I once worked at a store filled to the brim with lovingly crafted works of art by creative locals. We sold everything from clothing and jewellery to paintings and ceramics, each one hand made and as you can imagine, priced accordingly. It was also located in a fairly affluent suburb, so in general customers have no problem with shelling out wads of cash for a one-of-a-kind item. However, as you would imagine, we got those whose noses were so far up in the air that they failed to smell the Coffee of You-Ain't-So-Special, Snowflake.

Anyhoo, it was a fairly chilly morning for this part of the world, meaning that the temperature was barely into double digits celcius, and as such the heat was most welcome for your friendly neighbourhood broken-car-heater Squeeful. As I settled in to work with a cheery 'Morning, Sunshine' yelled from the back room, in from the cold wanders a lost polar bear.

I'm not kidding. This woman - or more accurately, whale - was wrapped against the cold in the fluffiest white faux fur coat I have ever seen. Immediately on entering, she begins to complain loudly about the ridiculous heat, the brightness of the lights, the too-high volume of the barely audible music playing - all while peering through piggy little eyeballs at the various merchandise and sniffing disdainfully.

I do my job, greeting her perkily, ask if she needs any help finding anything - the standard spiel so familiar to all of you. Cue the ignoring of the salesgirl. Eh, I think, and go back to neatening the counter merch etc. Next thing I know, the sunlight through the windows is blocked by a giant furry iceberg, who proceeds to slam down onto the counter a hand-beaded cocktail dress in a size more appropriate to someone of far less immensity.

"This. In my size. By the weekend." She orders. Oh dear, thinks the Evil Squeeful, sense of impending doom intensifying as I politely explain that each item is hand made, and the dressmaker will need to be contacted to discuss fittings, time frame and pricing for a custom piece. As you can probably guess, the mountain of fluff before me doesn't like this, and proceeds to launch into a tirade of entitled bullpoop that boils down to "I'm rich and important and I deserve special treatment and because of the wait a massive discount as well" mixed with varying insults about my race and intelligence level. Seriously, over the top Oscar material.

Suddenly, a piercing shriek rings throughout the air, and like a sunbeam after the rain, there is the boss, a whistle between her lips. I'm not kidding. 

"Now that I have your attention, get the fuck out of my store," she says flatly. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. My boss is tiny, all of five foot nothing, but the death glare she is levelling at this blubberpile makes her seem ten times bigger. The giant marshmallow tries a couple more times to speak, but each time the boss just blows the whistle again, and so marches out of the store with the shreds of her entitlement trailing behind her.

My mouth at this point was agape, and I'm looking at the boss like she's crazy. She points at the whistle."This? I have gamer teenagers. Noise cancelling headsets don't cancel ALL noise." With a final evil grin, she vanishes back into the rear of the store, and I am left wondering if that actually just happened or if someone put drugs in my cereal.

TL;DR - Entitlement<Boss with whistle.