(I work as a programmer for industrial machines in a huge company in Germany. I am responsible for the program of a new kind of cleaning machine, which also has a security door that has to be opened and closed by pushing a button. Before opening a safety interlock needs to be opened. It takes about two seconds before the door ultimately starts opening.)

Project Manager: “Hey, [My Name]. That machine needs to be quicker. Why does it always takes two seconds before the door opens?”

Me: “Uhm… because the safety interlock has to be opened first. That takes two seconds.”

Project Manager: “Couldn’t you remove that safety interlock? Then we would save those seconds?”

Me: “No, sorry. For safety reasons I can’t do that.”

Project Manager: “Okay… What about you open that safety interlock two seconds before that button is pushed. Then the door would open exactly when the button is pushed.”

Me: “… No.”

(I’m on my first day at an upscale restaurant. It’s been years since I’ve worked in a restaurant so I’m still getting used to it. My boss hands me the menu.)

Boss: “Read this and memorize it. I’ll be back later.”

(I’m a bit confused, because I’ve been hired as a busser, not a cook. But I take it anyway, figuring everyone has to do it. After 15 minutes, he comes back.)

Boss: “Done?”

Me: “Er, sort of. Well, I read it.”

Boss: “What is [dish]’s ingredients?”

Me: “I don’t know.”

Boss: “You’ve JUST read it!”

Me: “I know, but it’s really complicated! You can’t expect me to have memorized 40 plus dishes in just 15 minutes.”

Boss: *steely look* “Right. Well, I think that this is not working out.”

Me: “Huh?”

Boss: “You heard me. The company will not continue your training.”

Me: “But… but I’m a busser!”

Boss: “Huh?”

Me: “What does memorizing the menu have to do with bussing tables?”

(My boss looked awkward and shuffles some files. He brings up my application with the word ‘Busser’ printed on top and his eyes go wide. There is a silence.)

Boss: “Um… Well, we do have a busser position… How about you just go… and… if we have it available for you, we’ll call.”

(I left. I doubt I’ll accept again, if they do wind up calling.)

(The local pizza chain in a small college town has a 10% discount for college students and employees. It was one of the places we’d often go to for lunch. Normally we’d each pay for our own meal, but on this day my coworker asks if I could cover for him since he forgot his wallet.)

Me: “I had the pizza buffet and a drink, and I’m also paying for [Coworker]’s buffet and drink. We work at the college and should get the 10% discount.”

Cashier: “Okay, so the it’s two buffets and two drinks, and each of you gets a 10% discount, so that’s 20% total discount. Your total is [amount].”

Coworker: “Um…”

Me: “Wait, that’s not how it works. The discount is only 10%.”

Cashier: “Yes. You each get 10% off, so that’s 20% total. You owe [amount].”

(Not knowing how to argue with that logic, I paid, and on the way out the door joked with my coworker.)

Me: “We need to bring the entire department out and maybe some others. If we got 10 people, everyone’s meal would be free! Would they even pay us if we brought 11 or more?”

(My wife is applying to a graduate school overseas. She has to have a medical form done over the spring. It asks for weight and height in kilograms and meters, but the doctor missed that and filled the form in for pounds and feet. She returns to the doctor’s office to get this and some other details corrected or explained by someone at the reception desk, but is intercepted by someone else at the doctor’s office, probably a supervisor.)

Supervisor: *condescendingly* “Can I help you, Mrs. [Wife]?”

Wife: “Yes, I was taking a look at this form, and it looks like the doctor made a mistake.”

Supervisor: *takes the sheet* “How so?”

Wife: “Well, she’s listed my weight as 145 kilograms, which I’m clearly not. I’m probably 145 pounds, not kilograms.”

Supervisor: “Listen, dear. I don’t know what to tell you. The scale doesn’t lie: That’s your weight.”

(For those not exactly privy to Imperial/Metric conversion, 145 kilograms is about 320 pounds.)

Wife: “Excuse me?”

Supervisor: “The doctor put 145 there. I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.”

Wife: “And I’m sure it’s a mistake. Can I talk to the doctor?”

Supervisor: “She’s not available at this time.”

Wife: “And what about my height?”

Supervisor: “What about it?”

Wife: “I’m five-and-three-quarters meters tall?”

(Again, my non-metric friends, that’s nearly nineteen feet tall.)

Supervisor: “I have no idea.”

Wife: “So, will you have someone fix it?”

Supervisor: “That’s what the doctor put down!”

Wife: “And the doctor’s not available?”

Supervisor: “Correct. Goodbye, Mrs. [Wife]!”

Wife: “Wait, but… err, nevermind.”

(Eventually, my wife decided to mail in the form with ‘kg’ and ‘m’ crossed out, replaced by ‘lbs’ and ‘ft,’ respectively. Our fingers are still crossed that the school understands that some people don’t understand metric.)

This story is part of our Metric System roundup!

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(I’ve been working with this company for a little over two years, normally in the office. One of my colleagues asks for help down the back of the warehouse – where I go rarely – and I spot a small room hidden away among the shelves.)

Me: “Hey, [Workmate], I didn’t know there was an office there.”

Workmate: “Neither did I. I wonder what it’s for. Should we look?”

Me: *jokingly* “Nah, it is probably where they hide the serial killer bodies.”

(A phone from the office starts ringing and we look at each other.)

Me & Workmate: “Creepy.”

(Several minutes later the warehouse manager comes through and we mention the room and that the phone was rang. He looks me straight in the eye, looking incredibly creepy, and says:)

Manager: “Never answer the phone.”

(My workmate and I decided we didn’t want to see what was in the secret room anymore.)