I work for a large corporation in a technical field supporting other employees. My colleagues and I work independently, consulting each other if difficulties arise. 

A few years ago, corporate Human Resources became enamored with small-group decision-making techniques and set forth a decree that everyone — about 50,000 employees worldwide — would learn to use them regardless of job function. They created an online tool that required us to go through a series of slides and complete tests about them. Passing was 100%.

The majority of the information was something our group would probably never need; if we did, it would be forgotten due to disuse. My solution was to take and save a screengrab of every slide. The excuse was that I (we) could refer to it if needed in the future, and as a bonus, it ensured a perfect grade on the proficiency tests.

The course was divided into five units, each of which had several sections. It quickly became apparent that the test at the end of each unit had one question for each section. No big deal. I aced everything — I thought.

Units 1, 2, 3, and 5 were relatively short, and I got each question correct, so four 100s. Section 4, though, was a royal pain. It had seven sections and took over two and a half hours to plow through. Although I got every question right (we had instant feedback after answering each), the final result showed that I only had two out of seven correct. 

I contacted the HR team responsible for the course, assuming this was a bug that they would acknowledge and fix. Spoiler alert: no.

They would not believe me, essentially accusing me of lying to avoid doing the work. They wouldn’t even admit the obvious correlation of one question to one section. Ultimately, I had to sit through the same section again.

Since I already had the slides from the first time, I could leave the course running while I did the job I was paid for. On the final test, I again got each question correct, and again, the reported result was two out of seven. This time, though, I had captured an image of each correct answer, which I put into a document and sent back to HR. I pointed out that I had wasted two and a half hours of my work day again and that they should listen to employees when they report an issue.

I never heard back, but I didn’t have to do the unit a third time.

I used to work in a movie rental store. This was about the time that they tried “no more late fees” as a strategy to get people to rent. However, there was a restocking fee charged if your rental was over a week late which was far far less than the late fees used to be; I believe it was a $2 one-time fee instead of $2 per day.

I come into the store to find a note left by my closing supervisor from the night before saying that a very loud and rude customer is going to be coming in today to speak to me about the restocking fee and how unfair it is, even though they were three weeks late and we had already credited off the fee for them this once since it was their first offence.

In they come, and they start yelling at me about how no more late fees means they never want to pay another late fee again, no matter when they return their rentals. I try to explain that is not how it works, but they don’t listen. They just repeat what they are saying, with much swearing and yelling and generally disrupting the entire store with their tantrum.

Finally, I’ve become frustrated enough and fed up with their attitude. I point to the sign behind the tills, which has the restocking fee on it and when it applies.

Me: “Can you read that?”

His eyes bug out and he screams.

Customer: “Are you trying to tell me you don’t think I can read English?!“

Me: “No, I asked if you can read what it says for me since I want to make sure you see it’s there.”

Customer: *Grumbling* “Yes.”

Me: “Good. Then that means, as of right now, the restocking fee is not false advertising and you are aware that continued abuse of our services will cause this charge. I encourage you to make your own decision as to whether or not it is worth continuing to rent from us. But as this is a family store, you should also know that screaming and swearing are not tolerated. Have a good day, sir.”

I walked off into the office after that, but from what I’m told, he stood there with his jaw half open and his eyes bugged out for about half a minute, just staring at where I had gone, and then left the store and never came back.

I’m heading to a strip mall. Due to a lot of construction around the main exits of the shopping area, the traffic is really backed up, with three rows of traffic trying to merge into a single lane to reach the nearest exit. It’s slow and annoying but nothing too serious.

As I drive from my lane into the one exit lane, I am suddenly bombarded by a symphony of obnoxious horn-blaring to my left. To this day, I do not believe I cut this lady off or butt in front of her by accident, but the woman clearly thinks I did and is letting her displeasure at being slighted be more than apparent. She starts flipping me off, really laying into the horn while shouting what I imagine is a very foul string of insults and acting like everything wrong in her life is somehow my fault.

It only gets worse when I choose to ignore her tantrum-throwing. She somehow manages to throw her coffee out her window and hit the back of my car, which only succeeds in making me laugh at this woman’s road-raging antics.

After several more minutes of honking, bird-flipping, and swearing that I can’t hear — she’s got some strong lungs, that’s for sure — we finally get through the one-lane area of the construction zone. Almost immediately, once free to do so, the woman floors it, racing out and around me and cutting in front of me. Apparently still not done with her onslaught of rage, the woman actually leans out of her open window to give me one more flip of the bird.

As she does so, her car veers a bit too far to the right of her lane, running over several construction cones and nearly crashing before she is able to get back in and control her vehicle.

Seconds later, with almost perfect timing, a police car passes me with lights blaring and pulls this road-raging woman over.

I have a good laugh on my way home. Instant Karma at its finest.

It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m seventeen years old. I’m asked to work on the holiday from 8:00 am to 3:00 pm. I’d rather be home with my family but money is tight from the holidays and I get extra pay on Christmas Eve. My family celebration won’t start until 4:00 pm, anyway, so I agree to take the shift.

I am working the till checking out our fairly long line of customers. An older lady carrying six boxes of children’s shoes comes to the counter.

Me: “Hi! Did you find everything you were looking for today?”

Old Lady: “I can’t believe they make you work Christmas Eve!”

Me: *Confused* “Oh, no, it’s okay, really. My family will be having dinner together once my shift is over. Did you find everything you were looking for?”

Old Lady: “Oh, yes, dear, I did. I had to run out and get some last-minute presents for all my grandchildren. I still can’t believe they make you work on Christmas Eve.”

Me: “Well, I’m glad I was here so you could get all your last-minute presents! Your total is [total].”

Old Lady: “It’s still so wrong. I mean, what reason could this place possibly have for making you work on the holidays? Why would you even need to be here? It just doesn’t make sense. No one should have to work on the holidays.”

Me: “Well, if no one was here, then all these customers couldn’t buy their shoes.”

Old Lady: “Oh, no, that’s no good. I need to buy my things. I just don’t think you should be here. Goodbye, dear!”

I’m still confused how you don’t realize that if you want to shop on the holiday, people need to work on the holiday.

Related:
Tis The Season For Unreason, Part 7
Tis The Season For Unreason, Part 6
Tis The Season For Unreason, Part 5
Tis The Season For Unreason, Part 4
Tis The Season For Unreason, Part 3

My family and I went on a big family trip in 2009, when our daughters were twelve and fourteen. We had to change planes in Calgary. As we waited in line in the security area, our younger daughter noticed a lot of huge photographs mounted on the walls around us. Being a bit of a photography buff herself, she pulled out her camera — a fairly expensive one that she’d gotten for her most recent birthday — and took a few pictures.

Security Guard: “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

We all gaped at him in shock, not knowing what he was talking about. We then realized that he was glaring at our daughter.

Daughter: “Taking some pictures.”

Husband: “Is there a problem, sir?”

Security Guard: “Um, yes. Did you not see those signs?”

He pointed to some signs around us that said, “NO PHOTOGRAPHY ALLOWED.” In fairness to him, they were super obvious, and I don’t know how we missed them.

Me: “I’m so sorry. We didn’t see the signs.”

Security Guard: “That’s no excuse.”

He then reached over and grabbed [Daughter]’s camera out of her hands.

Security Guard: “I’m confiscating this.” *Walks away*

Daughter: *In tears* “My… My camera! Mum, what’ll we do?”

We chased after him and found him behind his desk. He glowered at us and held up the camera tauntingly.

Security Guard: “I don’t know what you expected to happen. You’re not getting this back.”

Me: “Please, sir, can’t you let this go? She didn’t mean any harm, and we can delete the photos in front of you.”

Security Guard: “Not good enough. Goodbye.”

Husband: “She’s just a kid. Please?”

I should mention that our younger daughter was and is very tall, and even though she was only twelve at the time, she could easily have been mistaken for someone in her late teens.

Security Guard: “‘Kid,’ sure.”

Something convinced him to look closer at our daughter, though, who was now openly sobbing.

Security Guard: “How old are you?”

Daughter: “T-twelve.”

Security Guard: “Hmph. Fine. You can have this back, but never do that again.”

Daughter: “I won’t. Thank you.”

My “mama bear” instincts threatened to take over at that point — the sight of my kid crying her eyes out has a tendency to do that — but luckily, my husband kept his cool and pulled me away.

Husband: “Come on, love.” *Whispering* “He’s just doing his job.”

Me: “I know. I do wonder what he’ll tell his wife when he gets home today, though. ‘How was your day, honey?’ ‘Awesome! I got to make a twelve-year-old cry!’”