(I work the front end of a printing shop. Our press operator comes strolling out on his way to the toilets, wiping his hands on a rag. Both are covered in ink and chemicals that I can smell from my desk across the room.)

Me: “Jeez, that’s some potent stuff.”

Press Operator: “Yeah. You know, it’s a d*** good thing we don’t live in Canada.”

Me: “What? Why’s that? Don’t like the cold?”

Press Operator: “Nope. Because that new cleaner that the owner bought me causes cancer in Canada, but I’ll be safe down here.”

(I am driving in the car with my three-year-old daughter. ‘We Will Rock You’ by Queen comes on the radio. My daughter starts clapping to the song.)

Daughter: “Mommy, what’s this song’s name?”

Me: “This is called, ‘We Will Rock You.'”

Daughter: “I like it.”

Me: “Yes. Yes, you do.”

(A particularly angry customer comes through my line. Despite my best and calmest efforts to help, she begins to yell at me in front of the whole line. Among other things, she calls me names, says I don’t deserve to be alive, and then tries to punch me on the top of my head. I have to spend a full twenty minutes in the break room to try and calm down. One of my coworkers has witnessed the whole thing. The very next day, the customer returns, acting like nothing has happened. My coworker suddenly stands in front of customer.)

Coworker: “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Customer: “What?! Why?”

Coworker: “Because yesterday you yelled at and assaulted one of my coworkers until she cried. I believe that’s grounds for a ban from the store. Please get out.”

Customer: *growing angry* “You can’t do that, you brat!”

Coworker: “Ma’am, three minutes’ worth of security footage and several witnesses says I CAN do that. You will not be welcome here any longer. Leave.”

Customer: “You can just go to H***, you—”

Coworker: “I went there once. Now I RULE it. Now GET OUT OF OUR STORE.”

(By this time three of the managers have arrived to back him up and escort the customer out. She screamed for a little while longer but eventually left, and never came back!)

(My sister and I are six and four years old, respectively. We are shopping for groceries around Christmas. As we are by the check-out, I spot a gentleman dressed in red pants, with red suspenders, a red coat with white fur trim, big black snow boots, and gold rimmed round glasses. He has pure white hair and a big fluffy beard. I stare at him, wide eyed.)

Gentleman: *noticing me* “Shh.”

(The gentleman smiles, putting a finger to his lips with a wink. I smile shyly and do a little wave. I notice his entire shopping cart is completely loaded with candy canes, a gallon of milk, and a single package of cookies. I grab my sister’s arm and tug it, and point at the gentleman.)

Me: “Look!”

Sister: *bug eyed* “It’s Santa!”

(We both grab our mother’s attention and point over to the register where Santa was, but he was gone! She didn’t believe us. But it sure did make me believe in Santa!)

(My mom likes to leave the windows open during the summer. Lots of mosquitoes get in and bite me. I’m upstairs taking a nap, when I hear the loud, high pitch of a mosquito. Instinctively, I slap around, trying to squish it, but get nothing. The sound is coming from outside of my room. Confused, I look around. Realizing what the sound really is, I go downstairs, where my brother is practicing the violin.)

Me: “Could you not practice the violin while I’m sleeping?”

Brother: “Why not?”

Me: “I thought your playing was a mosquito! It’s so high pitched and whiny that I was slapping around in my room like a moron!”

Brother: “Haha! Moron!” *stops to think* “Wait a minute! My playing doesn’t sound like a mosquito! Moooom!”

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