A café-bar in my city has a backgammon evening each week, and I visit sometimes. I had heard another player refer to someone with a name that translates to English as “Mr. Furious”, but I did not pay much attention.

One evening, I arrived, set up my board hoping another player would turn up soon, and ordered a beer. A few minutes later, another player entered. I didn’t recognize him, but I nodded over to him because he was carrying a backgammon board. He came over, and we said hello and introduced ourselves. I suggested a seven-point friendly match for starters, and he agreed. He was happy with my checkers, dice, board, and so on, even complimenting me on them. A very nice guy.

We started playing, and it was clear he was a good player. However, I noticed he was becoming tense. He was gripping his dice cup strongly, he made a sharp sigh when the dice went against him, and sometimes he rolled the dice so frantically that they bounced off the playing area and he would have to roll again.

In one game, he was very far ahead, and I had almost no chance. But then, I rolled a joker. In backgammon, a “joker” is a dice roll that is much more favourable than other rolls. With more luck, I won that game, and I tried to engage in small talk, but he didn’t reply. He finished his beer and put his glass back on the table heavily. I started to get nervous.

In the next game, I rolled another joker, and I immediately apologized, and again he did not reply. I sensed he was extremely angry and was worried about how he would react — especially when he picked up his empty glass. I thought he might glass me, but he simply had forgotten he had finished his beer. But he put it down so heavily I thought it might break.

Even when the dice were not being unkind, he still seemed angry. He continued to roll his dice heavily, and once he had to roll four times until his dice would stay within the board.

Sometimes when a player is angry with the dice, they become paranoid and play irrationally (called “steaming”). Strangely, he continued to play rationally, even though he was very, very angry by now. I was behind again in a later game, but then I rolled another joker (I was by then praying that I would not) and managed to squeeze a win in that game and the whole match. I did not say anything and was ready to move quickly in case he started throwing things around or even hitting me. However, he immediately left the café-bar without a word.

By then, other regulars had arrived, and I asked them if that had been “Mr. Furious”. They said yes and told me several players just refused to play him. I got another beer and drank it quickly as I did not feel like playing another match that night, I was so shaken up. I said goodnight to everyone and dived down the metro.

My great-grandparents were part of the generation that considered it standard practice to have a house built to live in forever instead of bought as an investment you happened to live in.

Several decades and three generations later, they’re making plans to move into a condo to help them transition into end-of-life care. My family decides to buy the house from them, as our house was meant for a family of three and we are now a family of six.

During the official walk-through tour of the house, my dad finds a few things that seem odd.

Dad: “What does this switch do?”

Great-Grandpa: “Nothing. It used to control the bathroom fan, but we moved it over here.”

Dad: “Was there something wrong with it?”

Great-Grandpa: “Well, no, but… see how you can reach the fan switch from the toilet? Your grandma thought that was a good idea.”

Dad: “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

Later…

Dad: “Why does this hallway switch turn on the light above the kitchen sink?”

Great-Grandpa: “If you need to get to the kitchen at night, you don’t need to stumble around in the dark! You can turn it on outside the bedroom and turn it off before going back to bed!”

Finally, Dad opens a cabinet under the bathroom sink

Dad: “Is… Is that a cup holder?”

Great-Grandpa: “Uhhh…”

The prevailing theory is that my great-grandma liked to enjoy a cola and a cigarette in that guest bathroom. (There was a window that provided plenty of airflow.)

After my family moved in, we referred to these quirks as relics of “old man logic.” The bathroom cup holder has become a conversation piece, but I showered with no fan for three weeks because I couldn’t figure out which switch controlled the bathroom fan.

I’m working at a pretty popular sushi joint in my town. I’m relatively new here, but I have a lot of experience in food service. A man and his wife are leaving their table. I hop out to pick up their dishes, and I notice the man is wearing a baseball hat that says, “Birds aren’t real.” This conspiracy became a bit of a meme on a popular social media app, so I assume it’s a reference to the joke.

Me: “I like your hat!”

Customer: “Do you know what it means?”

Me: “Yeah, it’s… a joke?”

He pointed at me like he was about to accuse me of something, then said, “Look it up,” and walked away with his wife. I didn’t think I’d ever meet someone who actually believed it.

I am watching over the self-checkout with a coworker. We have a cart of items customers no longer wanted to purchase sitting beside our monitoring station. A customer comes in the entrance and taps me on the shoulder.

Customer: “Are you using this?”

He gestures to the cart with a dozen or so items in it — mostly apparel and a few dishes.

Me: “Yes, these are returns. Are there no carts by the door? I can get you a cart if you’d like.”

The man picks two ceramic bowls out of the cart and throws them on the ground in opposite directions. While my coworker and I are trying to shuffle the pieces into a pile, the man drops the rest of the items on the ground before walking off with the cart.

My coworker and I are so stunned we can’t speak. The customer turns back from about fifty feet away and waves.

Customer: “Enjoy your day!”

Coworker: “Why would anyone act like that?”

Me: “Sometimes people just suck.”

I went to management and told them what happened. When the man checked out, we had a manager waiting with a bowl identical to the one he broke. When he refused to pay for it, our manager told him he could pay the $10 or we could call the police. He paid.

I was in college in 1997. I ordered a pizza from a college-town pizza chain one Saturday night from my dorm.

The only payment I had was a check. I didn’t have cash or a credit card. The pizza was ridiculously cheap; I want to say it was $6.95, but back then, it could have been $4.95. I don’t remember. The important thing is the $0.95.

I rounded the check up to the next dollar. Yes, I wrote a check for $5.00 for a $4.95 pizza. Or maybe $6.00 for a $5.95. Either way, it was horrible.

I remember the delivery guy was super friendly. I was new at school, and he was commiserating with my move-in situation. Then, after I handed him the check:

Delivery Guy: “Wait, I have some change for you.”

Me: “Oh, no, keep the change.”

Delivery Guy: “No, here’s your nickel.”

I have never been more ashamed in my life. This episode still comes up when I try to sleep.

I have tipped the max ever since.