My first job out of high school was working at a book distribution warehouse. This was back in the early 2000s, when Amazon was still a relatively small company and brick-and-mortar bookstores were still the main place to buy books.

At the beginning of December, we were all told that it was mandatory for everyone to work one Saturday; the warehouse was typically closed on Saturdays. I started at 6:00 am on a Saturday morning with the rest of my department. At 10:00 am, my department was done with all our stuff, so we were all sent over to work in another department, who’d started at 8:00.

By noon, people who’d started at 10:00 were being sent home because they had run out of work. My department was told to stay even though we’d originally been told we’d be there for a six-hour shift, and people who’d been there for much fewer than six hours were already going home. Most of us had not bothered packing lunches, and per company rules, we were not allowed to leave the property during work hours — not that there was anywhere that we would have actually been able to get to, get food, and get back before lunch was over — so we were stuck getting whatever cheap junk we could from the vending machines.

At 2:00, we were told to keep going. At 4:00, we were told to keep going. At 5:00, they brought in some really cheap, low-end pizza for us from who knows where. It wasn’t good, but by that point, those departments that were still there were so tired and hungry that we didn’t care. Finally, at 7:30 at night, after we’d been there for thirteen hours, we were told we could go home, which we happily did.

And to top everything off, the next week, those of us who’d had to work that extra-long shift were all sent home after half an hour of work several times to ensure that none of us would get overtime.

I work in a small engineering office as a design engineer. I’ve just returned to my desk with a mug of tea to be greeted by one of the machinists who has a copy of a drawing. He has been chatting with my two coworkers (also design engineers) who are the only others in the office.

Machinist: “I need you to check this drawing, Stephen. There is a difference between the computer drawing and the printed copy. The holes are one size, but the text says something different.”

I look at the drawing. It is one I recently up-issued, as I added some tapped holes. I also load up the electronic copy.

Me: “That’s odd. The bit I added looks fine on the printed drawing and the electronic version.”

Machinist: “It’s not that that’s wrong; it’s the holes marked ‘A’.”

I look at the drawing again. This is for a large plate with a LOT of different holes drilled into it. The holes have different letters marked against them, and a key by the side of the drawing gives a list of the hole sizes, labelled A to D.

Machinist: “If you check the drawing view, you can see it’s not the size that’s in the key.”

Me: “So I see. I don’t know when that mistake happened, as I only added the tapped holes. I didn’t touch the A holes. NO, WAIT, I DIDN’T MEAN—”

But it’s too late. The machinist and my coworkers burst out laughing. Mind you, so do I.

Whilst the laughter settles down, I quickly check previous versions.

Me: “The mistake is on all of them. It’s only a clearance hole for access, so I’m not bothered about what size it is. Could you please check your machining program? Let me know what size it is and I’ll change the drawing accordingly.”

Machinist: “Sure, I’ll check your A-holes for you.”

As he leaves, I pick up my mug so I can finally get caffeinated.

Me: “It’s a shame [Technical Manager] isn’t here, as he loves a good innuendo.”

Coworker #1: “Maybe you should give him a ring?”

Once I’d finally stopped shaking with laughter, my mug had a lot less tea!

I needed to go into a particular supermarket in town for a few items which I prefer from there. The store was packed — and I mean RAMMED; I have never seen it so full. Only three of the six tills were open, and I queued for several minutes to make my purchases. The till operator was friendly, polite, and apologised to me for my wait.

While he was ringing me up, a manager walked past. My till operator flagged him down.

Till Operator: “Can we get some more tills open? These lines are ridiculous, and people are waiting.”

The manager looked at him as if he had grown a second head.

Manager: “We don’t need any more tills open. It’s not as if the store is even full.”

Then, he walked off without another word, leaving the poor till operator staring helplessly after him as he finished ringing me up.

This story takes place many years ago at a fun family arcade-type place that turns into an adult arcade place with alcohol and bars after hours.

It’s my friend’s friend’s birthday, and we all go out to the bar and restaurant together. There are twenty of us all together. I’ve never met any of them besides my friend, including the guy celebrating his birthday.

My friend and I sit at one end of the table together with the guest of honour.

There are two servers managing our table — one for the three of us and one for the rest of the seventeen. Our server does not even speak to anyone else at the table. We’re basically a table of three and a table of seventeen.

Everything is fine, we have a great time, and the food is okay — about what you’d expect from this kind of place. We all discuss the bill, and everyone will pay for their own bill. My friend and I decide that we’re going to cover the guest of honour and we’ll put it on my card. Cool.

The server arrives and we tell her not to worry; we’ll make ours easier and she can give us the one bill for the three of us. She brings it and walks away.

I notice the forced gratuity of 15% for more than eight people on the bill. I wave her over.

Me: “Hey, you only served the three of us. Should the forced gratuity be there?”

Server: “More than eight people at the table. Yes.”

Me: “But you didn’t deal with the eight. You only served us. It’d be better for you if you removed it.”

Server: “No way. Too bad.”

Me: “Okay, then.”

I paid and we left.

I too am a server and have been since I was seventeen. I have never left under 25% on a tab… except that one time. Oh, well.

I was on a direct flight from Los Angeles to Taiwan during the global health crisis, which is quite a long flight but was quite empty due to air traffic being almost nonexistent in 2020.

My mom flies so often for work that she usually manages to get upgrades to business class, which is what happened this time, as well. Because of how strict Taiwan was at the time (only allowing people with a visa or passport from Taiwan into Taiwan), the business class was also quite empty; there was maybe one other person besides us.

I draw a lot, and I was working on a particularly complicated piece when one of the flight attendants came by and asked if I wanted another bottle of water.

I’m consistently thirsty most of the time on planes, so I said yes and took it, though I felt bad because I assumed they thought I’d already drunk my other bottle of water and were offering another one for that reason.

It wasn’t until we were past customs that my mom noticed the extra bottle and asked me in confusion where I’d got it, having drunk hers and not received an extra. We pondered over it before she laughed and told me what had happened.

I apparently was so busy drawing that I never noticed the flight attendant standing just behind me slightly, watching me draw.

They apparently enjoyed watching enough to give me an extra water. We’re pretty sure this was the reason, as it didn’t seem like any of the other business class passengers got an extra water at any point.