Back in the eighties, I was a collector and trader of Grateful Dead bootleg tapes. This was a thing back then: taping their concerts was allowed by the band, and they even set aside a section of the audience for tapers.

My boss knew that I had the equipment to copy cassette tapes, and he asked me to duplicate a tape of a motivational speaker he had for each of his project managers to listen to.

The speech didn’t fill an entire cassette, so I added a few minutes of a raucous Grateful Dead concert to fill up the remaining blank tape, and I told my boss what I had done.

The cassettes got handed out, and every manager claimed to have listened all the way through. But nobody mentioned the gratuitous Grateful Dead concert at the end.

A couple of years ago, I was attending a music festival where you had to buy tokens in order to exchange them for drinks. They would charge you an additional token for the reusable cup they would serve the drink in, and to encourage people not to throw them. You could bring back the cups to get back money equivalent to one token.

At the end of the day, I wanted to leave, but I still had about ten tokens left. I went directly to the stand where they sold them to exchange them back into money. After a short queue, when it was my turn, I showed my ten tokens.

Worker: “We don’t exchange the tokens back into money, only the cups.”

I tried to argue with the person working there, but they told me it was definitely not possible.

Me: “It’s alright. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I then proceeded to the bar and asked for ten empty cups in exchange for my ten tokens. They looked at me strangely but immediately agreed to the exchange. 

I then went back to the stand where they sold the tokens, especially choosing the same queue I was in before, and after another short wait, I was in front of the same employee. They looked at me. I showed them the stack of ten clean cups. They looked at the cups. Then they looked back at me.

Worker: “Okay… here is your money…”

I’m a bus driver. I’ve only ever had one crazy incident in all my career. Some guy is playing his music really loud.

Me: “Turn that off or put in headphones, please.”

Passenger: “This is public transportation, and I’m a member of the public.”

Me: “What does that have to do with you playing loud music?”

Passenger: “I paid for my bus ticket, so I’m allowed to be here, and I can play anything I want.”

At this point, one of my regular passengers, a huge tank of a man, gets up from his seat and sits down right next to the passenger playing loud music.

Passenger: “What the hell, dude, there’s plenty of seats.”

Tank man opens his mouth, and I realize this is the first time I’ve heard him speak, as he has a strong Russian or Eastern European accent.

Tank Man: “I pay for my bus ticket, so I’m allowed to be here.”

Tank Man suddenly breaks into bellowing a loud opera-type song in his native language, directed right at the passenger.

Passenger: “F*** off!”

Tank Man: *Still in his singing voice.* “You f*** off. Public transportation and I public.”

The passenger has had enough and stands up and pushes past Tank Man. He takes another seat, but Tank Man follows him. He takes a third seat, next to another passenger, in the hopes that Tank Man can’t sit next to him. Tank Man sits behind him instead and continues his operatic performance.

Passenger: *Turns off his music.* “Fine! F*** it!”

Tank Man: *Stops singing.* “Oh. I lost my background music. I must stop singing.”

The passenger gets off a couple of stops later. A couple of stops after that Tank Man gets off at his regular stop.

Me: “Thanks, man. That was awesome. My powers as a driver are pretty limited to dealing with unruly passengers, so that was great.”

Tank Man: “Meh. I work three years as Walmart cashier. This nothing.”

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This story is part of our Editors’-Favorite-Stories-Of-2025 roundup!

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It’s the day after Christmas, and I’m working an early shift in a big box retail store. The decorations are still up, and the Christmas music is still looping through the speakers. A customer marches up to the customer service counter where I’m stationed.

Customer: “You need to turn that off right now.”

Me: “The music?”

Customer: “The Christmas music! It’s the 26th! It’s OVER. You’ve been playing this crap for three months!”

Me: “Yes, ma’am. It’s been quite a season.” 

Customer: “I can’t take one more ‘Jingle Bell Rock.’ Make it stop.”

Me: “Unfortunately, the playlist is controlled by corporate. It switches to normal rotation after New Year’s.”

Customer: “New Year’s? You’re telling me corporate expects the customer to just keep suffering for another week?!”

Me: “I suppose so, ma’am.” 

Customer: “Unbelievable! I spend money here all year, and you people can’t even turn off a song.”

Me: “If it helps, I’ve already tuned it out completely. I only hear sleigh bells in my nightmares now.”

Customer: “This is torture. I’m never shopping here again.”

She storms off down the aisle right as Mariah Carey hits that high note for the fiftieth time today. My coworker leans over and mutters:

Coworker: “She says she’s never shopping here again every Christmas.” 

Me: “I know. She’s on repeat as much as the Christmas album.”

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It’s December in our big box store, and the same corporate-approved holiday album has been looping since before Thanksgiving. I’m at the register, a coworker nearby, both of us clearly sick of it and commenting on it.

Coworker: “If I hear this song one more time, I swear I’m hearing it in my nightmares.”

Me: “We’ve still got three more weeks. It’ll be burned into my actual brain tissue by then.”

A customer has approached, a gentleman with his teenage daughter:

Customer: “Oh come on, it’s not that bad. You two shouldn’t be so negative during the holidays.”

Customer’s Teenage Daughter: “Dad, you try listening to the same holiday album all day, every day, for two months.”

Dad: “Still sounds like you’re overreacting. It’s festive!”

Daughter: “Okay. Pick any album you want, as long as it’s a holiday one. I’ll get Alexa to play it. On repeat. All. Day. Every. Day. At home.”

Dad waves her off. They finish checking out and leave.

A week later, they’re back in the store. I don’t recognize them at first but then it clicks when I see the daughter waving me over. She’s all smiles, while her dad is looking very sheepish.

Daughter: “He lasted one afternoon…”