This story takes place at the end of my eighth and final year at a home improvement store with an affinity for the color orange. I am about to leave not only my job, but the state for greener pastures (and a better paycheck), and I’m on my last few weeks.

During the last few years, the quality of life at my store was going downhill past the rate of terminal velocity, with bad management, zero advancement opportunities, insane demands, half-skeleton crews, and horrible self-checkout lanes that make literally every aspect of the job worse. I resolved to spend my final days doing everything in my power to drive my superiors to either alcoholism or mental breakdowns, including but not limited to:

• Randomly changing accents during transactions.
• Forgetting how to speak any known language.
• Very liberal interpretations of the dress code.
• Using a mobility cart to go through the local drive-through fast food.
• Suggesting DIY flamethrowers and military ordinance as pest control. 

One day, I am relegated to the checkout near the lumber section in the hopes of minimizing my capacity for shenanigans. While looking up the prices to hire a Mariachi Band to follow around my supervisors and play whenever they try to talk, I notice two young boys who have acquired dowel rods and are engaged in swordplay while their parents are otherwise occupied. This being decidedly unsafe, I decide to intervene in my own special way.

Me: *Heading over to the boys, waving my arms.* “WHOA, WHOA, WHOA! STOP! STOP!”

The boys look at me, a bit miffed, and I call over several of the lumber workers, all of whom have long since lost the ability to give a metric tenth of a f***.

Me: “We got a duel in aisle thirty-four. You want in on this?”

Worker #1: “Five on [kid in black shirt].”

Worker #2: “Ten on [kid in red shirt].”

Worker #3: “I’ll sit this one out.”

I queued up the Star Wars “Duel of the Fates” theme on my phone, put it to max volume, and nodded to the two kids.

Me: “Proceed.” 

They obligingly resume their sword fight, not maliciously, mind- until a supervisor comes and breaks it up. Regrettably, there was no clear victory and thus no payout, but it made for a nice diversion.

I’m now in a much better position job-wise, which is good, because I don’t think I’m going to have much luck returning to that company.

I’m at a local chain home improvement store. I needed lawn chairs and asked an employee where they were in the store. He looked at me dumbfounded.

Employee #1: “Lawn… chairs?”

Me: “Yeah… they fold up. Portable. Not like patio furniture.”

Employee #1: “…and they’re portable, you say?” 

I would have thought it was just an off occurrence, but he called over two more employees for help.

Employee #2: “Chairs… for lawns?”

Employee #3: “And… portable?”

Employee #2: “And they fold up, you say?”

Me: “Am… I in a Monty Python sketch?”

None of them knew what I was talking about. I had to go to a different store entirely.

Customer: “Where’s your Home Improvement section?”

Me: “Sir, this is a hardware store, so it’s pretty much all Home Improvement. You need to be more specific.”

Customer: “Oh, sorry. I’m trying to improve my home, specifically.” *Waits expectantly.*

CONTENT WARNING: Injury detail.

A woman is buying a boxed metal shed. It’s basically a giant pile of sheet metal in cardboard. We pull the first box down.

Coworker: “This one’s ripped.”

One corner is torn open, and sharp metal is sticking out.

Me: “Yeah, not safe. Let’s grab another one.”

We lean the damaged one aside and start loading the second box. My coworker bumps the first box. It tips, and I jump back. It misses my left leg and slams into my right calf.

Me: “Ouch! I’m fine, it’s okay.”

I look down and see a few scratches, but nothing too crazy. I finish loading the good box onto the cart. Then I notice the customer staring at me like she’s seen a ghost.

Customer: “Oh my god…”

I look down. My sock is turning red. I pull it away. There’s open skin on my ankle and something white inside.

Me: “…That doesn’t look great.”

I calmly walk inside and see a guy from appliances.

Me: “Hey, do you have any paper towels?”

Coworker: “I think the next department—”

I lift my pant leg. He goes pale, grabs a chair, and a roll.

Coworker: “—Sit. Sit down!”

My manager shows up, followed closely by a worried-looking HR rep.

HR Rep: “We need to drug test you.”

She sticks a strip in my mouth with practically zero warning.

HR Rep: “Can you drive yourself to the hospital?”

Me: “I don’t know where it is, and my driving foot is bleeding. Isn’t this what ambulances are for?”

A manager sighs.

Manager: “I’ll take you.”

At the ER, he pushes me in a wheelchair to the desk and disappears.

My fiancée arrives just in time to watch me lose it when they start sticking needles all around my ankle. That was my first time ever getting stitches.

I woke up the next morning to a long email from HR asking me to sign a bunch of documents immediately.

Nice try.

I sent them to my aunt, a lawyer, who told me, ‘DO NOT SIGN!’ She told me I might not be able to get any compensation from the company as my injury isn’t life-threatening, but they do have to give me as much time off as I need to recover, without fear of losing my job or position.

So that’s how I got four weeks off paid. Don’t sign HR forms without looking them over, people!

I work in a store that specializes in flat-pack furniture. I get a call from a customer on the support line:

Customer: “I got this cabinet from you and built it, but it wobbles!”

Me: “That’s odd. It should be stable after you’ve slotted the board into the back. Maybe it’s not slotted in correctly?”

Customer: “I didn’t put that in! It’s a useless piece of cardboard and ugly as f***! I want people to see my nice wallpaper behind the cabinet!”

Me: “…Well, good news! I think we’ve identified the source of your wobble.”

Customer: “Oh, really? How? You haven’t even sent anyone out yet…”