I worked with a lawyer who had absolutely zero common sense, especially when it came to talking with clients. I sat right next to him, so I could often hear how bad some conversations would turn out.

Lawyer: “Now, I was just curious, but what kind of business operates at this address? I looked it up on Google Maps, and all I see is a really rundown, decrepit-looking house.”

Client: “Um, well, the business we’re talking about is mine, and I work from home.”

Lawyer: “Oh.”

He was eventually fired.

I’m working as a hospital aide to pay rent through undergrad, usually working night shifts. It’s been one long, continuous disaster of a night, and by the time I finally manage to get enough of a lid on the chaos to go take my break — two hours late — all I want to do is sit and breathe for a few minutes, WITHOUT being handed any more tasks or dragged into emotionally draining conversations.

To my horror, I find that my least favorite aide on the floor is on break at the same time as me. This woman does. Not. Shut. Up. EVER. Her favorite (only) topic is herself, how everyone has wronged her, how put-upon and overworked she is, and what a martyr to her career and her dear, dear patients she is. She’ll tell you this while ignoring three call lights and a patient yelling for help, and she’ll ask you to do her tasks for her since she’s soooooooo busy. Since it’s the peak of Global Yuck, I can’t just go find somewhere else in the hospital to take my break. My only other option is to go outside. In the middle of a sleet-filled Chicago January. Riiiiiiiiiight.

I am NOT in the mood for this, and I decide to see if I can head off the woe-is-me monologue before it starts.

Me: “Hey, no offense, but I’m really not in the mood to talk. It’s been a long night.”

You never know. Maybe it’ll work. Maybe a herd of pigs is in flight somewhere.

Other Aide: “Oh, I totally get it. I’ve been run off my feet! And the nurses I’ve been assigned tonight are all such jerks. Do you know [Utterly Sweet, Diligent Nurse] expects me to bladder-scan three people? That’s not my job!” 

No such luck. And for the record, bladder-scanning is absolutely our job. It takes maybe two minutes and can be done alongside dropping off dinner trays or checking vitals. Nothing at all worth complaining about.

Me: “That sucks, but I really don’t want to talk about work. Or at all. It’s not you, just a long night.”

Other Aide: “Oh, I know, I’m not talking to you, just talking out loud. You can ignore me!”

We’re the only two people in the room.

Other Aide: “Anyway, did you hear [horrible gossip about another aide on our floor, a very sweet woman who lost her husband two years ago]? Serves her right. She refused to help me with my rounds! She’s so self-centered, isn’t she?”

Me: “…I really don’t want to talk about this.”

Curse my midwestern upbringing. Even in the face of an awful, hateful witch like this, I can’t bring myself to be openly rude. It’s physically painful to try. I’m working on undoing that conditioning, but it’s a sloooooow process, and in the meantime, I’m trapped.

Other Aide: “You don’t have to reply; I’m just talking to myself! What are you doing this weekend? My boyfriend said he has a surprise for me. I hope it’s better than…”

I finally get fed up, dig my earbuds out of my bag, and plug them into my phone without turning anything on. She claimed she wasn’t talking to me, but surprise freaking surprise, as soon as I am visibly Not Listening, she stops monologuing like a cartoon villain and spends the rest of the break glaring at me. It’s well worth it to finally get a little quiet, and I’m able to recombobulate a little before staggering back into the ring to finish my shift.

My favorite part of the story, though, comes a few weeks later, at one of the weekly game nights. I’ll periodically rant about work and the Great Plague, and the game group, all close friends, have been cracking jokes and helping keep me sane. Needless to say, they hear about the incident and help get me laughing out of a bad mood. I don’t think much of it until [Friend #2], who’s writing the story that we’re playing, introduces our next big fight: an undead lich, aide to the corrupt monarch we’re trying to topple. We’re halfway through the fight when…

Lich: “I cannot believe the nerve of you people! Do you have any idea how long it took me to carve out this power vacuum and find a regular supply of prisoners and orphans to experiment on? You are ruining it. And you clearly don’t even appreciate the architecture of my lair! No taste at all! So rude!”

Friend #1: “Oh, God, she’s going [Entitled-Customer-Type]! Kill her faster!”

Me: “Wait…”

Lich: “ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME? I spend all of my undeath serving the Count, and I still have to deal with peons like you! No one appreciates all the work I do! And now I’m going to have to spend days reorganizing my lair. I hope you’re happy that you ruined my weekend!”

Me: “Is that…?”

Friend #2: “I might not be able to actually drop a building on your s***ty coworker for you, but I can help you do it in effigy!”

Me: “Oh, my God, YES!”

I’m laughing hysterically by this point, and the rest of the group joins in as it sinks in who we’re fighting. It is an excellent, well-fought battle, and we finally manage to destroy the lich’s artifact of power and have her pinned under rubble, the secret underground dungeon/laboratory collapsing around us.

Friend #3: “You want to do the honors?”

Me: “Absolutely, I do!”

Lich [Other Aide] has gone down in game-group history as one of our favorite bosses to defeat. We took great pleasure in dropping the ceiling on her, still yelling about how underappreciated she was. Working in a hospital during the plague sucked for a lot of reasons, but supportive friends make up for a lot!

A customer is signing out a car he has rented from our site at the airport. As he is signing the insurance paperwork, I feel I have to mention something. Normally, I wouldn’t, but since it’s a Saint Patrick’s Day weekend, our town is known for partying, and the customer is wearing a big green “Kiss me! I’m Irish!” shirt, I feel compelled to.

Me: “Sir, just to let you know, the insurance is void if any damage comes to the car while you’ve got any trace of alcohol in your system — and I do mean ‘any’. Some people think you need to be intoxicated, but the insurance paperwork makes it quite clear that you can’t have any in your system at all.”

Customer: *Not looking up, still signing forms* “Okay, so, just the one whiskey, then.”

Me: “Sir, obviously you can drink what you want, but I just need to let you know that if you do drink and drive, the insurance no longer covers you.”

Customer: *Still not looking up* “Okay, so, no whiskey, then, just a couple of shots.”

Is he toying with me?

Me: “I’m afraid that will still count, sir.”

Customer: *Handing over all the signed forms* “Fine, just some beers, then.”

Me: “Have a good weekend, sir.”

Customer: “I will have a good weekend because, unlike most of the fake posers in this city, I actually am descended from Irish immigrants. I can handle my liquor! It’s in my blood!”

Me: “Which is exactly the thing that would invalidate the insurance. Please have a safe and responsible weekend!”

Customer: “You wouldn’t know; you’re Black. You guys can’t hold down your liquor like you can’t hold down jobs.”

Me: “Okay… that was uncalled for. Your car is in bay forty-one. Goodbye.”

The customer smirked and rushed off.

Guess who came back on Monday looking terrible and smelling of booze? And guess who had scratched the car on the side so badly that it actually looked like it had been done on purpose? And guess who couldn’t get us to cover the insurance on it because they seemed so intoxicated we actually had to call the police because we’d no doubt just witnessed an obvious DUI?

And guess who said, “I guess I’m holding down my job better than you’re holding down your liquor,” as they were told just how expensive the repair bill was likely to be?

I am a line cook in a restaurant that serves pizzas, among other items. The ingredients of each pizza are stated on the menu; this is not the kind of restaurant where you choose your own toppings.

I get an order for a mushroom pizza, with a modification of “cheese only on half.” Before I can start making it, the server who placed the order comes to me to confirm the “no cheese” and to ask a question.

Server #1: “You saw that my order was cheese only on half, right? Two people are sharing it, and one has a severe dairy allergy! Also, they want to know what this is.”

He points to the word “bechamel” on the menu under the description of the pizza.

Me: “Bechamel. That is the sauce on the pizza, and it is dairy-based. I cannot make this pizza for someone with a severe dairy allergy; anything on one side of the pizza is bound to run onto the other side during the cooking process. Also, they can’t eat the sauce, either.”

The server leaves to discuss with the guests and then returns a few minutes later.

Server #1: “Can you make the pizza with no sauce and no cheese on one side?”

Me: “No. Again, the sauce and cheese will run onto the other side while it’s cooking. My mother had severe food allergies. This would have been enough to put her in the hospital or worse. I won’t send anyone to the emergency room today. Also, this pizza with no cheese or sauce is just pizza crust with mushrooms on it, and they will not be happy with that.”

Server #1: “Okay.”

He leaves again to deal with the table, and then once again, he returns.

Server #1: “Can you make the Margherita pizza with cheese only on half?”

I sigh deeply and stare off into the distance for a few moments in a way that I hope conveys to this server that I am trying very hard not to cuss him out.

Me: “I. Will not. Serve any dairy product. To a person. With. A. Severe. Dairy. Allergy! Please go get [Manager] to explain this to the table since they are having so much trouble understanding it!”

[Manager] is nowhere to be found — as is typical for him, but I digress. A more senior server overhears and offers to speak to the table himself. He quickly returns. By this time, I have made the Margherita pizza with no cheese anywhere on it.

Server #2: “They don’t have an allergy; it’s just a preference.”

Server #1: “But they told me it was a severe allergy! Those were their words! They didn’t say it was just a preference!”

Me: “Oh, I believe that’s what they told you. Too bad it means nobody gets any cheese now.”

I wish I could say that this was the only time a person claimed a severe allergy while ordering their allergen, but it happens a few times per month! What’s so hard about just saying they don’t want it?!

This happened in 2010. Almost all of the professors of this one particular degree course are pretty lenient: you get to write stories. That said, if you don’t turn in a certain number of physical printer pages per semester, your grade will plummet. Rough drafts, finished stories, it doesn’t matter. Not to mention that you must have multiple copies of everything printed out so the other classmates can read and comment, meaning you’ll go through a LOT of paper. 

A rather frazzled classmate of mine is handing her six-page rough draft out to everyone in the room, all twelve or so of us. She realizes she doesn’t have quite enough copies for everyone. 

Professor: “That’s okay. Do you have it saved somewhere? Can you print it in the library?”

Classmate: “Well, uh, no, you see, uh… I don’t have a computer.”

Professor: “…what?”

Classmate: “I live with my grandmother. She doesn’t believe in technology. She lets me use her typewriter.”

Professor: “…you typed all of these out by hand?!”

Classmate: “Now you know why I look so tired all the time! I’ll get everyone more tomorrow. Also, I think we’re out of paper, so I might have to get more…”

Professor: “No. You’re going to get these to us when you can, and we’ll talk about it when you get them to us. Okay?”

That classmate changed the policy for that degree: rough drafts didn’t need to be physical paper, could be sent over email or cloud, and only the final draft needed to be printed!