I am a store manager of a well-known fast food place. We are short-staffed so I’m running the drive-thru and I only have one other employee with me at the front area. He is doing all the walk-in orders.

It is before lunchtime so it’s not too busy. As I’m handing out an order to a car, the passenger in the car starts screaming and pointing. The driver turns to her, confused.

Driver: “What on earth is wrong?”

Passenger: “Tha… that man has no clothes on!”

I turn to where she is pointing and, sure enough, there is a man exiting my store completely naked. I’m more surprised I wasn’t alerted to it sooner, and I turn to my employee who looks to be in shock.

Me: “[Coworker #1], what just happened? Did you just serve a man without clothes on?”

Coworker #2: “I didn’t realise… I turned around and a man was at the counter. I just thought he had no shirt on. He asked if we had a free burger. I told him, ‘No, mate,’ and he just walked out; only then did I realise he was completely naked!”

We both are just so confused about what just happened and we laugh. I call the non-emergency line to the police to let them know there’s a naked man on the loose. Apparently, I’m the fifth person that has called as, apparently, he also entered the shopping centre close by, and they are already on the way.

About twenty minutes later, we see him running out the front with two policemen chasing him on foot. We have another employee start within this time and she points it out:

Coworker #2: “Look, a naked man!” *Laughs*

They caught him five minutes later, and we saw them walking back with him in cuffs. We later learned he was on a ridiculous amount of drugs and didn’t even know he had no clothes on.

I’m putting an elderly woman’s shopping through.

Me: “Is that everything for you today?”

Customer: “You’re such a sweet young thing. Such good manners! When were you born, sweetheart?”

Me: “’02.”

Customer: “YOU WERE BORN IN 1902?!”

Me: “No, sorry. 2002.”

Customer: “Oh…” *Suddenly nasty* “You’re all stupid little s***s. F****** millennium babies! You should all be drowned!”

She then tried to hit me with her handbag. I can only guess that she realised how stupid she was thinking I was over a hundred years old and decided that insulting me was the best way out of it.

I work at a sit-down chain restaurant. A group of teenagers, fresh out of their last day of high school, comes in to celebrate. They even bring a cake with them; this isn’t a big deal, except we don’t allow that because we serve cake.

One of the more level-headed ones talks to a manager, and we decide to let it slide, even giving them extra plates.

Fast forward to about an hour later, when the cake is being cut up. These kids are borderline drunk now — we found out later they had spiked their drinks — and one of them gets the bright idea to smush his cake into his friend’s face. This starts an all-out riot at the table, with drunk eighteen-year-olds throwing cake, half-eaten burgers, cups of Dr. Pepper and mysterious alcohols, and even silverware at each other.

Our managers come out, but policy is to not touch patrons at all (lawsuits and stuff), so we have to wait for the cops to come. They do, eventually, and take the lot of them away.

Since it is my table and servers bus their own there, I am stuck with the job of cleaning up the remains. Cake was ground into the carpet, and the stains are still there. I spend maybe three hours making that section presentable again. The worst part is, since the kids were arrested, they didn’t pay. I got no tip and registered zero sales (manager comps don’t reflect in your total) for five hours of my shift, and I later found out that one of the children’s parents was suing the restaurant for not keeping a better eye on her adult son.

It’s my first week working as a dealer at a casino, and I am placed in the back because during that first week, everyone makes mistakes constantly and it’s easier for the “floor” to watch us. But some players know this and willingly seek out the weaker dealers, because if your dealer makes a mistake and there’s a dispute, it usually goes in the player’s favor.

A player sits down at the blackjack table next to mine, and starts betting heavily, $400 to 500 per hand. At one point, he has a twelve and the dealer has a six, in which case anyone will tell you to stay and hope the dealer busts. He stays, the dealer has a two under, then pulls a six, and then a four, for a total of eighteen. The guy starts cheering and says, “Sixteen!”, trying to convince the dealer she has to pull another card.

It works; the dealer pulls a king, and then she looks down and counts twenty-eight. She immediately turns to the floor, who explains that the dealer had eighteen and the player has lost, and as the king was exposed, it has to be “burned” or discarded. The player begins screaming and cursing, but she takes the money and there’s nothing he can really do.

Now the player has a meltdown. He realizes that he can’t win but that in trying to confuse the dealer, that king would’ve been his next round. No guarantee it’d actually be a good hand, of course, but it has a better chance of being something good. He’s yelling and screaming, and the floor calls over the pit boss, who also has to call over the shift supervisor, who all explained that an exposed card has to be burned.

At this point, in front of everyone and on I don’t know how many cameras, the player screams that the money means nothing to him, throws his drink at the dealer, and then grabs about $3,000 of his chips and throws them against the ceiling. It’s raining chips everywhere. Security then grabs him. Some of the workers gather the chips they can and give them to him. He’s given his cash, escorted out, and then banned from the casino.

Sadly, though, he does not get a pair of shiny bracelets or a free car ride to the hotel with the orange jumpsuits.

The poor dealer held it together on the floor, but in the break room, she was sobbing. But since then, she has ended up becoming one of the better dealers.

I am working in the “suits and men’s accessories” department. On an initially unremarkable Monday morning, I am approached at around 11:00 am by a man who smells strongly of alcohol and is looking for pyjama pants.

Customer: “I’m on vacation here from Nevada. Do you know the area?”

Me: “I’m pretty familiar. What are you looking for?”

Customer: “Know where I can score some weed?”

I freeze, partly because I’m still in Customer Service mode and legitimately don’t know, and partly because the question is so unexpected.

Customer: *Laughs* “I guess you don’t indulge? That’s okay.”

He then sweeps me up into a hug and, caught off guard, I stay frozen until he lets me go. Laughing, he walks off. I mention it to my manager, jokingly self-reporting myself for letting a customer leave with an unanswered question, and then get back to my regular duties.

About twenty minutes later, the young lady working in the next department over comes to me in a panic and asks for my help.

Coworker: “There’s a naked guy in my fitting room hallway. He tried to hug me.”

Me: *With a sinking feeling* “Was he about this tall, southern accent?”

Sure enough, it is the same guy. I tell her to call security and head over to see what I can accomplish. He’s standing there with a pile of clothes in his hands (and nowhere else) and he smiles when he sees me.

Customer: “Hey, I’d like to buy these. Can you ring me up?”

I take his shoulder and guide him to a fitting booth:

Me: “I’ll be happy to, just as soon as you’re dressed.”

I closed the door in his face and exited to find my coworker, who informed me that security was busy with a shoplifter and couldn’t be bothered with our situation. My department was empty, so I lingered a few minutes to make sure this ended well, only for the hugger to exit the dressing room and make a beeline for the exit between our departments. We just let him go; there was a pile of clothes in the booth he’d used, but we couldn’t be sure if it was all of what he’d had or not. We never found out if he was related to the other shoplifting situation or if he was a bizarre coincidence.