In high school, I worked at a fast food chain with my best friend for eight months. Oh, the stories I could tell!

The store was run by a mother-daughter pair, and oh, boy, was it a s*** show. I had waited tables before, and I like to see other people smile, so they trained me in the drive-thru windows because I was “perky”.

The first bad sign was when the managers started a pool with over/under bets on how long it would take for me to stop smiling at people when I took their money or handed them food.

All right, I can live with that.

Our kitchen was made up of entirely illegal immigrants, none of whom spoke English. Having worked in other restaurants, I didn’t really think too much about it other than, “Sweet, another way to practice Spanish!”… until the other women started complaining about being sexually harassed. I went with one particularly timid girl to report it to the managers — they worked every shift together — and the response was for us to “Suck it up and enjoy it!”. I started carrying my pocket knife with me to work after that, which I did eventually wind up using when one of the men cornered me in the freezer — where there were no cameras. When I reported that incident, the daughter threatened to fire me because I was “stealing her men”.

Meanwhile, I was looking for other jobs, but no one was hiring, so I was stuck where I was.

We started experiencing thefts. My best friend reported the men responsible… and nothing happened.

What took the cake was when I was working on a Saturday. My shift started at 6:00 am, but someone called out and I agreed to cover the next shift, because hey… overtime! Well, s*** hit the fan around midnight when we got this huge rush. The only people working were a guy in the kitchen, a shift manager, and me.

The shift manager got a call. Her underage boyfriend had been caught at a DUI stop down the road in her car, with weed on him. She panicked and left the store to go get him in the [Kitchen Guy]’s truck.

Me: “Um… what the f***?”

The lobby was locked, so all we had to do was run the drive-thru, so we buckled down and made it work. [Shift Manager] came back, bringing the boyfriend and his friend, and they all three locked themselves in the men’s restroom to get high.

Keep in mind, I’d been at work since 6:00 am, so I was dead on my feet and really just wanted to leave. I figured someone else would deal with it in the morning. Besides, the office was locked, and it was manager policy to not have your cell phone on you at work or risk getting fired, so I couldn’t call anyone. And again, I NEEDED this job.

I clocked out at 2:30 am. I had to be back at 6:00 am again. (That was not legal for someone under eighteen, but they didn’t really follow laws.) I just wanted to get some sleep.

The next afternoon, [Kitchen Guy] and I were called into the break room for a meeting with the managers. There, we were told how much of a disappointment we were, how we were terrible employees, and how we should have called their cell phones — like I had their numbers. We generally got our a**es reamed. We were too dumbstruck to say anything.

Honestly, I’d had enough. I had dealt with sexual harassment, sexual assault, piss-poor management, drug deals happening at work, watching people steal, and seeing countless other laws getting broken.

On my next shift, I came with a resignation letter. I had just enough money in the bank to get me through the next month, and I figured something would shake loose by then. I handed them the two weeks’ notice letter at the end of my shift. The mom glanced over it, looked up at me, and said:

Mom: “You are so f****** dumb. Don’t come in again.”

The daughter was laughing. Mind you, this was in the middle of the front lobby where there were customers because they refused to talk with me in either the office or the break room. She quipped:

Daughter: “Don’t forget to bring us back your shirt and hat!”

Something in me just snapped. I took off my shirt and hat and threw them over the counter. I walked out and have not been back, even once.

I’ve had some s***ty managers, but man, those two took the freaking cake.

My parents are divorced. As such, they set up separate savings accounts for me when I was younger. (They didn’t really speak to each other.) As I got older, they came under my control, and as I couldn’t be bothered, I never shut one or the other.

Finally, one account goes dormant as I don’t use it, and it takes me a while to go and close it. I decide go to a branch as I want to close it and am not sure if I can do that over the phone.

Teller: “How can I help you today?”

Me: “I want to close this account, which has become dormant. I have the letter telling me about the dormancy, ID, and proof of address, which is what this letter tells me to bring.”

The teller looks up the account and looks at my ID. She starts typing away before turning and disappearing into an office to ask someone something.

Teller: “We can’t close this account as there is still an active card on it. You need to wait until that arrives in about five to six business days, and then you can come in here with that card and close it.”

This is a problem for me as I am currently a foreign student visiting home. I’m not going to be here in a few days, so I want to get this sorted ASAP.

Me: “Is there anything I can do to get this account closed more quickly?”

Teller: “You can try on the phone.”

She then dismisses me and turns to help the next person.

I turn to my aunt who came to keep me company. She offers her phone for me to use — my foreign number would cost a bomb to use — and we sit down in the bank and try to get this thing settled.

We ring the line on the letter to find out it has been changed since the letter was sent. (I did say I hadn’t used this account for a while.) We ring the new number and start to go through the security questions. This is a problem as my aunt doesn’t have an account with this bank and, as such, there should be no security questions to answer. I hang up and am about to get back in line when she suggests we ring again and just punch in random numbers until we get a human.

Success! We are now talking to a flesh-and-blood human who is a lot more sensible than his counterpart at the bank. After a bit of confusion as to why I am using this number, I get through the security questions and identify myself, my account is found, and he starts to close it. I tell him why I am ringing as there is apparently an active card on the account.

Call Centre Guy: “Yeah, I’m looking and there is no active card here. The account is dormant. I have no idea why my colleague there couldn’t close this for you in the branch.”

My aunt and I agreed later that it was probably something the first worker didn’t know and couldn’t be bothered to find out.

I am pregnant with our second child, and we have decided to trade in our supermini car for something a bit more suitable after already struggling to get everything packed when going on vacation with just one child — which included buckling our large duffle bag into the passenger seat. We make an appointment at a local dealership, totally willing to order a new car from them after a test drive.

We arrive five minutes early with our two-year-old in tow, get his car seat out of our car, and walk into the dealership.

Office Lady: “The car isn’t ready for you to look at yet. Could you please wait outside, due to [global health crisis] restrictions?”

So, we wait. And wait. And wait. With a two-year-old in a car dealership parking lot. And wait.

Thirty minutes after our appointment time, my husband goes back inside and is told they just need five more minutes as the car is still in the back getting cleaned. 

Forty-five minutes after our appointment time, a sales agent walks outside, takes us to a car, and hands us the keys.

Sales Agent: “Please be back in thirty minutes.”

We install the car seat, take a fifteen-minute test drive, and walk into the office upon our return.

Me: “Hey, we just test-drove the [Van] and would like to place an order for a new one. The ones you have in stock right now according to your website do not meet our criteria, but we really like the car. [Sales Agent] said we could do that when we got back?”

Office Lady: “Sorry, [Sales Agent] has just left for lunch. She should be back in around an hour.”

Me: “Okay. Um, she said we should be back within thirty minutes when we left twenty minutes ago. Is she really not around anymore?”

Office Lady: “No, she just left. She told me you were test-driving the black [Van] and to expect you back any minute.”

Me: “All right. Is there anyone else who can help us out? We already had to wait for the car to be ready for forty-five minutes, and we have our toddler with us, so we really can’t wait another hour and then go through the whole ordering stuff.”

Office Lady: “No. We don’t do that. You have been assigned to [Sales Agent], so she is the only one who can help you.”

We didn’t buy a car that day and took our business elsewhere. I am not sure they understood why.

I work at a chain sandwich shop. Our jerk manager fires a coworker for putting too many olives on sandwiches. How many slices did he put? Like twenty on a foot-long sandwich. How many is the correct number? Five for a foot-long and three for a half-size sandwich.

This leaves just [Manager] and me in the store. He then goes on break for twenty-five minutes while I get slammed with a bunch of customers.

Me: “Can I get some help, please?”

Manager: “No. On break.”

I go on break later that day, and [Manager] gets slammed.

Manager: “[My Name], come back to work.”

Me: “No, on break.”

At the end of my shift, [Manager] informed me that I was being written up. I walked out. I got a call a week later from the owner begging me to come back. Seven of the ten employees had been fired or made to quit by that moron.

I work for a poultry plant as a QA (Quality Assurance) supervisor. My team’s job is to check that all the machines are operating correctly, the temperature of the poultry is good, the product is cut properly, and much, much more.

One section in particular does leg quarters, and a major problem we have in that area is that after the product is sealed in a vacuum-sealed bag, the bag will get punctured, and the box begins to leak on the pallet.

One day, I’m in the next section over when I notice a couple of pallets set to the side with “hold” tags on them — our way of marking product that needs to be fixed. I wander over and ask my coworker, a 5’2″ tall girl, how it’s going.

She explains to me that the production line keeps trying to get things past her without fixing them or ignoring her completely. She is obviously upset and getting overwhelmed. This girl weighs maybe 110 pounds if she’s soaking wet, so I’m already fairly protective of her, as is her husband, who also works in QA.

She is saying she is going to quit, and I can tell she is near tears at this point. I tell her we need to go tell [Supervisor] so he can come and fix the situation.

After [Supervisor] comes down and gets on to them, we continue our checks and get back to business.

Five minutes later, I go back to check on [Coworker], only to find her now truly in tears. I calm her down as best I can, just enough to get the story from her.

One of the pallet stackers decided it was too much to ask for them to change out leaking boxes, as they have to remove already stacked boxes to get to any leaking ones we find. Apparently, one also said something rude to [Coworker], which is what finally drove her to tears.

We are usually nice and just pull the problem boxes out enough so they can see the issue and fix it without us placing a “hold” tag on it. The stackers have decided to just push them back into place, and the pallet jack drivers have decided to continue to try to hide said problem boxes.

Now, [Coworker] is in tears and very upset.

Me: “[Coworker], go take some time to calm down. I’ll work this area, while [Coworker #2] will continue to handle my and his original area alone.”

[Coworker] leaves, and I inform [Coworker #2] of the situation. He agrees and informs our other coworkers of what happened.

We stop being nice and begin to tag every problem we find — not just me, but every QA who walks by. After half an hour, five pallets are set to the side with issues, mostly leaking boxes.

As lunch comes around, I find the supervisor of the area.

Me: “You need to tell your stackers that if we pull a box out, it gets fixed. No questions, no arguments; just fix it.”

Supervisor: “We have too much going on to be fixing that stuff most of the time. It will have to go out like it is.”

Me: “Nope. QA is above you; you don’t get to decide. We do you a favor by only pulling them out to get fixed. If we tag it, it’s on the record. If it’s only pulled out, there’s no record of anything happening.”

Supervisor: “We just have too much to do. We can’t fix it all, so it just has to go out that way.”

Me: “Then we will be tagging every problem we find. We do a lot for your area, but if you’re insisting you won’t be fixing it, we will stop being nice.”

For the rest of the night, every problem we found was immediately tagged and told to be set aside. QAs are the only ones allowed to place — or remove — any hold tags, so their area was way behind for the rest of the shift.

Mess with one QA, get them all, especially when you make a young girl cry.