(I work at a small, privately-owned funeral home. While my main job title is embalmer, during less busy periods I also work in the office and often have to answer the phones. The funeral home opened in 1935 and was named after the original owner; the business has changed hands numerous times over the years, but the name has always stayed the same. This has resulted in some telemarketers requesting to speak to the original owner who, of course, has been dead for more than 50 years. Usually, we just tell them we aren’t interested, as the owner figures if they can’t bother to figure out who owns the business, then they mustn’t have anything of use for us. However, one day, after having already received several phone calls asking for [Original Owner], I decide to have a little fun.)

Telemarketer: “Good afternoon. This is [Telemarketer] from [Scam Company]. Could I please speak to [Original Owner]?”

Me: “I’m so sorry; you hadn’t heard? He passed away… in 1965.”

Telemarketer: “Oh…” *click*

(I figure the very least a scam company could do to make their act convincing is to update their records.)

(I’m taking some inventory around the store. I have a service dog, though I have a special harness that loops around my body so I have my hands free for work. He has a very obvious vest on with a large patch that says, “Working service dog.” As I’m finishing a section, a woman drags my manager over.)

Woman: “You allow people to bring their mutts in?!”

Manager: “Ma’am, that’s a service dog. It’s illegal to ban them.”

Woman: “No, it’s a dumb animal! Throw them both out!”

(I give my manager a weird look.)

Manager: “Ma’am, it is very illegal for me to do so. He is considered medical equipment, and it’s discrimination for me to ask someone to either leave their service animal outside or deny them service for having one.”

Woman: “WELL, I’LL DRAG THEM OUT MYSELF!”

Manager: “You need to leave, ma’am.”

(The woman reaches for the part of the harness that goes around my body. I push her hand away and step back. She SLAPS me and yanks on the harness strap.)

Manager: “MA’AM, IF YOU DO NOT LEAVE, I WILL CALL THE POLICE!”

Woman: “Call them! Tell them you’re letting people bring in filthy animals!”

(My manager calls them. I hide over behind a counter, where the woman can’t get to me. When the police arrive, the woman rants about how my manager is letting any animal in, while pointing to me and my service dog. An officer comes over to me.)

Officer: “Can we get a statement from you?”

Me: “Yeah, she came up with my manager going on about my service dog and how he shouldn’t be in here. My manager told her he’s legally allowed to be here, and then she decided she’d kick us out herself. She hit me and tried to pull on my harness.”

Officer: “All right, let me talk to her again.”

(She was arrested for assault and banned from the store. My manager sent me home early with pay.)

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(I’m visiting a family-run petting zoo and farm shop. The animals here are for show only; none are for sale and can only be accessed when out for petting demos. We’re checking out with some jars of honey at the farm shop when we hear a big commotion in the petting area. A shouting man holding a chick runs out, followed by a crying child and a frantic farm worker.)

Man: “We just want a g**d*** chicken! Piss off and leave us alone!”

Farm Worker: “Please, stop! You’re hurting him! Put him down!”

(The cashier abandons our order and tries to block the exit as the man runs through, leaving his crying child in the shop area. Both employees run out after him; there’s shouting and pleading from outside. Then, there is the sound of doors slamming and a car speeding out of the car park. I walk over with my daughter and try and console the crying child who’s asking for his mum. After a few tense minutes, the employees come back with the chick, but no man. The farm worker takes the chick to be looked at, leaving us with the now-calm child.)

Cashier: “Uh, he just left? What do we do now?”

Me: “Do you know your Mummy’s phone number, sweetheart?”

Child: “Y-Yes, it’s [phone number], but D-Daddy said I can’t call her; she’s too busy for me.”

Cashier: “I’ll make the call. Can you stay with him?”

Me: “Sure. Come on, sweetheart. Shall we look at the picture books?”

(Within fifteen minutes, a frantic mum ran in and grabbed the child into a massive hug. Apparently, this was the dad’s first court-issued independent visit with the child since being released from prison, and she’d been worried sick the entire time he’d had him: only an hour and a half total. We all handed a written report to the police, and we were assured by them and the mum that it would be the last time the guy saw the child alone, if at all!)

Late one foggy night, I was driving to my parents’ house on a rural road which, at that hour, had little traffic. I came across a car ahead of me going the same direction, well under the speed limit, that was slowly drifting from the left lane toward the right. I slowed down and the car eventually went off the road onto the shoulder and then, with a jerk, back up onto the road. Then, the car slowly began drifting from the right off to the left. Repeat. Crap, a drunk driver, I thought. Oddly, I could see the dome light was on in the car.

This was pre-cellphone, or I would have called 911. I waited until they were almost off the road on the right, then sped past in the left lane. I glanced over and the forking idiot had a paperback book open up on the steering wheel and was reading it. While driving. At night. IN THE FOG! I don’t think the guy even noticed me as I went past.

As I got ahead of him and just before he disappeared in the fog I could see him still drifting across the lanes…

(I have gotten a ticket for supposedly not coming to a full stop before making a turn. Instead of paying the fine, I decide to go to traffic court to see if I can get it reduced by explaining what happened. While sitting in the gallery waiting for the judge to handle other cases, I can see that he is pretty strict and I start wondering if I’ve made a wise choice by going to court. I really become concerned when the next person, a young man around my age, is called by the court clerk and his charge is read.)

Judge: “You stupid little [expletive]! Didn’t I tell you what would happen if you appeared in my courtroom again?”  

(The judge carries on like this for a few more minutes while the young man stands there looking miserable. I can see that the judge is getting madder and madder. The young man apparently has a poor driving record and has been in this same courtroom several times before. Finally, the judge tells him that his license is suspended and to get the h*** out of his courtroom. While this is going on, I keep thinking, “Please, don’t let me be the next one called!” And, of course, I am the next one called. The clerk then reads the charge.)

Judge: “How do you plead?”

Me: “Technically guilty, I guess, Your Honor.”

Judge: “Hmm, how long have you been driving?”

Me: “About eight years.”

Judge: “Have you had any other tickets?”

Me: “No, Your Honor.”

Judge: “Well, that’s a very fine record, young man. Dismissed!”