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.)

(I’m the manager of the plumbing department at a hardware store. I’m also female, which has lead to some customers thinking I couldn’t possibly know anything about plumbing. Often, I pull out some knowledge so that they actually ASK their questions instead of grumpily sending “the girl” away. One day I walk up to one of our customers in the PVC pipe-fittings area. He’s holding an object wrapped in a plastic grocery bag.)

Me: “Good morning! Is there something I can help you with?”

Middle-Aged Man: “No. You wouldn’t know the answer. I can find it.”

Me: “Well, sir, you’re looking through our toilet flanges. Do you know if you have 3″ or 4″ PVC? Are you replacing a cast iron flange?”

Middle-Aged Man: “No! It’s not iron! It’s plastic!”

Me: “Okay, so do you know if it’s 3″ or 4″? We have one right here that will fit either, if you’re not sure!”

Middle-Aged Man: “No, that one won’t fit! It doesn’t match this one!”

(He holds up the item in the grocery bag. It’s a used toilet flange. Toilet flanges are what sit underneath the drain from your toilet. All of your waste passes through it.)

Me: “I’m sorry, sir. I have to ask you to take that item outside. It’s a biohazard.”

Middle-Aged Man: “No! They said I could bring parts inside! They said it was okay!”

Me: “Sir. We sell food here. That is a biohazard. It has been in contact with human waste. You have to take it outside.”

Middle-Aged Man: “They told me it was okay to bring parts in. Where is your manager?”

Me: “Sir. I am the manager. You still have to take it outside. Now.”

(At this point, he storms over to the Guest Services desk. I calmly follow him.)

Middle-Aged Man: “I NEED THIS HERE TO MATCH IT UP. IT CAME FROM MEXICO. I WRAPPED IT IN A PLASTIC BAG SO IT’S FINE, AND YOU SAID I COULD BRING IN MY PARTS!”

Me: *staying calm* “Sir, you can bring in a part, but the poop has to stay outside.”

(I am a telemarketer for a lesser-known electric supply company. Contrary to popular belief, not all telemarketing is a scam, but people still feel the need to mess with the “a**holes” that call them, regardless of whether they actually deserve it or not.)

Customer: “Hello?”

Me: “Hi, my name is [My Name], calling on behalf of [Our Company] in regards to your [Customer’s Electric Company] electric bill. This is just a real quick call to let you know that you can save up to 15% on your monthly rate by choosing [Our Company] as your supplier. Now, I’m showing your service address here as [Address]; is that correct?”

Customer: “Yeah.”

Me: “Okay, great! Now, in order to make sure that your rate isn’t already lower than ours, all I need you to do is grab a copy of your electric bill, and I’m required to hold on the line while you grab one. Just let me know when you’re ready, okay?”

Customer: “Okay, could you give me a minute, though? I’m taking a wicked deuce right now.”

Me: *hiding my disgust* “That’s fine… Take as much time as you need.”

(The customer proceeds to make several loud groaning noises, and the sound of water-plopping can be heard periodically. I don’t know if he is faking being on the toilet, but he is clearly making it more obnoxious than necessary.)

Customer: “Woo! All right, now, what did you need?”

Me: “I need you to grab a copy of your electric bill so we can choose a supplier for you.”

Customer: “All right, got mine right here.”

Me: *ignoring the idea that was he able to obtain it so quickly* “For quality and control purposes, this call may be recorded. May I ask your zip code?”

Customer: *gives me a five-digit number that may or may not be his actual zip code*

Me: “Okay, now, if you look at the top of the bill’s front page, you should see your electric account number. Could you read that off for me, please?”

(It should be noted that an electric account number has nothing to do with a bank account, and giving it away or even making it public does not open you up to scams. The worst someone can do with it is get you a better rate or pay your bill for you. The customer gives me a multi-digit number that isn’t the correct length.)

Me: “Uh… Sir, I’m sorry, but your electric account number should be [number] digits in length.”

Customer: “Oh, my bad. It’s [completely different number of the correct length].”

Me: *after typing the numbers in* “Sir, I’m afraid the number you gave me doesn’t match. Could you read it back to me?”

Customer: “Doesn’t match? Wait, you guys are legit?!”

Me: “Yes. We would be asking for your bank information if we were scammers.”

Customer: “Aw, s***, dawg!”

Me: “So, could you give me your electric account number, then?”

Customer: “Hold on, man; I don’t actually have my bill. Let me just go grab one.”

Me: “Sure, take your time.” *after a while, he finally gets back on* “So, this is your [Customer’s Electric Company] electric bill, correct?”

Customer: “Actually, dude, would it be okay if I talked to a female? I work a lot better with the ladies.”

Me: “Uh, sure thing. Please hold.”

(I turn my mic off and ask my supervisor, who happens to be female, to take over, due to the customer’s request. As she speaks to him, she repeatedly cuts her sentences short, as though interrupted several times. Finally, she starts saying things like:)

Supervisor: “Sir, I don’t appreciate the way you’re speaking to me.”

(Silence…)

Supervisor: “Well, if your parole officer said you’re not allowed to talk to females, then I’ll have to hang up now. Bye.”

(After she hung up, we both agreed that he was just an a**hole and was probably never going to cooperate. I ended up dealing with far worse people in the coming days and ultimately left the company.)

(I’m staying at my in-laws’ cabin at the lake. This cabin is in a campground that has shower buildings for everyone to use. The shower buildings also have toilets. As you’d expect, there’s one shower building for the men, and another for the women. I’ve decided that I need to answer the call of nature, so I amble over to the women’s building. Just as I’m about to do my business:)

Man’s Voice: *says something I don’t catch*

Me: *thinking* “Oh, no. I must have gotten into the men’s building by mistake! What do I do? Maybe he just needs a toilet and will be out of here quickly.”

(The shower starts.)

Me: *thinking* “Aw, great. He’s having a shower. Who knows how long he’ll be here? Maybe I should run out while he’s showering and hope he doesn’t see me.”

(Just then…)

Woman’s Voice: *giggling* “Ooh, this water is hot!”

Man’s Voice: “Not as hot as you!”

Me: *thinking* “Ah. I’m in the right building after all, but I’d still better get out of here before things get really embarrassing.” *runs*