This is a story about my uncle. We’ll call him Ralph for this story because that’s the name of his favorite turtle-ninja.

Ralph is rich. He’s also a borderline hoarder. He collects a lot of stuff — little tchotchkes and some kitschy seasonal furniture that he rotates through during the year. For example, for Halloween, he replaces the dining table with one carved like a jack-o-lantern.

Every so often, he gets too much stuff and needs to get rid of some of it. Instead of holding a yard sale, he likes to just put his stuff out in the yard with a “free” sign and advertise it on [Classifieds Website].

One time, Mom and I are visiting Ralph while he is doing one of his giveaways. I’m eating breakfast on the couch when I see a van pull up outside his house through the windows — a big van, like a moving van. Four burly guys get out of the van. At this point, I’m fully expecting them to start loading Uncle Ralph’s stuff into their van and just take it all themselves.

Instead, they open the van… and start unloading stuff in front of Uncle Ralph’s yard. It’s all junk: broken tables, extremely dirty stuffed animals, boxes full of broken tchotchkes, frayed clothing, books that smelled like the bad kind of mold, and a mattress that is so yellowed and damaged that it completely sags into itself in a small pile.

I fetch Ralph, but by the time he comes, they are done. They drive off, and one sticks out his hand and gives Ralph the finger as they leave.

This trash is utterly unlike the carefully cared-for things that Ralph usually puts out. Ralph is spitting mad. We call the police.

It takes the police a while to understand that a crime has happened. They don’t understand why Ralph minds having more stuff added to his pile of stuff.

Mom and I left Uncle Ralph’s house before we could learn how it ended, but I asked him about it later. He said that three of the culprits had been caught and that they’d been charged.

One morning, I had the following conversation via text messaging — word for word, with only the names changed.

Texter: “Hello, [My Name]. Let me know if you got my text. Thanks, [Coworker].”

Me: “And you are?”

Texter: “[Coworker]. CFO Emeritus [Current Employer].”

Me: “Wow, I didn’t realize that the dead could text.”

This person passed away shortly after he retired a couple of years ago.

Texter: “Oh, I see. Have you got a minute to complete a task for me discreetly?”

Texter: “Where are you at this moment?”

Me: “You are hilarious. [Coworker] is dead.”

Not that I would have believed them in the first place, but I just found it funny that they decided to use the name of a coworker who was deceased.

My goddaughters and their mother were staying at a local bed and breakfast near me to visit and, as such, I was getting some quality time with the kids. My friend and her family keep REALLY late hours, so it was late enough that some kids would be preparing for bed already by the time dinner had ended. The still wide-awake kids asked if I’d take them to the park. I agreed, and we stayed there until it was dark out before it was time to walk them home.

I should mention here that I’m male, and I volunteer with kids enough that I’m quite familiar with having to prove to strangers that I’m not secretly a pedophile kidnapping kids. I’ve discussed the problems I have with this with the girls as part of explaining why gender roles — and other stereotypes — are harmful and generally trying to get them to be more supportive of non-traditional folks.

As we walked, I noticed a police officer drive pass the small road we were on and then stop, back up, and turn onto our road. There was nothing else down this road except us, so I could only assume he’d seen the man walking with two young girls — of an entirely different race — down a dark alley and wanted to make sure everything was okay.

Me: “I think the police officer is coming to talk to us. He probably wants to know why I have you kids out here so late. I’ll take care of him, so don’t worry. Just answer his questions nicely if he asks you anything.”

As expected, the officer pulled up next to us and wound the window down.

Officer: “Have you seen a fourteen-year-old girl with red hair?”

[Goddaughter] interrupted the officer in a very determined voice.

Goddaughter: “Godfather [My Name] is not stealing us, and he’s not a bad guy! We love him!”

Officer: “Umm… what?”

It turned out that, in this case, I had been unfair in my presumptions. The officer did drive down the alley to talk to us but only to see if we had seen a missing girl. However, my goddaughter’s preemptive defending of my honor was one of those suspiciously specific denials that just makes you look more guilty, so I had to hasten to explain the context of her comments.

Officer: “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve dealt with that with my own girls enough times to know what it’s like. But thank you, young lady, for letting me know that your godfather isn’t a bad guy.”

Sadly, we weren’t able to help the officer with his missing child, but [Goddaughter]’s mother had a good laugh at her daughter’s adamant defense of me. And, of course, I made sure to let the girl know I loved her, too.

I’m very young and have just started my career as a pharmacist.

Two sixteen-year-olds come into the pharmacy to pick up [painkiller] for their grandfather. They give me all the numbers, even their own birthdates, etc. When the script comes up on my screen, it says, “DECEASED,” in big bold letters.

I just start laughing.

Me: “But he’s dead?!”

And suddenly, they were in a hurry to leave. Should have called the cops, I guess.

My phone rings and the number comes up on my display.

Me: “Hello?”

Caller: *In English* “Hello, I’m calling from Europol. Your ID documents are involved in a crime, and in order to avoid criminal charges, I need you to follow my instructions.”

Europol, the European Union Agency for Law Enforcement Cooperation, is headquartered in the Netherlands.

Me: “If you’re from Europol, why are you calling from a German mobile number?”

Caller: *Click*

Strangest scam call ever.