(I’m a woman in my 20s, and have just moved into my first apartment six months prior to this incident. It’s a Sunday afternoon, and my mom is visiting, when I decide to hang a picture. My walls are hard concrete and require special hooks, so it takes a minute or two to work the hook into the wall. Thirty seconds into the hammering, someone bangs on my door. I answer. It’s my neighbor, a man twice my age and size, red-faced and fuming, yelling and threatening to call the disturbance hotline on me and get me evicted. He’s been awful with me and with other neighbours before, so I am prepared.)

Neighbour: *screaming* “Are you stupid!? It’s Easter; the rules say—”

Me: *interrupting* “Actually, the rules say…” *points to the sign where the rules are posted on the wall and quoting it* “’It is forbidden to hammer, drill, or make excessive noise on red days.’”

(Sweden has both common holidays and so-called “red days,” which are specific holiday days. Red days usually refer to Sundays and days AFTER we celebrate major holidays, but NOT the holidays themselves. This is why holiday-related rules are suppose to specify that they are in effect on “red days AND the day before red days.” Our rules, however, are only written to be in effect on red days.)

Neighbour: “Exactly! It’s Easter—”

Me: “…and according to Swedish custom, Easter is not a red day. It is a holiday. Red days are Sundays and the days after religious holidays. Today is a Saturday, and Easter Even. This rule does not apply.”

(Absolute silence falls. He looks like a deer in the headlights. I coldly stare him down as the slow realization of what has happened dawns on him. I’ve just robbed him of the only justification for his behavior.)

Neighbour: *meekly* “O-okay… Um… Are you going to be drilling a lot more?”

Me: *sickly sweet* “Oh, no. We’re almost done! Just another minute, and then we’ll be quiet for the whole rest of the weekend.”

(Looking utterly deflated, he slowly turned and wandered back into his own apartment without another word. My mother barely managed to wait until I closed the door before she fell over laughing, undoubtedly remembering when I called her on the phone crying over how this man had treated me. Perhaps I took it too far. But then again, that was two years ago, and he hasn’t dared to confront anyone since.)

(I’m a housekeeper for an apartment building. The residents can get free cleaning every day, or decline if they wish to. There’s an old man that lives alone with his dog, and lately he’s been declining cleaning. We maids are happy, because it means less work for us. One day, he moves out.)

Manager: “Okay, get a crew in there for some deep cleaning!”

(Crew goes and returns.)

Crew: “You’re not going to believe this!”

(The manager went in to see. The apartment was totally destroyed. The manager called the police. Turned out the dog had some kind of untreated infection on his skin and rubbed on the walls, causing massive stains everywhere, and the old man had an infection on his head and bled all over the bed. The old man was arrested and fined for cruelty to animals and causing thousands of dollars in damage!)

My girlfriend and I have just moved into a new flat, where we have an allocated, clearly-marked parking space.

We’re some of the first people in the new building to move in, and it’s clear that the owner of a business across the street has been using our car park to avoid the on-street parking charges while the building wasn’t occupied. She parks her brand new, but bottom of the range, BMW in our space. We leave her notes asking her not to do it again, and eventually as our paths cross, I confront her about it.

“But that space is the biggest, and I don’t want my pride and joy being scratched by parking it on the street,” she protests.

I make it clear that it is my space; I have paid for it, and will get her car towed if she does it again. Of course, she does. I don’t have time to call the management company, as we’re off on holiday, but I park my car directly in front of hers, so there’s no way she can get out.

Two weeks later, we return, and both cars are still there. I have a succession of notes through my front door, ranging from nasty: “If you don’t move your car I’ll SMASH IT WITH A HAMMER!” to pleading: “I’m so sorry; please just let me get my car out and I’ll never do it again.”

We pop out to the shops in our car, and when we return, the woman’s car is gone. We get a lockable post to stop it happening again, and I mention the story to the barber in the shop next to hers, who happens to be our neighbour. “Oh, that was you?!” he says. “This cut’s free. She’s been doing this to everyone round here for ages. For the last two weeks, she’s had to get the bus home. She won’t stop complaining about how someone like her shouldn’t have to ride the bus.”

(My wife and I live in an apartment complex. Our greasy upstairs neighbor listens to his music and movies so loud we can’t hear our own TV, and talking to him about it is always met with, “Yeah, yeah, sorry! Of course!” and then him never actually turning anything down. I wake up in the middle of the night to an odd noise that takes me a moment to identify. It is a rhythmic thumping and squeaking, directly above us. I realize this must be the neighbor’s bedroom, as the apartment layouts are identical. The moment I wonder if my wife is still asleep, she speaks.)

Wife: “Um…”

Me: “Yeah. I hear it, too.”

Wife: “What… what is it?”

Me: “What do you think it is, honey?”

Wife: *wearily* “Oh, no.”

(Right then, the noise stops. Then we hear footsteps across the room towards the bathroom. Then a door shutting. Then silence. Then a flush.)

Wife: “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

(I am an apartment manager. I receive a phone call from a woman asking for information about our apartments. She asked me a series of questions regarding the rental amount, utilities, parking, etc., all very good questions. Finally, she asks:)

Caller: “How close are you located to the beach?”

Me: “Our location is 3½ miles to the beach.”

Caller: “Is that walking or driving?”

Me: *holding back laughter* “Either one. We are located 3½ miles to the beach.”

(She seemed a little frustrated that I wouldn’t tell her whether that was walking or driving.)