(Every year for Halloween, we have candy available for trick-or-treaters, but we never get very many. This year, one of my managers is mentioning our event to all the parents he sees. I am taking a customer’s order.)

Woman: “Hello, I was wondering, dear… Could I get some kid’s meals without Satan?”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am?”

Woman: “We don’t want the Satan toys; we just want the regular Christian toys, if you don’t mind.”

(I realize she is talking about our Halloween theme toys and rush off to find some of our old toys instead. I get back and finish taking the customer’s order without incident. When I turn away, she comes back to the counter and approaches my manager.)

Woman: “Excuse me, sir? I forgot to ask for sauces for my kid’s meals.”

Manager: “Of course. Here you are, ma’am! Have you heard we are doing Trick-or-Treating this year? You could bring your kids down for some candy and games!”

(The woman throws the sauces at my manager and storms off.)

Manager: *bewildered* “What did I do?”

Me: “You just asked the woman who called our Halloween toys ‘Satan Toys’ if she would bring her kids here to celebrate Halloween!”

This story is part of our Devilish Halloween roundup!

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For Halloween this year, our office decides to go with a ‘theme’ and we all come dressed up as various types of animals. One of my coworkers is a mom of two sets of twins.

During a quiet part of the day, I wander over to her desk and ask, “Am I the only one to see the irony of you dressed as a rabbit?”

She fell over laughing at her desk! I love my coworkers.

I’m the bad worker in this story. I was taking orders at the front counter when my current customer started arguing with me. We went back and forth for a while until he finally said, “What kind of idiot do you take me for?”

Even though I knew I was supposed to make nice, I answered with something my husband says a lot: “I don’t know; how many kinds of idiots are there?”

He never said another word; he just paid and moved out of the way to wait for his food.

When I checked the kitchen to see why it was taking so long, the cook was on the floor laughing his a** off.

(I work at an animal shelter. We have several different buildings on our site, and different rooms for the cats to be in. Our frequent volunteers know some of the longer-term resident cats really well and notice when they are adopted or pass away.)

Volunteer: “I saw that [Cat #1] was adopted!”

Me: “No, she is right here.” *points to [Cat #1]*

Volunteer: “I mean [Cat #1] out in [Room #2].”

Me: “I don’t think we have a cat by that name in [Room #2].”

Volunteer: “With the squished face? She was moved to [Other Adoption Center].”

Me: “Oh, you mean [Cat #2]?”

Volunteer: “I call her [Cat #1].”

Me: “Okay, I was unaware of that.”

Volunteer: “Or sometimes Amanda because her eyes look like Amanda Bynes.”

Me: “…”

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(I am 17. I have left home and am broke, so I lie about my age to get a job in a nightclub. I am a month away from being 18, so I don’t feel too bad. There are no checks and screenings by a lot of places at this point in time. However, I am THE most naive young woman. I know nothing about how the world works in reality, and I find myself working in a nightclub that has seven different rooms and bars, all with different themes. I’ve never even been to a pub or bar socially before this night. I am assigned to [Bar #1], which is pretty normal, and most of the customers seem to be okay. I mess up quite a few drinks, but it is laughed off when I tell the customers it’s my first night. I am doing okay, I think, and even manage to navigate my way around the multi- and split-level corridors to get to the bathrooms and back. The place is a total warren. And then:)

Supervisor: *shouts over the music* “[My Name]! Go to [Bar #7]! They need a barmaid!”

Me: *shouts over the music* “Where’s [Bar #7]?”

Supervisor: *shouts over the music* “Downstairs! Ask someone on the way!”

(So off I trot, trying to find my way to [Bar #7], asking various customers and staff along the way. Whenever I ask for directions, however, I get comments like, “You don’t want to be going there, love,” or, “Why the h*** are they putting YOU there?” or, “Who the bloody h*** told YOU to go to [Bar #7]?” and so on. But nobody will tell me why I shouldn’t go there, so I get stubborn and carry on. When I finally find [Bar #7], 20 minutes later, I drag the door open, only to be blasted with deafening music – much louder than upstairs. I walk to the bar, and look at the shocked face of the barman there.)

Me: *angry now* “What on earth is the matter with everyone? Why shouldn’t I be here?”

(My new colleague just spluttered and pointed at the stage, going beetroot red in the face. I turned around just as a woman on stage was removing her last piece of clothing with a “TA-DAAA!” gesture. She posed there, stark naked, to rapturous applause from the 200 men watching her. The lights went down, she dashed off the stage, and all 200 men turned to face naive little me at the bar, who was standing there with her bottom jaw resting on the top of her prim little lace-up shoes. I was the only female in the room after a full-on strip show. Gulp. It actually didn’t turn out too badly. I think most of them saw me as a substitute daughter, while the rest were so embarrassed to be caught watching a stripper by a very shocked young woman that they left [Bar #7] in quite a hurry and bought drinks elsewhere.)