(At the factory where I work, coworkers suddenly start writing “funny” messages on the doors and walls of our toilets. It turns out it’s some kind of contest between them. Clearly, management isn’t thrilled, and issues a memo that if anyone is caught in the act they’ll be fired on the spot. But since these are toilets, it is illegal to install camera surveillance. Without any means of surveillance, the memo has no effect and the walls and doors get smeared with more new “funnies” every day. One day, the maintenance department thinks they’ve found a solution in a paint that is supposed to be resistant against all sorts of pens, markers, crayons, etc. They invite a salesman to demonstrate the product. The man comes in with a lot of samples and we all get to try to write on the samples with anything we can come up with: markers, pens, lipstick, pencils, and even spray paint. Nothing sticks to the samples. The salesman cleans every sample without any effort.)

Head Maintenance: “That’s nice. But I want to see this stuff on one door of our toilets.”

Salesman: “Sure you can. I’ll treat one of your doors with our product, but you’ll have to sign this order for it first.”

Head Maintenance: “There’s no way I’m going to buy a product if I haven’t tested it in real life. That’s why we asked for a demonstration in the first place. We’re done.”

(Management found a cheaper solution. They painted the toilets and hired someone to clean the toilets whenever workers used them. That man also checked the toilets for new scribbles. As a result, two coworkers were fired. The walls and doors stayed clean.)

(We’re mainly a home decor shop, but we do have food items and other various things we get at random. Normally, if a food item is open and exposed, we can’t sell it.)

Customer: *putting the box of sealed biscotti down* “Before you ring this up, can you open it?”

Me: “Um, why, sir?”

Customer: “I want to make sure the biscotti aren’t broken; I hate it when they’re broken.”

(I decide to humor him because they are packaged inside the box so if he doesn’t want them I can just tape the box shut again. One is broken in two.)

Customer: “F***! G**d*** it! You f****** broke it!”

Me: “E-excuse me?!”

Customer: “Oh, sorry, not you. Anyway, this is s***, so I’ll do you a favor.” *rips the bag open and the biscotti goes everywhere, breaking most of them* “Whoops. Well, I’m definitely not paying for that.”

(He then ran out the door before I or my manager, who was like two feet away, could even react.)

(While cleaning a route for climbing, some rocks come loose and hit my foot. I am a few hours from the nearest town, and about six from the nearest hospital. Because the pain is manageable, I just lace my boots up and get a ride to the hospital a few days later. I will admit to looking more than a little scruffy at this point, and bathing hasn’t exactly been a common occurrence over the past few months due to lack of facilities.)

Nurse: “Why are you here today?”

Me: “I think I broke my foot.”

Nurse: “Why do you think that?”

Me: “Around 45 pounds of rocks fell on it a few days back, and I can move one of the bones around.”

Nurse: *rolls her eyes* “Are you sure that’s not just a joint? If you broke something a few days ago, you would have come in a few days ago.”

Me: “Well, it wasn’t really an option because I was two hours outside of [Small, Rural Town] and had to wait to get a ride to here. Plus, it’s really swollen and I don’t think the arch of my foot has a joint in it.”

Nurse: “If you want pain meds, just admit it. I’m not wasting time on a room for you if you’re just looking for pills.”

Me: “I haven’t asked for any medications at all, and I just want an x-ray of my foot.”

Nurse: “No. You clearly want drugs. I’m not wasting time on you anymore. Just leave. Try the methadone clinic across the street.”

Me: “No. I am not leaving until someone actually examines my foot!”

Nurse: *rolls eyes again and motions to the security guard* “Listen, if you won’t leave, we’ll have to escort you out.”

Me: “Just have someone actually look at my foot! I don’t want pills, I don’t want a room; just have an actual doctor look at my d*** foot!”

(The security guard looks at me and the nurse.)

Nurse: “Get her out of here; she’s a junkie.”

Guard: *looking confused* “Has she asked for pills? Or been violent to you? Because I haven’t seen her threaten you, [Nurse]. I don’t see why she needs to leave before seeing a doctor.”

(The nurse stomps away but returns a few minutes later, dragging a doctor by the sleeve.)

Nurse: “See? She claims she broke her foot days ago and just now came in for it. She’s clearly looking for drugs or a place to sleep.”

Doctor: “Have you actually looked at her foot yet, [Nurse]?”

Nurse: “No! She’s gross and clearly faking it! She doesn’t need treatment; she needs a f****** job!”

Doctor: “Let me see your foot, ma’am.”

(I take off my boot and sock. Apparently, one of the bones has moved around; it’s now visibly poking up.)

Doctor: “[Nurse], get out of here. Her foot is clearly broken. Go find something else to do, instead of your asinine crusade against people who you don’t like.”

(I got my foot x-rayed and got a boot for it. I broke it in five places and the doctor said I was lucky to not have caused permanent damage by not getting it set right away. The nurse had to send me an apology letter for her behavior, and I learned to shower and look nicer before going to a hospital!)

In his early twenties, my brother went through a rough patch. Although I say, “brother,” he was technically my cousin but was adopted as a small child as his mum — my aunt — was a heroin addict. My brother started to go down a similar path.

Upon returning home one day, my mother had found that he had taken every item of jewelry or value in our home. He had also stolen my engagement ring and TV. He had been stealing for years, but my mum refused to believe it until he went crazy one day and literally stole everything in sight.

We took him to court, and as my mother sat waiting to be called in front of the barristers, a police officer came to inform us that his trial wasn’t going ahead that day.

My brother, being an idiot, had been unable to find a lift to court. Instead, he walked up to the local police station, five minutes after the trial was due to start. He asked them for a ride to the courthouse.

They immediately arrested him for missing his court appointment.

(My cousin is cursed and blessed with a very young-looking face. Despite the fact she is 35, she sometimes still gets asked for ID. I am 21 and have also inherited the family baby-face. We’re walking round a well-known mother-and-baby store chain. She is pushing her oldest child — still a toddler — in a pushchair, whilst I have her younger baby in a papoose on my back, to make things easier for her whilst she shops. We get everything she wants and join the line for the tills. Behind us are a pair of older women who start to make snippy comments about us.)

Old Lady #1: “Look at those two. Can’t keep their legs shut!”

Old Lady #2: “Ridiculous. Our generation didn’t fight in the war so that ungrateful girls like them could sponge off our war pensions.”

Old Lady #1: “I hope their mothers are ashamed.”

Old Lady #2: “I bet they’re not married. Probably no father in sight!”

Old Lady #1: “Probably a [racial slur] who slept with them for drug money.”

Old Lady #2: “Disgusting.”

(Finally, my cousin has had enough of this and turns around to speak to them.)

Cousin: “Excuse me, were you talking about me and my cousin?”

Old Lady #2: “Your ears work as well as your ovaries, then, love?”

Old Lady #1: *sniggering* “As if they know what ovaries even means!”

Cousin: “Not that it’s any of your business to judge who would and who wouldn’t make a good parent, but I’m 35, I’m married, I have a biology-based PhD, and I’m the head of Science at [Local Large Secondary School]. [My Name] here is my cousin and is just carrying my youngest daughter for me so I don’t have to use the bulky double pram on what I’d only planned as a very quick shopping trip. You’ve done nothing but make hateful assumptions, which, whilst we’re on the subject, reminds me, if – unlike me, obviously – you look your own age, then there’s no way you’re from the WWII generation. This would make you baby boomers, who’d be relying on my and [My Name]’s generation to foot your whopping NHS bills. I suggest you think before you open your mouths next time.”

Old Lady #1: *massively backpedalling* “Well, I didn’t mean my generation; my father…”

Old Lady #2: “We didn’t mean you, dear, we meant…” *looks around hoping to see a legitimate teenage mother in the store* “I… uh…”

Cousin: “Come off it! I don’t want to hear it. But I seriously hope you think before spouting any of your nonsense to your children or grandchildren without being sure of your facts!”

(They didn’t quite have the good grace to apologise, but did at least look a bit ashamed of themselves.)