(At our restaurant, which closes at 4:00 am and opens again at 10:00 am, the bathrooms close at midnight. They open again for neither love nor money, so at 2:00 am, I’m cleaning one of them.)

Random Dude: *kind of angrily* “Yo, can I use the restroom?”

Me: “Restrooms are closed. There’s a public restroom at the end of this building; it’s around the corner, on the left.”

(The guy mumbles something I can’t understand about his friend and the public restrooms, to the eventual effect of, “I don’t want to use those.”)

Me: “Restrooms are closed.”

Random Dude: “When do they open?”

Me: “10:00 am.”

Random Dude: *suddenly shouting* “Well, f*** you, too, b****!”

(I shrug and finish cleaning up the bathroom, and then come back behind the counter.)

Random Dude: *in the middle of talking to one of the managers* “That’s him! That’s the guy! He said, ‘F*** you! Restrooms are closed!’”

Me: “Sir, I did not use such language.”

(I continue to the back to put up the cleaning supplies, and when I return to the kitchen…)

Manager #1: “Did you really say that?

Me: “No, I did not.” *I relay the exchange* “—and then he started screaming profanities at me.”

Manager #2: “Yeah, I didn’t give him anything. I gave him the number to the franchising office, told him we were store number [other location’s number], and said your name was [Not My Name].”

(I nodded and continued with my shift.)

When I was 16 years old, I worked in a children’s museum where I was in charge of the aquarium section. We had a “touch tank” where people could feel sea life. Because the animals are delicate, we had a strict policy that people could only touch animals I had put on trays at the edge of the tanks. Despite this policy, (and numerous prominent signs stating the policy) people would routinely stick their hands in the parts of the tank that were off limits.

One day, a woman came in and proceeded to repeatedly stick her hands into the tank, despite my requests. Finally, I forcefully said, “Ma’am, please don’t stick your hands into that part of the tank, as it distresses the animals.” She pulled her hands out, flicked water in my face, said, “You just need to chill,” and stomped off, cursing about “little s***s who think they know everything.”

(My friend is venting to me about her annoying roommates. This conversation takes place over online chat.)

Friend: “They’re so awful. I got really fed up the other day and I did something bad.”

Me: “Oh, God, [Friend], what did you do?”

Friend: “Nothing that they could sue me over or directly attribute to me.”

Me: “[Friend]…”

Friend: “I just put sugar in their beds.”

Me: “[Friend]!”

Friend: “And salt in their conditioner.”

(Pause.)

Friend: “And chili powder in their laundry detergent.”

Me: “[FRIEND]!”

Friend: “They stole my pads and expensive hot chocolate!”

Me: “Oh, okay. That’s justifiable.”

I work in a small, open-plan office in a fairly small company. The husband-and-wife owners of the company don’t seem to want to update anything or invest any money in the company; the windows don’t fully close unless someone pushes on them from the outside, the blinds are damaged so you can always see in, and the computer system is over some early version of Windows with limited processing speed, which crashes on a weekly basis.

One day my boss gets an email — they can’t work out group emails — to say the wife has decided we are using too much stationary, she refuses to buy any more, and she wants us to be a paperless office. This is all despite us lacking the resources to be paperless, and the husband’s insistence that we keep a physical paper trail of every order, invoice, or query the customers have.

We make do as best we can, but eventually I bite the bullet and buy a pack of paper, pens, and a few nice post-its, etc. It’s not much, but when you are earning minimum wage and buying resources which work should be providing, it’s more than I want to spend.

I put all my stationary in my desk the next morning. I come back from lunch to find all of it gone, including a monogrammed pen my mum bought for my birthday. I eventually track it down to the female owner’s office, where she is happily using them. When I confront her about it, she repeats, “Paperless office,” like she is a parrot who has learnt a new phrase. I bite my lip and ask how we are meant to be paperless when we are also expected to keep written notes and print records of all our work. She eventually relents that she might, maybe look at a stationary order, “if it’s such a big deal.” I thank her, take my monogrammed pen from her hand, and walk out her office.

The next day, I replace the stationary and replace the lock on the desk, secure it before I go for lunch, and come back to find my coworkers giggling. Apparently, the female owner had heard I had more stationary and spent five minutes trying to pry open my desk before snatching the post-its from my desktop, screaming, “PAPERLESS OFFICE!”, and storming out.

(I study dentistry in France, where you work at a dental clinic starting on your fourth year. Every half day, you’re in a different service. For example, on Tuesday mornings, I take care of cavities and the like, and on Friday afternoons I remove teeth. To remove a tooth, you obviously have to anesthetize the patient locally, and, for medical reasons, you cannot do that if the patient has taken drugs recently — especially cocaine — or you could cause them to have a heart attack. Although it is a rare occurrence and most likely wouldn’t happen anyway, we still can’t knowingly inject a drugged patient with adrenalin, which is part of our anesthesiant. A patient I know from a different service comes to have a tooth removed. Since I’ve already seen him and his file, I know he is a drug addict. On this particular day, he is acting very “twitchy.”)

Me: *after five minutes of chatting about the treatment I already performed on him while we set up the operation table* “So, have you taken any drugs lately?”

Patient: “You have to be more precise; I’ve been on drugs my entire life!”

Me: “Hm, how about that last week?”

Patient: “Sure.”

Me: “What have you taken?”

Patient: “A bit of everything, really.”

Me: “What about cocaine?”

Patient: “Oh, yeah.”

Me: “In the last three days?”

Patient: *more or less jokingly* “Are you the police? Why are you questioning me?”

Me: “Well, sir, I can’t anesthetize you if you’ve taken cocaine recently; that could cause you to have a heart attack. I personally don’t care; it’s for your sake. So, when’s the last time you’ve taken cocaine?”

Patient: “Hm… Half an hour ago.”

(I resisted the urge to face-palm and informed the patient that I could not legally or ethically remove his tooth. He told me that he had come plenty of times, been anesthetized and never had any issue, but I still refused and sent him away. I told him to come back clean after the weekend and wrote about the incident in his file, warning the next student to check whether he is clean or not. He will probably come back high as a kite and just lie about having taken anything, but at least it will not be my responsibility, then.)