(I work at a chocolate store and it is Easter time, the craziest time of the year, when customers are desperate to grab chocolate before somebody else does. I’ve seen a lot of arguments break out over chocolate eggs and whatnot, but never an incident like this before.)

Old Lady: *seems like a sweet little lady* “Hello, dear. I was wondering if you could show me where the chocolate bunnies are? I need one for my grandson.”

Me: “Of course, ma’am. I’d be more than happy to help.”

(I show her, and it looks like there’s only one more left on the shelf. She takes it and thanks me.)

Me: “Well, you’re in luck! That’s the last one. The registers are over here, ma’am, and thank you for shopping with us.”

(She is extremely polite throughout the whole exchange and goes on her way. Less than a minute later:)

Customer: “Do you have any chocolate bunnies? I really need one.”

Me: *cringes, knowing what’s going to happen* “Um, actually, that lady there just took the last one… so…”

(The customer immediately takes off, and I can see her yelling at the little old lady. The lady is calm, though, and when the other customer stops to catch her breath, the old lady pulls out A TASER and threatens her with it. She doesn’t get angry or anything. The customer pales and runs away, apologizing. This freaks me the h*** out. I don’t even know if tasers are legal here, or what. I walk over to her, praying.)

Me: “Uh… ma’am… I… your taser…” *sweating nervously*

Old Lady: *laughs* “Oh, sorry, dear. Did I scare you? It doesn’t work; there are no batteries in it. See?” *presses button, nothing happens* “I’ve been carrying it around since I went Black Friday shopping last year. Thank you again for your help!” *leaves*

(I don’t even want to know what happened last year on Black Friday.)

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(I’m a sushi chef in a small kiosk in a grocery store. We rent the kiosk from the store but are owned by a parent company. One of the rolls we have is slices of eel on balls of rice, topped with sesame seeds and a sauce.)

Customer: “EXCUSE ME!”

Me: “Yes, ma’am?”

Customer: “What are these… things on the eel?!”

Me: “Those are sesame seeds, ma’am.”

Customer: “I don’t want them! Make me a new one this instant!”

(She then opens the package containing the sushi and throws it at me, hitting my chest and smearing sauce down my front. I stare at her and slowly turn, making her a new set with no seeds. I hand it to her and she walks away, no thank you or apology. Twenty minutes later, she storms back up, and again, she throws the eel at me, this time hitting my face, as well.)

Customer: “THERE ARE NO SESAME SEEDS!”

Me: *trying to keep my cool, because I need the job* “Ma’am, you requested that I make you a roll with no seeds.”

Customer: “Don’t you lie to me, you little b****! I want my g**d*** roll made right!”

(I very quietly made her a new roll, this time pouring the seeds into a sauce cup with a lid. I handed it to her, and she left again. Ten minutes later, the lady came back with a grocery store manager, demanding that I be fired for my rudeness. He listened to my side and told her that even if I had done anything wrong, he had no authority to fire me, as I was not his employee. She stomped her feet in the most childish way and stormed out. Thirty minutes later, I looked up to see Eel Lady, as she is now known, walking back through the door, her cheeks puffy. She walked up to me, chewing, and then proceeded to spit chewed-up eel and rice all over me. Eel Lady was then escorted out and permanently banned from the store.)

(My husband and I order pizza, then go to pick it up. They don’t have a dine-in area, but there are four chairs lined up along the window. An elderly man is using one of the chairs, so I make my husband take one of the other chairs, and my children refuse to share the chairs. After about twenty minutes of waiting while the children are entertained with their own electronics, and my husband is zoned out on his phone, this happens:)

Elderly Man: *to my husband* “You’re so rude!”

Husband: “What?”

Me: “What? How so?”

Elderly Man: “Making her stand like that! That’s totally rude of you!”

Me: “I told him he should sit down, since my legs need to stretch, and the pressure changes have been aggravating his arthritis. I’ve been glued to a computer in a small office all day.”

Elderly Man: “Well, okay, then, that’s… Sorry. I just assumed there.”

Me: “That’s okay, yeah. I hope we don’t meet anyone who is actually rude tonight! It’s been about fifteen minutes since we got here, but I understand the wait, since we ordered several specific pizzas, and it’s a busy football night.”

Cashier: *listening in, says quietly* “Oh, thank God.”

(I was exaggerating downward; it has been at least twenty minutes. The cashier goes to confer with her manager, and the manager comes over to apologize for the wait. The kids and my husband don’t mind — they’ve got their games — but I’m thirsty, so I accept her offer of free drinks for the family. She offers the elderly gentleman a discount on his pizza, and a drink for his lengthier wait. And then, about five minutes later, another customer comes in.)

Rude Dude: *walks to counter* “I’ve been waiting 45 minutes now! I need my pizza immediately!”

Cashier: “Yes, sir, what is the name on your order?”

Rude Dude: “Forty-five minutes! I’ve been waiting!”

Cashier: “And the name on your order?”

Rude Dude: “I’VE BEEN WAIIIITIIIING 45 MINUTES!”

(This repeats at least another half dozen times, with him saying the same thing in different combinations, and the cashier offering the same question in a super sweet saccharine voice. I’m getting hangry at this point, and he’s the nearest annoyance, soooo…)

Me: “Forty-five minutes, huh? Everybody here has clearly gotten that information. But, the one thing she needs is your f****** name. So, either tell the nice lady your name, or go f*** off, and wait at least another hour elsewhere.”

Rude Dude: *gives his name and glares at the cashier*

Cashier: “Oh! Your order went out through the drive-thru five minutes ago! Have a nice night!” *turns back to the kitchen to retrieve the elderly man’s order*

Rude Dude: *screams incoherently, throws a plastic organizer full of salt, peppers, and parmesan packets into the kitchen area, and slams himself into a chair to sulk*

Elderly Man: *on his way to picking up his order, stops to address the rude dude* “Your order isn’t here, so you probably shouldn’t be, either. Now, go see if your pizza’s at home, and if it is not, do as the lady has requested. Go f*** off and wait at least an hour elsewhere.”

Rude Dude: *literally growls, then leaves*

Cashier: “Sir, that is awesome. Your order is on us tonight, and we’re so sorry for such a long wait.”

(She calls my husband’s name about five or so minutes later, and we find that they have given us an extra deep-dish pizza, a dessert, and a couple of other items that we used to order on a weekly basis, but no longer do due to household size and budget changes.)

Cashier: “Your tot—“

Manager: “Nope! No. Noooo. F*** that. This is all on us. Y’all are longtime customers, and this is the longest you guys have ever waited, and we really appreciate your patience. And you telling that guy to f*** off.”

Cashier: “Yeah! Sweet! And yeah, thanks for telling the guy to f*** off.”

Husband: *is confused*

Me: “You’re welcome. I can’t stand people that obtuse.” *laughs* “The fact that the elderly man repeated it, though… That made my week.”

Husband: “So… wait… what? We’re good here?”

Me: “Yes, I’m coming back later this week with the kids, too.”

Cashier: “[Husband], you were playing on your phone. [My Name] will explain it when y’all get home, okay?”

(When we got home, my in-laws came over unexpectedly, but thanks to the generosity of the pizzeria staff, we had enough pizza for everyone. I told everyone how we got all the pizza for free, the kids reiterated how super rude the dude was, and my husband joked that I could hire myself out as an expert snarker while I continued job hunting.)

(When my brother is sixteen he is just starting to fill out, but still looks gangly and breakable. However, having been into sports since he was three and having two older siblings who are rough on him, he’s a lot tougher than he looks. He’s playing soccer, and one of the guys on the other team is being an absolute terror but is good enough to hide his cheating from the referees. This frustrates everyone on my brother’s team, as well as the refs since they can’t kick him out if they can’t catch him. Eventually, my brother’s coach decides to place my brother opposite him. To the surprise of absolutely no one — we are all very involved in the soccer community, and all of the refs and a majority of the players and coaches in our age range know us, at least by reputation, if not personally — the first time that kid tries this with my brother, he is laid out flat. My brother doesn’t bother to hide what he is doing and is given a yellow card. The opposing coach pulls his player. Standing near the team benches, my mom is in a good position to hear the player and the coach talking about it. For context, a yellow card is a warning and a red card is an ejection from the game. Two yellows automatically add up to a red.)

Player: “I’m fine, Coach! I can still play!”

Coach: “You’re not going back out this game.”

Player: “C’mon, he’s already got a yellow. I’ll be fine.”

Coach: *exasperated* “Exactly! He’s already got a yellow! On the next hit, he’s leaving the field, anyway. He has no more reason to hold back! If I put you back on that field, you’re leaving it on a stretcher!”

(Exactly right, Coach. Exactly right. The player sat out the rest of the game and my brother carried the record of his yellow with pride. The player was a lot less vicious after that, now that the idea for how to be rid of him for good was planted. My brother was far from the only one willing to sit out two games if it came to it.)

Many years after the fact, my husband related to me and his parents a story of his first and only encounter with law enforcement.

When he was fourteen, he did one of those stupid things under peer pressure that was considered a badge of honor back then: driving a motorbike without a license, or indeed without being the appropriate age to get one. Of course, he was stopped and taken to the police station. As a minor, his parents were to be called, but there was an unofficial, alternative punishment: a couple of whacks across the buttock of the child in question. Different times, back then. It was not legal, of course, but deemed appropriate.

Given the choice, my husband without hesitation chose the alternative. The friendly police sergeant opened a drawer and gave him a choice of the tool. There was a colorful collection of batons of various materials, from wooden, to rubber, to plastic. My husband chose the least impressive, small one. The policeman said okay, grabbed the stick… and expanded it to working length. Yes, it was the first model of telescopic baton in use, and according to my husband, it stung.

Still, my husband maintains, that it was much better than what his father would have done to him, had he known about his ride without a license.

“You bet I would,” said my father-in-law, when my husband finished. “In fact, I still should!” and jokingly undid his belt.