When I was at uni, I worked during the summers as a cleaner in my hometown, primarily at [Major Corporation]. [Major Corporation] had recently merged with [Massive Corporation], and as they streamlined production, some employees had moved between the corporations.

One of them was [Manager #1], who had moved to [Major Corporation], where the employees were dissatisfied with [Managers #2-#5]. During the spring, [Major Corporation] did a huge survey among the employees where they were asked to rank the performances of the managers on a scale from one (Awful) to five (Excellent). They then called the managers to a big event at the local castle and presented the results. It was a disaster.

[Managers #2-#5], who all spent their days doing as little as possible and mainly sat around complaining about others — [Manager #1], in particular — and who had all pocketed the money [Major Corporation] had set aside for activities with the employees, all received ones on all questions. In fact, many of the employees complained that they couldn’t score a zero.

As you can imagine, [Managers #2-#5] were fuming.

Then, the board presented the survey regarding [Manager #1], who was brought in to be the shining example. He spent his days doing tasks with his team, and after asking around what they wanted to do with the team-building money, he organized a bowling league. He also received exactly the same score on every question from all his team members: fives all around.

So, [Managers #2-#5] all HATED [Manager #1]’s guts.

One Friday, I was cleaning their office. [Manager #2] and [Manager #3] sat at their desks, complaining about [Manager #1] and how he always worked hard, helped others, and was a royal pain in the behind in general. The surveys were still where they’d been dumped on all five desks in the office, and I did my best to ignore them as I dusted and emptied the bins. Per usual, neither [Manager #2] nor [Manager #3] could be bothered to acknowledge me.

Every Friday, I had to carry out the cumbersome and very heavy coal-soaked rubber mat to shake off the coal gathered in the rubber spikes. I always ended up being covered in coal, so this was the last thing I did before heading straight home and throwing my work clothes in the washer. I had begun folding the mat when the door opened and [Manager #1] strolled in, wearing coveralls.

Manager #1: “Oh, you’ll be covered in coal if you drag that outside. I’ll do it instead; I’m already in coveralls, anyway. You could clean the floor properly in the meantime.”

I happily accepted his help, and as soon as the door closed behind him, [Manager #2] and [Manager #3] EXPLODED. They couldn’t believe how annoyingly helpful [Manager #1] was; now he was helping the cleaning lady do her work. The gall! Something was clearly off with him and his insistence on always helping people.

There was no point in arguing with them, so I just continued to clean. I had been there an hour and they still hadn’t acknowledged my presence anyway.

When [Manager #1] returned, he helped me replace the mat. Before I left, I smiled widely at him and said, as loudly as I could:

Me: “Oh, that was so kind of you! Thank you so much for your help, Dad!”

The look of horror on [Manager #2] and [Manager #3]’s faces as they realized that they had been bad-mouthing my dad in my presence for the last hour was a sight I will cherish to my last breath.

I’m walking into my friendly neighbourhood pizza place to get a takeaway pizza for dinner. The staff know me well and know what I usually get. 

Me: “Hi! The usual, please, to go.”

Employee: “Hi, [My Name]! Actually, we have a to-go order ready; the customer called and cancelled it twenty minutes ago after we’d already made it. It’s your usual order, except it’s got onions, and we’ve kept it warm.”

My usual order is this exact pizza, but I always specify that I want it without the onions because they give me an upset stomach. Still, I could always pick them off, and it might save me a little money.

Me: “I guess. What kind of discount are we looking at?”

Employee: “That’ll still be [full price], but on the plus side, you don’t have to wait for it!”

Me: “[Full price] for a pizza that’s been kept warm for over twenty minutes, with a topping I try to avoid? Nah, I think I’ll just wait for a freshly made [usual order], instead.”

Employee: “That’s fair. The boss said we had to try and sell it, and now I’ve tried. Anyway, [usual order] to go — that’ll be [full price], and it’ll be ready in ten to fifteen minutes! Help yourself to a cup of coffee while you wait!”

The owner of that place is an ***, but I love the employees!

My last apartment was old and very worn down. In the beginning, I called the landlord over and over begging them to fix or replace things, but nothing ever happened. If I managed to get hold of a manager, things would sometimes get a little better, but most of the time, I had to deal with maintenance, and they refused to do anything but the bare minimum. Eventually, I just gave up and kept careful documentation of things that were already damaged when I moved in so I wouldn’t be held responsible for them. 

Then, I unexpectedly got a job in another city and had to move there pretty much immediately. I had three months’ notice on my lease, but I figured it was worth paying double rent for a few months just to get out of that place. 

So, I moved out. I didn’t have a lot of money to spare, so I decided to do the final cleaning myself instead of hiring someone. It took a week, and when I was done, it was certainly much cleaner than it had been when I moved in. I couldn’t be there for the final inspection, but I left a list of things that weren’t working properly and needed to be replaced.

Then, I got a call.

Inspector: “Hello. I just wanted to tell you the result of the final inspection of your apartment.”

Me: “Oh, did you see my notes? I’m sorry I couldn’t be there in person, but I just started my new job.”

Inspector: “No, I’m calling to tell you that since the bathroom wasn’t properly cleaned, we’re going to need to send you a bill.”

Me: “Excuse me? I went over the place with a toothbrush; it is as clean as it can possibly get.”

Inspector: “There were stains inside the toilet bowl. You’ll have to pay to get that fixed.”

Me: “I spent an entire day trying to get it clean. The enamel’s just too worn down; those stains aren’t coming off.”

Inspector: “Still, we need to hire a professional cleaning company before the next tenant can move in, and we’re sending the bill to you. It’s in your contract.”

Me: “Tell you what. You go ahead and hire a professional cleaner, and if they’re able to get that toilet any cleaner than it already is, I’ll happily pay your bill.”

I hung up. A few days later, I had another call, this time from a manager.

Manager: “Hello. I’m calling regarding your apartment. I understand you spoke to [Inspector] a few days ago.”

Me: *Sigh* “Yes. Do they still want to send me a bill for failing to clean thirty years of ingrained s*** off a toilet?”

Manager: “No. Actually, I’m calling to let you know we’re breaking the lease early so you won’t have to pay the remaining two months’ rent. The bathroom needs to be completely redone before we can have anyone else move in.”

Me: “Oh, you mean the same thing I’ve told you for the past three years?”

I’m so happy to be rid of that place — a little bitter that I didn’t get to enjoy the new bathroom, though.

Related:
This Is Why People Have Big Feelings About Landlords

I’m the author of this story.

Back in the long, long ago — that is, the ancient times of 2013 to 2014 or so — I work at a student-run bar, one of the many centuries-old student-run clubs in the town. They are run in accordance with the strict Swedish alcohol laws, where over-serving someone is technically a jailable offence for the bartender (though that rarely happens). The bartender is also always right, so if I say someone has had enough, they have.

It is a big club night, the last one before the end of the semester. The drinks are quite cheap (by Swedish standards), and a lot of people are a bit desperate.

A sleazy guy with an open shirt and a not-very-comfortable lady come to the bar.

Guy: “Two [cheap cider]s!”

Me: “Right-o.” *Uncorks and serves them* “That will be 58 kronor.” *About $6*

Guy: *Handing me a 500-kronor (50-dollar) note* “Keep the change!”

He is obviously trying to impress the lady, who seems unimpressed.

Me: *Incredulously* “Are you tipping me 442 kronor?”

Guy: “Yeah. It’s yours! I study economics! I’m gonna be really rich!”

The lady remains unimpressed.

Guy: “In fact, I am, like, top of my class and, like, really smart!”

Me: “Oh? I’ve heard that economics is simple.”

Guy: *Removing his arm from around the woman* “Yeah, it’s simple for someone like me!”

He starts a rambling story about how you can use “economics” to make money by tricking people into giving it to you. The woman looks even less impressed and slinks away while he talks (giving me a thankful glance), and he finds that he is alone after a few minutes. I keep serving other customers meanwhile, and he pays little attention to me. 

Guy: “Hey, where did the little slut go?” 

Me: “I think she went that way.”

I point in the opposite direction, and he runs off. I keep working for a few hectic hours, and then the guy returns, fuming but pretending to be polite. 

Guy: “Yeah, so, do you remember me?” 

Me: “Sorry, not really.”

Guy: “Yeah, I tipped you a, a, a lot. Like loads. I had a super hot slut with me. She disappeared, and you probably helped her get away so you could get the slut yourself!” 

Me: “Please don’t call women that.” 

Guy: “Whatever. I want my tip back.” 

Me: “Sorry?”

Guy: “I gave you 500 kronor, and I bought, like, just a cider.”

Me: “I remember you now. I asked if it was a tip and you said yes. So, no.”

Guy: “No, see, I need that money now.”

Me: “That’s not gonna happen.”

Guy: “No, but, I can’t tip that much! I gave you my bus money home. I’m, like, broke.” 

Me: “Sorry. You could probably walk, though.” 

Guy: “DO I LOOK LIKE A F****** [slur for Roma people]? Give me my money!”

He drunkenly fails to climb over the bar. I flag down a passing security guard.

Me: “No. You are to leave, now.”

The guard intervened and the guy was dragged away. I was told that he disappeared right into the back of a drunk-cell with some hefty fines after he decided to call the non-European-descended guard every slur in existence.

Related:
Putting The “Toxic” Into “Intoxicated”, Part 2

When I first moved away from home to study, I started out living in student housing. We all had our own rooms, but every floor shared a kitchen and common room. In Sweden, this is commonly referred to as a “student corridor”. There is no adult supervision, and people are expected to take care of themselves. I had a corridor neighbor who had, like most of us, just moved away from home. It was [Boy]’s first time on his own, and he was miserable.

We had to teach this poor boy EVERYTHING. It started with the mystery of why the plates in the communal kitchen were always greasy, even when they’d been put back into the cupboard as clean. It turned out that [Boy] didn’t know he had to use hot water to wash the dishes; he just rinsed them off and put them back.

He spent the first six months complaining about how he was always running out of money. This was because he didn’t know how to cook. The rest of us lived on the usual student diet of oatmeal and cheap pasta dishes and treated ourselves to a pizza on weekends. [Boy] got fast food every single day. I could feed myself for a month on his weekly meal budget.

I once found him in the laundry room, staring dumbfounded at a washing machine. He had no idea how to do laundry. I had to take him shopping for laundry detergent because he didn’t know what it was. He thought he could just put ordinary soap in there. 

To his credit, [Boy] was very grateful for the help and very frustrated that no one had taught him how to do all these things before he moved out.

Then, his mother came to visit. He happily introduced all of us as his friends. Then, she came up to me.

Mother: “I’ve heard so much about you! I’m so glad to finally meet my son’s girlfriend.”

Me: “Sorry, girlfriend?”

Mother: “Yes, [Boy] has been telling me all about how well you’re taking care of him.”

Boy: “Mom, I’ve already told you, we’re not together. She’s just been showing me how to do stuff. We’re friends, that’s all.”

Mother: “But you told me how good she is at cooking, and how she did your laundry, and—”

Me: “No, let me stop you there. We’re cooking together sometimes, but that’s so he can learn how it’s done. Same with the laundry; he didn’t know how to do it, so I showed him. People are supposed to know how to do this stuff for themselves when they move away from home!”

Mother: “How would my son be expected to know how to do housework?”

Me: “I don’t know. Maybe his parents should have taught him? Mine did!”

Boy: “She’s right, Mom. I should have known this before I moved out.”

Mother: “I guess I just expected you to have a girlfriend by now. You’re handsome enough. You’re going to be an engineer; you’ll make a lot of money someday!”

Boy: “And [My Name] is going to be a doctor. She still knows how to do her own laundry!”

Mother: “That’s different! She’s not a boy!”

He really was a sweet guy, and we did end up dating for a while a year or so later, but unfortunately, his mother was a dealbreaker.

After we graduated, I was invited to his wedding. He introduced me to his new wife as “the one who taught me how to be a man”.