I work in a pub connected to a small, cosy hotel/inn. My coworkers are round the back cleaning tables outside, and I’m wiping down the counter and cleaning a couple of beer glasses.

It’s empty as we close earlier than normal pubs because ours doubles as a hotel. The “Closed” sign is on the door.

Suddenly, a lady waltzes in with her entire family with a huge grin on her face.

Customer: “A table! Get me a table so that my family can eat!”

Me: “I’m afraid I can’t do that as we are closing.”

I gesture around the empty and dark space to point out the obvious.

Customer: “What?! That’s stupid! It’s not even 10:00 pm yet!”

Me: “The pub doubles as a hotel, so we can’t stay open too late.”

Customer: *Starting a bit of an angry rampage* “I’m not coming here again! It’s that you close so early!”

She has two daughters with her who look around my age (sixteen), and the looks of embarrassment and sympathy they give each other and then me are the most memorable parts of the encounter. One of them mouths, “Sorry.” At first, I think she’s mouthing it for what her mum has said, but no, it’s for what is coming next.

Customer: “So, what are you going to do for me?”

Me: “Do… for you?”

Customer: “Yes, do for me! I’m a customer in your establishment, and I need service. You’re refusing me service, and that is unacceptable, so I require some form of compensation. What are you going to do for me?”

Me: “The next town over has a twenty-four-hour service station on the way. I can give you directions?”

Customer: “Are you being pissy with me?”

Me: “I’m doing something for you. I’m giving you directions to where you can get some food.”

Customer: “You just want to get rid of us!”

Me: “Well… yeah.”

Customer: “I knew it!”

Me: “The ‘Closed’ sign on the door didn’t make it obvious?”

Customer: “I’m going to complain about this place on Google!”

Me: “That we don’t cater to late-night loud customers so as not to annoy our paying guests? Sounds like free advertising to me.”

She harrumphed and stormed out with her still-mortified-looking daughters. I hope she wrote that review.

Customer: “Oh, I love your hair! It looks so natural!”

Me: “Thanks! Yeah, I don’t do too much to it.”

Customer: “What product do you use?”

Me: “Just the normal shampoo and conditioner, really.”

Customer: “No, silly! I mean what dye brand? To get that color?”

Me: “I don’t color my hair. This is its natural color.”

Customer: “But… it’s red?”

Me: “Technically, it’s called ginger, but yes, Irish red hair handed down to me from my dad’s side.”

Customer: “If you’re making a joke, I’m afraid I don’t understand it, but seriously, what coloring product is that?”

Me: “I swear to you this is my natural hair color.”

Customer: “Stop lying! All the original redheads died in the Irish famine!” *Storms off*

So, this woman is walking around thinking every redhead she sees is… pretending to be part of a genetically extinct line of hair color?

Our state no longer has a mask mandate, and customers are returning in droves. Since it’s taking us a while to rehire after “The Great Resignation”, our customers are waiting in line for a bit longer than they might have been used to before the lockdowns. An angry customer gets to the front of the line.

Customer: “I have been timing you, and I have been in line for six minutes! Six minutes!“

Me: “Yes, we have been working very hard to keep up with the pent-up customer demand for coffee since fully reopening. We ask our customers to be patient during this time.” 

Customer: “What… That’s it?!”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Customer: “I’m not getting my coffee for free for being made to wait?!”

Not much of a customer if they’re getting coffee for free, but whatever…

Me: “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

Customer: “Well, you just lost a customer!” 

Me: “Oh, wow! Thank you so much! We have way too many customers lately, and we’ve been barely able to keep up! I really appreciate your sacrifice. Thank you!” 

Customer: “No, wait, I—”

Me: *To my manager* “[Manager], this amazing customer has said she’s not coming back! She’s taking one for the team!” 

Manager: “Really? That’s so kind of you, ma’am. We need all the help we can get since we have so many customers now; we do need to start shedding a few.”

Customer: “No, you’re not getting it! I’m not happy! I’m—”

Manager: “I understand, ma’am. We’re not happy, either. We’ve had months after months of unprecedented customer increases since reopening, and to be honest, losing your custom isn’t really going to make a dent against such staggering growth, but every little helps, so—”

Customer: “Stop it! I am not coming back because you’re not treating me like a loyal customer! I am not doing it as a favor to you!”

Manager: “You had to wait in line for a few minutes longer than usual, and you’ve decided that warrants never coming back? I don’t think that’s a very good definition of ‘loyal’, but either way, we appreciate you choosing a competitor from now on. Thank you, and bye-bye!”

Customer: *Screeching* “You’re all a**holes!” *Storms out*

Manager: “No, we’re all overworked a**holes. Okay, that sounded wrong…” 

Related:
When “Never Coming Back!” Comes Back To Haunt Them

I am sixteen years old and have just gotten my driver’s license. My parents have me run to the store to pick up some groceries. I stop by my friend’s house on the way back home for maybe five minutes to show him that I got my license and am out driving alone. It is a really fun moment in the life of a sixteen-year-old.

My stepmom freaks out.

Stepmom: “We did not give you permission to drive to [Friend #1]’s house! We told you to go to the store and that is all!”

Me: *To her and my dad* “You let me drive to [Friend #2]’s house yesterday, so I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Stepmom: “You are not allowed to drive anywhere we do not give explicit permission for you to drive to. Period, end of sentence. Just because you were allowed to do it previously, it does not ever give you permission another time. Ever.”

Fast forward three days. My thirteen-year-old stepsister has been a jerk to me all day, and I’m sick of her BS. She goes quiet for about thirty minutes and then comes out all sticky-sweet.

Stepsister: “Hey, [My Name], it’s time to take me to ballet.”

I have taken her to ballet three days a week since I got my license. It’s basically one of my chores. But I see my opportunity to say, “Screw you!” to all three of them at once.

Me: “Sorry, [Stepsister]. I’m not allowed to take you to ballet. The parents didn’t tell me to take you, and I don’t want to get in trouble!”

She screams, she cries, she begs, and she threatens. She calls her mom and leaves a message. She calls my dad and leaves a message. Just like Steve Miller says, “Time keeps on slippin’, into the future.” I’m not sure I’m brave enough to hang on to the bitter end and actually go through with it. I’m shaking, but I know I’ve got them dead to rights. There’s no call back from the parents, and the clock goes on past the start of [Stepsister]’s class.

[Stepmom] comes home, and [Stepsister] runs to meet her.

Stepmom: “[Stepsister], what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at ballet!”

I hear [Stepsister] tell her rendition of the story, leaving out how miserable she has been all day, and they go back and forth. [Stepmom] comes pounding down the hall and yells (as God is my witness):

Stepmom: “You just wait ’til your father gets home!”

I have to stifle a laugh because I never really believed people actually said that.

An hour later, Dad comes home, and BOTH [Stepmom] and [Stepsister] go running out to meet him and tell him how horrible I was. I wait in my room for the hammer to fall.

About ten minutes later, my dad calls down the hall:

Dad: “[My Name], would you please come here and talk to us?”

I walk out of my room.

Dad: “Well, [My Name], you did it.”

Me: “What do you mean, Dad?”

Dad: “You got us all, and there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it. Okay, let’s make this reasonable for everyone.”

And they did. They agreed that they were over the top. They recognized that [Stepsister] wasn’t always very nice to me, and they spoke to her about that. I was allowed to have reasonable freedom if I was driving somewhere since I had good grades and had never been in trouble.

I walked down the hall back to my room, my back to my parents, with the world’s biggest grin on my face.

A front-of-house coworker comes up to me at the kitchen entrance.

Coworker: “They’ve asked me for a medium rare chicken breast.”

Me: “No. We don’t do that.”

Coworker: “Oh… why?”

Me: “Chicken has to be cooked. It can’t be served rare in any form. Red is dead when it comes to chicken.”

The front-of-house coworker goes away and then comes back.

Coworker: “They say they’re willing to risk it.”

I actually follow them to the customer, and we have to have a conversation as to why that’s not something I’m willing to do.

Customer: “I’ve never had medium rare chicken; I wanted to try it.”

Me: “There’s a very good reason you’ve never had it. Anyone who would make it for you really doesn’t like you.”