For “productivity” reasons, we’re now required to report our activities daily, with an indication of the time spent, e.g. one and a half hours filing paperwork, two hours on [project], and so on. This annoys my colleague to no end.

One day, she shows me an email she received from the boss.

Boss’s Email: “How come when I add up the hours on your daily, the total is always seven and a half? What do you do in those thirty minutes?”

Colleague: *To me* “He doesn’t get it, does he? Thirty minutes a day are wasted writing the bloody daily itself!”

A friend and I are spending a vacation in Alghero, Sardinia, enjoying the food and drinks. This conversation is in Italian; I speak it fluently even though I’m Swedish. We each had a glass of prosecco. Mine is empty, so I go to the bar with a concerned and slightly sad look on my face.

Bartender: “How can I help you?”

Me: “There has to be something wrong with this glass; it seems broken!”

The bartender takes the glass and looks at it. There’s nothing wrong with the glass, so he looks at me, confused.

Bartender: “What’s wrong with it?”

Me: “There was nice prosecco in the glass, but suddenly, it was empty! I think the liquid went out through that hole on top!”

The bartender looks at me, even more confused. The owner of the hotel shows up in the bar, having heard the exchange. He has a grin on his face. He takes the glass from the bartender, looking at it with much concern.

Owner: “This is not good! I can see why this upsets you, but I can fix it!”

He bends down under the bar and takes out a HUGE champagne glass that easily fits half a bottle, fills it up, and hands it to me.

Owner: “There you go, miss. This glass won’t get empty that quick! But if you have any problems, you are welcome to come back and talk to me! This is on the house to apologize for the defective glass!”

I laugh and go back to my friend, who didn’t understand any of the conversation.

Friend: “What happened? And what’s with the giant glass?!”

Me: “I told them the glass was broken, so I got a new one!”

Customer: “Do you have the cartridge for my printer?”

Me: “Probably. Can you give me your printer model so I can check?”

Customer: “No. My printer doesn’t have a model.”

I’m a university student sharing an apartment with two other people. Despite the health emergency, my flatmates have decided to keep inviting people over for the night, albeit at specific four-person schedules. Aside from not being too keen on their behaviour right now, I usually don’t mind it too much, as we eat at different times and they take care of aerating places and wiping things down after all is said and done.

I go to bed rather early on a night when someone’s been invited over. The morning after, as I wake up, I feel something blocking me from rolling over. Startled, I look to my side and see a person curled up next to me.

Me: “Holy f***, who the h*** are you?” 

I hear a groan.

Girl: “Don’t be so loud. I have a headache.”

Me: “I’m going to give you more than a headache if you don’t get off the bed!”

The girl groans again as she slowly sits up and massages her head. At this point, a foul smell hits me, so I crane my neck over to the other side and see there’s a puddle of vomit on the floor and some of it splashed on my sports clothing.

Me: “That’s nasty.”

Girl: “Look, man, I was drunk, and now I’m hungover. Just let me get out of here. I need to get back home before my parents rip off my arms.”

Me: “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me who you are and who let you in my room, and you help me clean up.”

She sighs and gives out a pained moan.

Girl: “Ugh, and here I thought you were chiller than this. I knew I shouldn’t have listened to [Bad Flatmate].”

My eyes go wide open. I get up, put on my slippers, and furiously bang on [Bad Flatmate]’s door.

Bad Flatmate: “Jesus f***, mate, calm down. What’s the deal with you?!”

Me: “What’s my deal? What’s your deal?! Why is there a girl in my bed and why did you let her in?”

Bad Flatmate: *Annoyed, opening the door* “Because she came here by car and was drunk. We didn’t have enough room in the living room, so we figured you wouldn’t mind if—”

Me: “When did I say you could enter my room to give a bed to random people?!”

Bad Flatmate: “What, did you want to have a dead girl on your conscience? She couldn’t drive!”

Me: *Gritting my teeth* “You shouldn’t bring people home to hold parties, yet here we are, with a hungover girl that shouldn’t be here vomiting on my clothes while sleeping in my bed, when I didn’t ask or explicitly allow it, because of you, you f****** moron.”

Bad Flatmate: “You’re a little b****, you know that? Y’know what, fine. I’ll help you clean up if that’ll shut you up.”

By the time he agreed to help me clean, the girl was already gone. I think I’m going to need to invest in a new lock.

I’m on a work trip with a coworker. He’s reportedly a good fellow but has a few quirks. I prefer not to be confrontational, especially at the start of a week-long project in which we’ll spend fourteen hours a day together.

While driving, my coworker starts faking an accent from the deepest suburbs of the capital city.

Coworker: “Hey, what the f*** you doing? F***, what?! Stay on your own side, you f***er! What the f*** are you breaking for? Who the f*** gave you a licence? Oi, you’re f****** dead ones!”

The traffic is heavy but none of the other drivers is behaving especially badly, yet he goes on and on with this monologue. I’m not a prude, but the fake, rude accent and the gratuitous vulgarity start grating on my nerves after a while, so I put on my earbuds until we arrive.

Later, as we’re setting up, I realize that the piece of equipment we’re supposed to be working on has been extensively and severely damaged by whoever worked on it before us.

Me: “Oh, God d—”

Coworker: *Brusquely* “[My Name], don’t swear.”

I was speechless.