Let's talk about funny work stories.

I was an assistant supervisor at a newspaper printing plant. We had a uniform company come in and deliver our uniforms every week into small lockers. One time he left the master key in the lock...I took it. Our uniforms had a name tag on them, it was white with blue letters.

I had way too much time on my hands there...got me in trouble a lot.

Was sitting in the office one night finishing up some paperwork during a press run and saw a bottle of white out. There was a guy on my shift named Todd, I took the bottle of white out and proceeded to the locker room where the uniforms were, and used white out to paint over the first d making it look like an a in his name on every one of his uniforms.

That shit lasts forever he had to wear uniforms with Toad on the name patch for a couple months.

I could write a novel on crazy shit I've done at work. Hell...first time I did some really good acid was at work. I don't recommend anyone ever trying that.

*EDIT*
Found a picture of Toad AKA Todd.

 

The Friday before my former boss started her vacation she went to Taco Bell for lunch and left the receipt on her desk. The following Monday morning I put said receipt in the file box on her desk for our accounting department. The accounting department whet bat sheet crazy for a week trying to figure out if they needed to pay for the meal, anybody who has to work with accountants know what I'm talking about. Fast forward to the following Monday and there is an accounting waiting to talk to my boss first thing in the morning when she arrived at her desk. When asked about the receipt Pam said she had no idea how it got in the accounting file box and that they company did not owe her for the meal. The account left, confused as hell. Pam looked at me, shook her head and had a good laugh.

 

my wife's an accountant...I'd probably lose a hand if I did something as simple as mis-entered a receipt in our tracker

 

I'd been with the company over 40 years, all told, my immediate family had over 100 years in this salt company. The last ten years, the company was bought out, new plant manager who got rid of the high dollar foreman, replaced them with not so knowledgeable , low dollar new hires. As you might imagine, production started a steady decline, hourly help lost the will to work, foreman didn't have a clue how to get it back on track.
I was the electrician / mechanic for three small production lines. Oolong with all the other problems, the powers that be decided that ordering parts was too expensive to be bothered with. Machinery that runs in salt doesn't run long unless it is lubricated religiously. About every piece of equipment is due for rebuild so there was a ten minute preventive maintainance job that was supposed to be done at the beginning of every shift, by the operator. The first shift operator knew the job, but was lazy, so she would only get as much production as the other shifts, even though she could get much more. But, she did the PM's because I would make life miserable for her if she didn't. Second shift operators didn't last long, so we were always training new ones. Always went the same way, first week they were sponges for knowledge ,did every thing you asked. Second week things would start going smoother for them, so they would start taking short cuts, the first to go was always the PM's. This is when I would jump in his shit with both feet. And he would tell me that I wasn't his boss and he didn't need my help or advise. And I would say ,boot, your off the tit.
The upper management was no help in getting this corrected, so I hatched a plan.
Buy the third week, the second shift operator, with the help of his shortcuts, was making the 1st shift operator look like a piker. So I'd tell her "I see Joe ate your lunch again last night" . She didn't mind being lazy, but she would never let it look like she was, so at the end of her shift she would tweak some machine on the line so it would screw up for second shift. This always happened in the summertime.... 90 degrees, 90% humidity no ac. That poor operator would scrap tons of salt and packaging material and vary little would make it to the warehouse. So with the boss on his low dragging ass, after three days of more work than he ever did in his life, he realized he didn't know everything and he BEGGED me to help him, he will do anything I ask of him if I would just help.
So I would tell the first shift operator that I knew she was screwing up the machines and that if she did It one more time, I would show her what hell she put Joe thru, times three. She knew I meant it, and could do it.

 

This isn't really a work related story, as it was purely incidental to my being at work, but....

I work in a network operations center (eg: command center) for a large, national insurance company. We have offices (large, small, etc.) all over the US, in almost 40 states. We monitor the weather all over the country so we can proactively re-route customer calls and other work functions from one location to another if it looks like severe weather might seriously impact a particular location. We also respond to all Severity 1 issues that happen across the company. So in our command center, we have the usual spread of jumbo screens at the front of the room, with various different monitoring applications displayed, as well as The Weather Channel, to keep track of any potential weather issues as I said earlier.

So yesterday, there was a segment about tornados in, I believe Kansas or Oklahoma (not a current storm, but just a general story). The narrator says something like "In the event of a tornado approaching your area, we recommend the following:" #1 Do not go inside a mobile home. ......

I started laughing so hard, I couldn't breathe. My co-workers were asking me if I was Ok, as I was turning red, then purple.....

What caught me as being so funny, is that they are focusing on parts of Tornado alley that are famously high in what...? mobile home parks. Also known as Tornado Magnets. And the first thing they recommend... do anything else but go into a mobile home to take cover.

 

It was the year 1980. I was a young shipboard engineering officer (3rd Assistant, unlimited HP, Steam) on a expanded C-4 freighter (Lykes Brothers). I was the day working 3rd assistant working with a 1st assistant engineer who was in his late 70's. There still was a number of these WW II leftovers that were still sailing at the beginning of my career. This particular engineer was one of the best machinists I ever worked with while sailing and I learned a lot from that old coot. I did find him to be rather forgetful though, he would set down his flashlight and pocket tools (usually channel locks and screwdriver) and forget where he put them. After a couple of days, he began to blame me for hiding his flashlight. Once he did it a second time, it was on. For the next 5 months, every time he was not looking, I would hide his flashlight. I gotta say, it was the best entertainment EVER!

 

A research site in college was in a mobile home park, we needed to gain permission from the owner of the park to access the study area, a marsh. The douche-bag trustafarian senior heading up our work explains prior to entering to not mention the park in derogatory terms, and the property owner is actually black (but light skinned) so no racial slurs

We're not in the owner's trailer for more than 5-minuets and the douche randomly blurts out his best "homie the clown" impression quickly followed by explaining his horror and shame to the owner, and how he does in-fact know that the owner's black The outspoken guy in our group then states "...no one cares that you're a racist fuck, we just want to get this work finished!"

For the remainder of the day, everyone was quoting the Germans episode of Faulty Towers... 'don't mention he's blaaacck!'

 

Today at work, I walked out into the material yard and watched a newly hired green kid start to unload 15- 60 pound spools of MIG wire off a Chevy Stake bed onto the forks of a Forklift. I asked him what he was doing? He said he was going to bring them into the shop and unload them onto a pallet. I told him to stop right there and go get a pallet, THEN put the spools on the pallet, then bring the loaded pallet into the shop.

 

My first real job (late 80's/early 90's) as a cable guy in Boston. Holy fuck was that place loaded with characters, I should have a lot to contribute here....

I'll start by focusing on one story, from one dude, "Kyle". He was fucked. I actually hung out with this guy outside of work on many occasions. Dude would say, and do the most bizarre shit. He was genuinely hilarious.

At the office we had the warehouse section of the building, where we would pick up /return our cable boxes, and equipment. And then we had the executive side of the building. As you can imagine, the warehouse side of the building was more of a shithole (especially the bathrooms), and the executive side was much nicer (especially the bathrooms). The degenerate field guys were not allowed to use the bathrooms on the executive side. After seeing some of the shit I witnessed, I didn't blame them.

Kyle wasn't havin' it though...

Every morning, he'd go in to take a shit in the exec bathrooms, which started with him removing the chain from the tank (so you couldn't flush it), Then fill the bowl with a full roll of toilet paper (to allow the full force of his aroma to permeate the space, as the shit was completely out of the water). Then deposit a steamer(s) into the bowl, wipe his ass, and stick the used toilet paper to the side of the stall.

This happened every morning for two years, until they finally performed a "sting operation", and caught the "perp".

 

'the poopetrator'

 

Well done sir.

 

Back in the mainframe days my company decided to get rid of their IBM mainframe dumb terminals and replace them with PC's running an emulation software. My job was to build out the network and replace the terminals with PC's. Because people don't like their cheese to be moved, and I was the face they saw when their beloved terminal was replaced, I wasn't the most popular guy. So, every time something went wrong it was "my" fault.

One nice spring Saturday I get a call, "YOUR network has crashed!" (it was a 7/24/365 day operation and I was more or less permanently on call) I remoted in and my network was fine, but the connection to the mainframe was down and there was no way to trouble shoot that remotely. When I got to the data center everything looked fine. The mainframe was up, the network was up, but the connection between the two, which was a single network cable, was down.

(For those that have never lived the joy of mainframe computer support they were fussy beasts that required very specific cooling, humidity and a raised floor. (this will be important in a minute) This data center wasn't too big, maybe 2,000 square feet, and it had 3 massive 8'x12'x3' chiller/humidifiers in it. They weren't known for their reliability and that's why they had three, so one could be down for repair.)

I couldn't for the life of me figure out what was wrong, it should be working. It was working when I left the previous evening. I was the only one that dared touch it and I sure wasn't going to change something that would ruin my Saturday. The users were breathing fire down my neck, saying the cable has gone bad, and in my head I'm thinking cable doesn't just go bad. Just to humor them I pulled up a tile where the connection between the two was made. Well . . . cable does go bad . . . if you soak it in three feet of water. One of the drains on the chiller had clogged and created a 2,000 square foot wadding pool. It was a glorious sight! Plug strips glowing away, network and mainframe hardware drawing untold voltage, data and connection cables all under 3 feet of water. And, the best part was the water alarm floating upside down on top of it all!

 

the quote/book you referenced was a pretty good read (or listen for audiobook).

 

I 2nd that.

 

I taught Industrial Arts in high school from 1980-1993. They phased out IA in our county and changed over to Technology Ed which I taught in middle school from 1993 until I retired in 2010. There are dozens, but one of my favorites was when I farted during a class full of 6th graders. Then sitting back and watching them argue over which one of them did it. They NEVER suspected it was me and I sat behind my desk laughing until I cried watching them.

 

Lol. Reminds me of this.

I’m a behavioral support staff. This Kid is always cracking jokes and stirring up the class. I was walking past the bathroom and could hear him and atleast one other talking and joking. I walked in and they start the fart talk, and because they are in the stalls don’t notice me. After a few seconds, I get the stomach rumble, and just let it rip. Good loud one, echoes off bathroom walls. This kid instantly asks, who was that. And two other voices say not me. I couldn’t stay any longer as I was not going to be able to contain my laughter. They continued to question each other while I took off down the hall.

 

I third it because much of my career has been spent as a professional cheese mover.

Funny story to illustrate the point.
My company was replacing their accounting system and one of my jobs was to train the users on the new system. I was to the point of wanting to kill the next person that said, "but I do my job this way." Funny thing was that every, single, last, person said the same damn thing.

Fast forward two months and a system that I used is being upgraded. After months of having users push back on changes, it was my turn to be trained. I was bound and determined to just learn the new way without complaint. So the trainer is at my desk and what are the first fucking words out of my mouth? "But I do my job this way." I instantly apologized to the trainer and learned something about people. They weren't pushing back, just trying to internalized the new vs the old. (well some of the users were complainers and it didn't matter what you did or didn't do, they would complain)

 

There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.

It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.

I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.

Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.

We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground."

Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the " Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.

Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. "I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed." Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check". Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground."

And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done - in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.

Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. "Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground."

I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money."

For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A.came back with, "Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one."

It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.

For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.


Edit... this may or may not be from my place of work.

 

Kick ass story!!!

 

A coworker flies to the airport 2 hours from a field office. He had all of his tools and hardware for a computer upgrade on the plane with him. He gets to the rental car place, loads all the stuff in the trunk, and then takes a pit stop before hitting the road. Then he drives the 2 hours to the field office and opens the trunk to find it completely empty. After a moment of panic he thinks, did I get in the right car?

So he drives 2 hours back to the airport and sees an identical car still parked next to where his car was. He parks the car in the original spot, checks the other cars trunk, and all of his stuff is there, gets in it and drives back to the site. He had to explain to the boss why he had to spend an extra day on the trip, and we all learned that not all car keys are different.