(I am out with four friends, who are two couples, at a club. We decide to take a rest from dancing and find a nice isolated bench in “L” shape with a table in the middle. To let the couples sit together, I sit in the corner, having one on each side. It’s all nice, we chit chat a bit over the loud music, and get a drink until I take a sip to rest my throat a few seconds, I turn left to continue the conversation, but the couple is passionately kissing. I then turn right; No luck. Passionate kissing on this side, too. I decide to return to my drink, leaving them some time. I usually drink slowly, but notice I have finished my glass. I’m growing frustrated to be stuck there in the middle of a make out session, while being obviously ignored. I try to catch one side or the other attention, to remind them they are not alone, unsuccessfully. At this point I tap shoulders to interrupt, so I could at least leave this spot… They give me the “wait-a-minute-finger.” Having had enough, I stop a passing waiter.)

Me: “Sorry, I know it’s going to be a rude/strange request but as you can see I’m trapped in a bad corner.” *pointing to the couples* “They won’t even stop to let me out of here. Do you mind if I step on the seat to pass over and could you bring me a chair to get down, so I can escape?”

Waiter: “Well, as I have noticed them being at it for quite a while now, I guess you have been more than patient to tolerate this. Give me two minutes. I’ll bring help.”

(To my surprise, the waiter does not came back, but it’s the scary security guy who is coming over. He proceeds to get in between each of both couples, and forces them apart.)

Security: “Ok, guys that enough for tonight. Now, let the lady stuck in the middle get away.”

One Of The Girls: *giggles* “But she’s our friend. Why would she want to get away from us?”

Security: *dead serious on a tone that call for no reply* “Mooove! And get a room!”

(They reluctantly let me get out the bench corner. I could not thank the staff enough for their intervention. And no, I never accepted to go out with them after that. I’m not going to hold the candle again for anyone.)

(I’m walking my dogs, one of whom is a cocker spaniel, when an elderly woman approaches me.)

Woman: “Oh, a cocker spaniel! I had one of those when I was a little girl! We named her Lady because she looked just like the one from Lady and the Tramp!”

Me: “Aw, that’s sweet!”

Woman: *cheerfully* “Yeah, and then my father shot her!”

Me: “Um, what?”

Woman: “He shot her because he thought she might have rabies!”

Me: “I’m sorry to hear that…”

Woman: “My sister and I helped him bury her body.”

(She then cheerfully walked away while I just stood there with my dogs feeling dumbfounded.)

(My roommate is telling me about someone who friend requested her on Facebook.)

Roommate: “He only had one mutual friend, and he had a d*** photo-shopped over his face.”

(Our suitemate, in the next room over, sticks her head into the room, having only half heard the previous sentence.)

Suitemate: “He had a what?”

Roommate: “He had a d*** photo-shopped over his face. Like, a drawn one. It wasn’t very realistic, though.”

(Now a friend from elsewhere on the floor pops in, having only heard the tail end of the conversation.)

Floormate: “What wasn’t very realistic?”

Roommate: “His d***.”

Floormate: “…I don’t even want to know.”

(It’s Halloween, and I, in a stroke of genius, have decided to dress up as Clark Kent — fake glasses, a fedora with a press pass in it, slacks, and a partially-open button-down shirt, under which is a Superman t-shirt. I’m walking through the quad on my way to lunch when this girl I don’t know suddenly calls out to me:)

Girl: “Hey! Hey, who are you supposed to be?”

Me: “Hmm? Oh, I’m Clark Kent!”

Girl: *she gives me this confused look* “Who?”

Me: “Clark Kent? You know, Superman’s alter ego?” *I whip off the glasses and opened up my shirt for her, as I’d done a numerous times that day for others*

Girl: *still clueless* “Um, what’s that?”

Me: *I’m now looking a little confused myself* “Um, you know, the guy Superman is when he’s not Superman?”

Girl: “But he’s always Superman.”

Me: “Well, yeah, but he’s got another life too. Clark Kent is Superman when he’s not doing Superman stuff.”

Girl: *she’s now very matter-of-fact and seems to think she knows what she’s talking about* “No, he’s always Superman.”

Me: “No, you don’t understand. Clark Kent is his secret identity. Sort of like how Peter Parker is Spider-Man, or how—”

Girl: “I don’t know who that is, but Spider-Man is Spider-Man.”

(At this point, it dawned on me that this girl had absolutely zero concept of what secret identities are. I tried futilely for the entire lunch period to explain the idea to her, but she wasn’t having any of it. She believed with complete vehemence that superheroes were never any other person, that they didn’t have any lives or jobs outside of being superheroes, and that they didn’t even have any names other than their superhero names. It was sort of that mentality that little kids have when they think their teachers live in their classrooms. I never did manage to get the idea through her skull…)

(We stop at a sub store for lunch. We all place our orders with the assistant, who’s a 15-year-old girl.)

Assistant: “Is yours twelve inch?”

Me: *deadpan* “That’s a bit personal; I didn’t ask your bust size.”

(The assistant turned very red and laughed.)