)

Customer #1: “What is this s***? Give me my f****** mocha with ice cream! How hard is that?!”

Owner: *walks out to the front of the store* “What seems to be the problem?”

Customer #1: “These two a**hats don’t know how to make a godd*** mocha with ice cream!”

Owner: “I’m terribly sorry about that. Here.” *does a refund for her purchase* “May I also see your punch card?”

(She hands him her punch card, just one shy of a free drink, and he rips it in half. The owner then hands out a card that has one punch on it.)

Owner: “I don’t like people who harass my employees and curse at them. We don’t make that kind of drink, and neither does any other coffee shop in the world, and you are no longer welcome here. Please leave, and have a nice day!”

Customer #1: *storms out flustered and still shouting profanities*

Me: “Next!”

Customer #2: “Hi there. I’d like a large nonfat hot mocha, please. Oh, and extra ice cream!”