At my previous job, we had a guy who was very much into doing the absolute bare minimum. Faced with some broken glass, [Guy] found that the broom dedicated to his area wasn’t there; the previous shift had taken it somewhere and not put it back. Rather than go to the nearest supply closet to get another or downstairs to get his broom, he called up a coworker on the opposite side of the building and ordered — not asked, which could be reasonable with a hazard — her to give him hers.

When she refused, [Guy] went on a screaming tirade on the radio and to the customers about how this was racist. He got to the point of demanding that the other customers help him “go kick that white b****’s a**”.

Note that the radio conversations were monitored and recorded — this doesn’t fall under wiretapping laws because they’re considered public channels — and the entire building was under camera surveillance except for the bathrooms.

[Guy] got off with a warning because the company didn’t want to deal with the hassle. He was there for another four months until he was caught on camera taking a customer’s dropped wallet into the bathroom before taking it to security empty.

I was making an advertisement that featured children playing in the snow. The client used a horrible stock image account, and finding a lot of pictures to choose from was almost impossible, but I managed to find a good one of two little kids making an igloo.

The kids just happened to be Asian.

Client: “Can you find a picture of kids that aren’t ethnic?”

She actually forced me to find a picture of white kids instead. I actually felt sick to my stomach.

My name has been changed for this story, but it’s similar to what I have written. I am at the checkout and a customer is scrutinizing my name tag.

Customer: “Your name is WGD?”

Me: “Oh, that’s what I like everyone to call me. It’s easier, plus it fits on the name tag!”

Customer: “It’s unprofessional to go by a nickname in the workplace. I wouldn’t hire you if you went by some silly, hip nickname.”

As I have pen and paper, I start writing.

Customer: “What are you doing? I have groceries to scan!”

I show her my full written name.

Me: “Show me a name tag that can legibly fit Wijeesundara Goonatilake Dharmagunawardhana, and I’ll show you a cashier who will have back pain by the end of the day.”

The customer is silent for a moment, and I continue scanning. After she’s paid and is walking away:

Customer: “Your parents should have just called you John or something!”

I approach the office manager. We are both male.

Me: “The men’s facilities are almost out of toilet paper. Where do you store it?”

Office Manager: “It’s in [storage room], but thanks for the reminder. I’ll order some more.”

A nearby coworker, also male, scoffs at our interaction.

Coworker: “Why are two men so concerned about toilet paper. Seriously.”

Me: “Uh… well I don’t know about you but it’s kinda hard to wipe without it.”

Coworker: “You wipe? What are you, gay?”

My brain stutters.

Me: “Uh… what?!” 

Office Manager: “Can’t believe I’m asking this, but what do you wipe with?”

Coworker: “Nah, wiping a butt is gay. I’m not a f** like that.”

I am beyond words, and totally grossed out by the idea of this guy just… not wiping.

Office Manager: “Do you hold your junk when you pee?” 

Coworker: “Uh, duh! Gotta aim somehow!” 

Office Manager: “So touching your own d*ck isn’t gay, but wiping your butt is?”

Coworker: “Shut up! You know it’s different!”

Office Manager: “I really don’t. Explain it to me.” 

Coworker: “It’s… butts are gay, alright!”

Me: “So… wait… you never wipe?”

Coworker: “No! That’s gay!”

I walk away quickly to hide my disgust. The office manager tells me to leave it with him. That coworker is given a talking to about “office hygiene etiquette” by his manager (I wasn’t told that officially, but I was told that there’s a standard HR script for that) but that didn’t do down too well and he was let go a month later for… health reasons.

Many, many years ago, I worked half a shift at a bar in northern Wisconsin before I found out it was a local meeting spot for the scariest group of extreme racists that may or may not have been part of a three-letter hate group.

They’d take over half the seats in the house, get loudly drunk, and then wander off in all directions. The place looked respectable on the outside, so I never expected it to be such a nightmare.

On my first day, I arrived shortly after most of them were already a few drinks in.

One of them staggered over to the bar.

Me: “Hello! What can I pour for you?”

Racist: “We’ll see, but firsht, ya gotta answer me a queshion.”

From the way he was slurring, I was already wondering if my first task on my first shift would be to cut off a belligerent drunk and convince them to drink some water or eat some food.

Me: “Well, I’m new, but I can probably tell you what’s in just about any drink we serve.”

Racist: “Naw, naw, thassss…”

The word ended in a hiss, and he slowly tilted to the left before righting himself.

Racist: “…not what I wanna ashk. I just wanna know…” 

At this point, he went from slurring in a conversational tone to bellowing at the top of his lungs.

Racist: “AIN’T YEW GLAD YEW AIN’T A [N-WORD]?!”

And in that instant, half the bar swiveled their heads, and they all stared straight at me, waiting for my answer.

Until that moment, I’d only ever heard of people saying their insides went cold, but I would’ve sworn I’d just swallowed an entire bucket of ice. With red flags waving and klaxons screaming inside my head, I put on my most agreeable expression and nodded to him. Then, I politely excused myself, told my boss that I was out, and left. My boss just shrugged and said maybe I wasn’t a good fit.

In the decades since, I have never encountered a workplace like that, and I hope I never will again.