(My husband and I are visiting our very good friends and messing with each other. My friend has been complaining that her husband has been annoying her all day. I am sitting near her husband with their baby in between us. My friend is speaking about a familial situation and mentions a name.)

Friend: “Ray-mon.”

Me: “Raymon?”

Friend: “Raymon.”

Me: *so confused* “Raymond or Raymon?”

Friend: “Yes.”

Me: “…” *looks at her husband*

Friend’s Husband: *spells it* “R-A-Y-M-O-N-D.”

Me: “Oh, Raymond! You keep saying Raymon!”

Friend: “Yeah, Raymon!”

(I just stare at her at his point, confused beyond belief, and she and her husband begin to bicker about it.)

Me: “Look, you keep saying Raymon, not Raymond! You are leaving off the D!”

Friend’s Husband: “Yeah, she’s saving it for later!”

(Everything dissolved. I took the baby out of the way as my friend screeched at me to flee and proceeded to launch herself at her husband while he and I hysterically laughed.)

(When my nephew is little he picks his nose until it bleeds CONSTANTLY. Nothing we nor the doctor do will stop him. Even painting his nails with medicine the doctor recommends barely helps.

One year, when he is still in this stage, my parents and I take him to the Fred Hall Sportsman Show. It’s an annual California show for people who fish, hunt, hike, and generally love the outdoors.

We’re passing a booth run by an older man who sees my nephew with his finger back up his nose despite us telling him to stop. The man walks up to my nephew holding out his right hand, revealing that his index and middle finger have been amputated at the knuckle.)

Man: “Do you know how I lost these? By picking my nose.”

(My nephew instantly took his finger out of his nose and never put it back up there. He still talks about that now that he’s in his early thirties, laughing about it. Thank you, sir, for getting him to stop picking his nose. Now, we just need to find another man with amputated fingers to talk to my great-nephew. No, not my nephew’s son — his sister’s.)

(My father’s friend is hosting a Christmas dinner at their place. As the adults start drinking in the dining room, most of the kids all run up to the TV, but I decide to accompany our host’s younger son, who is around nine. He takes me to his room and wants to play.)

Son: “Let’s fight!”

(He takes out a drawer filled with toy weapons.)

Me: “Sure, but I’ll just use this.”

(I pull out my younger brother’s toy lightsaber.)

Son: “Okay, but you’re gonna lose.”

(He equips a Nerf gun and his own toy lightsaber. We stand at opposite sides of the room.)

Son: “Go!”

(He then fires his Nerf gun at me, but I block the bullet with my lightsaber, stride forward, and knock both of his weapons aside with the lightsaber before tapping him lightly on the neck)

Me: “You’ve been decapitated.”

Son: “What? How did you do that?

Me: “The people in my fencing class can stab faster than a Nerf bullet.”

Son: “Cool! You’re a Jedi!”

Me: *deepens voice* “May the Force be with you, youngling.”

(I was telling the truth; my fencing classmates are fast. But I was actually watching the barrel of his gun and angling my lightsaber to be directly in front of it. Don’t tell him that, though. I have the reputation of a Jedi to maintain.)

(I have a service dog for multiple disabilities. I don’t always work with him with any identifying gear because people are more likely to leave us alone if they can’t tell he’s a service dog. In this instance, he is wearing a vest marking him as a service dog. My father and I are running errands after my classes end for the day and I’m entering the store a few minutes after him so that [Service Dog] could relieve himself. As we approach the door, there is a man in his car in the accessible parking spot who sees my service dog and leans out the window of his car.)  

Man: “HEY, PUPPY! Come here, puppy!” *makes kissy noises* 

Me: *to my service dog* “Leave it.”

(He doesn’t need the reminder, but sometimes people get the hint and leave us alone when I say that. We start to enter the store.)

Man: “WHAT THE F***?! WHAT THE H*** IS WRONG WITH YOU, TAKING A F****** DOG IN A F****** STORE?!”

(Thanks, random man who decided I needed to be screamed at for taking my vested service dog into a store. Also, to make things worse, I was wearing my jacket from my alma mater so, for all he knew, I was a high school student. It’s always adults, too; we never have issues with kids.)

(I am in line at a coffee shop. Behind me, there is a woman with a dog on a leash and behind her, there is a man using some type of walker. The man starts waving the walker at the dog, and the small dog backs away closer towards the woman.)

Man: “Look, your dog is afraid of it!” 

(He waves the walker at the dog a second time and again the dog backs up and hides behind the woman. The man laughs.)

Man: “Look, your dog is afraid of it!”

Woman: “Can you please stop doing that, then?”

Man: *explodes* “I am disabled! How dare you tell me what to do?”

(He goes into a screaming rant about all the medical issues he is experiencing.)

Woman: “I think you misunderstood; I just didn’t want you waving your walker at my dog.”

(Eventually, the man had to be escorted out by police because he was screaming at the top of his lungs about how the woman was discriminating against him and he hoped she ended up in a wheelchair one day.)