(I’m eighteen, working my first job at a pub. I’ve been dealing with a “Serial Puker” who likes to decorate our disabled toilet with vomit — walls, floors, the lot! As I’ve got a strong stomach — and the disabled toilet is used by genuine users frequently — I have had to clean up this mess eight times in the last three weeks. We know who it is, but have yet to prove that he is doing it. It’s 10:30 pm on a busy Saturday, a regular has just asked me to refill the toilet roll, and as I walk out, a well-dressed — somewhat intoxicated — man pushes past me into the toilet. Cue vomiting sounds. I go get the mop bucket, paper towels, and gloves ready, check the toilet, and then follow the man to his table.)

Me: “Sir, do you need me to call you an ambulance?”

Vomiter: “What? No, Why?!”

Me: “Well, you’ve been so unwell in the bathroom that you’ve managed to vomit over every surface except the toilet itself. I assume you’re feeling extremely unwell.”

Vomiter: “There’s nothing f****** wrong with me. It doesn’t matter where I f****** puke, b****. I’m paying your wages so clean it up.”

Me: “In that case, sir, I am giving you two options: clean up your mess and don’t do it again, or you’re banned.”

Vomiter: “F*** you. Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?! Do you know who I am?”

Me: “Actually, sir, I do. And I dare say your sergeant would love to hear about your behaviour tonight. I have his mobile number and am more than happy to let him know the issue we’re having and show him the CCTV footage from the last three weeks.”

Vomiter: *suddenly very pale* “Uh, no, no. I, uh, don’t do that. I’ll pay for cleanup. I’m sorry.”

Me: “No, sir, the disabled toilet is needed tonight. You are welcome to clean it up yourself, though, if you’d like?”

Vomiter: “Uh, yeah. Okay. Uh, have you got any gloves?”

(We never had another problem whilst I worked there!)

(My husband, our four children, and I go out to a restaurant for dinner. We have impressed upon our children the importance of staying put in their chairs when we go out. Unfortunately, one of my children is a squirmer. He stays in the chair, but he twitches and wriggles around. As the waiter walks by, my son suddenly falls out of his chair and onto the ground; this happens all the time at home. The frightened waiter jerks backward, fortunately not spilling anything.)

Waiter: “I didn’t do anything! He just fell! I didn’t touch him, honestly!”

(I hold up my hand. He stops and stares at us with a scared expression as if he’s expecting us to go ballistic and blame him.)

Me: “It’s okay. Honestly. This happens all the time; I know you didn’t do anything. He just… falls out of his chair.”

(The waiter seemed shocked, if relieved, that we weren’t blaming him, and the service was exceptional for the rest of the meal, although I did notice that he went out of his way not to walk behind that particular child’s chair again. We left a big tip to make up for the shock he had received!)

(I work in intimate apparel so I get a lot of requests for certain underwear and whatnot. I’ve also had my fair share of older women doing questionable things.)

Customer: “Ma’am, do you work here?”

Me: *putting away clothes left in the fitting room* “Yep, sure do! How can I help you today?”

Customer: “I’m looking for all-cotton hipster panties. Do you have them here?”

Me: “Of course; it’s in our panty section. Give me a few seconds and I’ll walk you over.”

(I end up just leaving the pile of bras on my counter to help the woman and lead her to where our panties are.)

Me: “Unfortunately, we don’t have any solid colors. Will that be okay?”

Customer: “Colors and patterns don’t matter to me; I just need all-cotton hipsters. I just had a surgery that removed a portion of my bowels and I don’t want anything on my scar.”

Me: “That’s super easy to find, so if you would check this table display rig—”

(Right as I’m speaking, the customer pulls up her shirt and unbuttons her pants. Much to my absolute horror, she starts to tug her pants down to the — luckily empty — floor which exposes the panties she is currently wearing.)

Customer: “See where they cut me open?” *points to the very obvious scar on her stomach* “I need panties to make sure they don’t touch this scar.”

Me: *unsure what to do and what to say* “R-right, ma’am. These panties right here are what you are looking for—” *spots my manager* “O-Oh! I need to go talk to my manager! If I’m not back, the plus-size cashier would be happy to help you—”

Customer: “Thank you so much, sweetheart. I appreciate your help.” *fixes her clothes as if nothing happened* 

(I speed-walked to the department manager who was closing that night and told them I was taking my break right then and there. I didn’t tell them what happened but I’m sure loss prevention had a blast laughing at me and my panic of what the woman did.)

(For the past few summers, I’ve worked as a camp counselor for an arts/theatre camp in between semesters at school. The camp is based out of a school but we’re not connected to the school. For context, I am a certified EMT with extra certification in Tactical/Combat medicine. I’ve also done Krav Maga — an intense Israeli martial art — for a few years and am about to become certified as an instructor in that. The female counselor is about to finish her teaching degree and has about eight years of experience teaching and working with kids under her belt. Our campers range in age from about four to ten, and we have about 30 of them. We take them out to the playground after lunch. After about ten minutes, I notice the boys getting rougher and rougher. Then, one boy punches another in the jaw. I immediately break up the fight and check on the victim, who is the brother of the puncher.)

Me: “Are you okay?”

Victim: Yes.”

Me: “Do you need ice?”

Victim: “No.”

Me: “Do you need me to call the trainer?”

(We’re supposed to ask for liability even though I guarantee you I know more than she does. Whatever, I don’t mind.)

Victim: “No.”

(About every ten minutes for the next hour, I check on him and ask him the same questions. His response is always the same. My female counselor disciplines the brother. It’s not harsh because we’re at camp but we believe it’s fair for a punch. Turns out the victim had been stealing the brother’s hat throughout the day and he’d eventually had enough. The next day, we’re called to a meeting with my boss and the person in charge of the school’s summer program. The mother of the boys is also there. We tell them what happened.)

Mother: “I can’t believe you didn’t call the trainer. My son could’ve had a broken jaw. He came home saying his head hurt all day.”

Me: “He didn’t want me to call the trainer.”

Mother: “He said you didn’t even give him any ice.”

Me: “That is correct.”

Mother: “Don’t you think someone with medical experience should’ve seen him? Honestly, the entitlement of you all is astounding.”

Me: “Yes, I do.”

Mother: “Then why didn’t you call the trainer?”

Me: “Because…”

(I list my credentials to her.)

Me: “That, coupled with the fact that when I asked him, he said he didn’t want the trainer, made me think it wasn’t the best use of her time.”

Mother: “Well, why didn’t you stop the fight?”

Me: “I did. The second I saw the punch, I intervened.”

Mother: “Why didn’t you intervene before the fight started?”

Me: “Because I’m not psychic. I’m gonna go do my job now.”

(I walked out and back to work. The mother and boss of the school’s program wanted me fired but my boss refused. Luckily, she agreed with me and realized how dumb the mother was being.)

(My dorm has a dance held in a roller skating rink every fall/winter on a Friday. I’m sleeping one Sunday morning when I wake up to a very loud “What the f***?!” yelled right outside my dorm room. When I go outside to investigate, I see my RA talking with the room down the hall from me, and I hear this conversation:)

Students: “What do you mean, ‘what the f***’?”

Resident Advisor: “You know exactly what I mean. Why is there a shopping cart in your room?”

Students: “Oh, yeah. We’ve been meaning to ask you about that; can we take it to the dance on Friday?”

Resident Advisor: “Why?”

Students: “So we can put someone in it and sling them around on the roller skating rink.”

Resident Advisor: “First off, please don’t. But second, how would you even get it there? It’s not going to fit on the bus.”

Students: “We could just leave it there the night beforehand.”

Resident Advisor: “Again, I have to tell you that you can’t do that.”

Students: “All right, but what if we put someone in it and sling the cart into the lake?”

Resident Advisor: “As your RA, I have to advise against doing that. But, if you do, please take a video.”