Our story is set in the early 1970s, when I was in high school. A punk, about my age, had been dropping lit fireworks into post boxes to make them explode. We’ll call him Johnny Rotten. That’s not his name, I just don’t think I can tell the story right by saying [Bad boy].

Now, if this had happened in the modern day, there would have been words like ‘terrorism’ being thrown around. And if the punk had been of a darker complexion, the word “Felony” would have come up far more often.

Given the damage done by these illegally powerful recreational explosives, it was a miracle no one was hurt, but everyone around town was mostly chuckling about it and chuckling about boys and their antics.

The only people who were taking this rash of felonies remotely seriously were the post office.

Enter me. I was attempting to combine chores: Walking my dog and mailing out a letter to Grandma. Just a few feet away from the post box, Babe Ruth did what all dogs do sooner or later, and left an offering to the beetles on the sidewalk. Being a conscientious young woman, I crouched down to pick it up.

Here comes our own school’s local Johnny Rotten on his bike to the post-it box. Now, Johnny had a bad reputation with the girls around the school. He was handsy in a bad way and liked to make rude jokes at girls’ expense. Already low to the ground and performing the necessary abulitions, I darted behind a planter-box to hide from him.

I was half sure that if he found me, he’d flip my skirt over my head, or worse. He’d done something worse to Nancy last weekend when he found her alone, but she wasn’t willing to explain exactly what.

So I waited until I couldn’t hear him anymore, stood up, and walked over to the post box.

And then. I dropped the poop. Into. The box.

I didn’t realize it at first. I’d been shaken by my harrowing narrow miss with this delinquent and hadn’t really been thinking clearly. I only realized what I’d done when I got home and realized Grandma’s letter was still in my purse.

Well, I was an acquiescent young lady of proper breeding, so the next day, right after school, I marched over to the post office to apologize for dropping Babe’s waste into the mailbox.

Oh, it was a most flummoxing experience! I told them about the poo, and they dragged me away to another room to grill me with a bunch of questions. Did I see anyone else near the box? Just Johnny. Did I notice him doing anything unusual? Well, it smelled like he’d been smoking, but half the kids our age smoke already, so…

The Postmaster asked me to describe Johnny to him, so I obliged… leaving out the sorts of details that demure young women aren’t supposed to mention to strange men, like the rumors of his activities with other girls.

It turns out that Babe’s droppings had landed on and extinguished a lit firework, preventing a postbox explosion that could have severely injured me!

They were able to get a warrant to search Johnny’s house and found several other illegal fireworks of the variety that had been used for his little terrorism campaign. I was a witness at his trial, and he actually got felony charges! The principal was quite put out about the whole thing, kept blaming me for ruining a ‘perfectly fine young lad’s future’, but I enjoyed the excitement of the whole affair.

Several of the women teachers quietly thanked me for removing his disruptive influence from the classroom, and we girls threw a party as soon as we knew he wouldn’t be coming back.

I even got a finder’s fee! Eight hundred dollars, which was quite a lot of money for a young lady back then! I used most of it to buy myself a splendiferous prom dress, one that I used every excuse ever to wear until I could no longer fit into it. The remainder I used to buy everyone in my school ice cream… except the principal, who’d chewed me out for testifying against Johnny.

I tried to give my prom dress to my own daughter years later, but she said it was too kitschy for her, so I donated it to charity. I hope some other young lady got as much joy out of it as I did.

I live quite close to a major airport. My two-and-a-half-year-old son loves watching the planes that fly over every few minutes. One day, I decided to take him to the panorama terrace at the airport. We have a lovely morning and lunch there. But in the afternoon, the little guy gets tired, and it’s time to go home.

He does NOT want to go, so he’s not only tired but grumpy too. Any parent of a toddler knows the situation: it’s tantrum time. I check the train times and realise we can just about make the next train home.

So, there I am: an overweight, bearded dude power walking a screaming toddler across the airport plaza. Of course, I’m going to be stopped by a police officer duo.

Officer: “Is everything all right, sir?”

Me: “Yeah, we’re fine, I’m trying to catch a train.”

Officer: *Gesturing to my son.* “I understand, but real quick: what is he to you?”

Me: “He is my son.”

Officer: “Any way you can prove that?”

Now, in the Netherlands, it’s not mandatory for young children to have a government-issued ID with them, only when going abroad. But my kid is calmed down enough by the imposing two officers in front of us, so I can improvise a bit.

Me: *Pointing at my son.* “Who are you?”

Son: “[His Name].”

Me: *Pointing at myself.* “And who am I?”

Son: “Papa!”

Officer: “All right, have a nice day, sir.”

Me: “Thanks, you too.”

I made that train with seconds to spare.

I volunteer as a moderator on an online legal advice forum. We’re not lawyers; we just try to give general guidance and common sense. It’s clearly stated in our guidelines that this is not professional legal counsel.

A user comes in:

Client: “Hi. I just lost my case on appeal against my bank. The first trial cost me €3,000, the appeal cost me €7,000. Can someone explain why? And what can I do next?”

We ask for a bit more detail, and he happily shares his story:

Client: “The bank never warned me about the risks when I signed up for a trading account! They tricked me. I sued them, but the judges keep siding with them.”

Me: “And the bank’s defense?”

Client: “They showed all the forms and waivers I signed. I said they tricked me into signing them. They still ruled against me!”

Another user chimes in:

Forum User: “Unfortunately, if you signed documents acknowledging the risks, it’s very difficult to argue you didn’t know. Were you completely unfamiliar with trading accounts?”

And this is where it got… surreal.

Client: “No, I work in a bank.”

Forum User: “Uh… okay. As what?”

Client: “Well, that’s not entirely relevant.”

Forum User: “It says on your LinkedIn that… you… hmm.”

Me: “What does it say?”

Forum User: “[Client], your job is advising customers on trading accounts? It even says here that you have the certification for it. You didn’t think to apply that knowledge to your own situation?”

At this point, there’s a very long pause in the thread. Finally:

Forum User: “You sued your bank for not giving you advice on trading accounts, while your own job is literally giving people advice on trading accounts?”

Client: “Exactly! They didn’t warn me like I would have!”

Me: “But… that is your job. You literally signed the same waivers you make your own clients sign. Surely the court pointed that out?”

Client: “I don’t see the problem.”

Forum User: “The problem is that you’re telling the court you do to other people exactly what you claim was done to you. You basically admitted under oath that you’ve been tricking your own customers!”

Client: “…I don’t think that’s what I said.”

Me: “It is exactly what you said. That’s why you lost. Twice.”

Client: “Oh. So… there’s nothing else I can do?”

Me: “Unless you want to pay another few thousand euros to be told the same thing again, no.”

He logged off quietly after that.

As I am walking home, I notice a car in the distance going well over the speed limit and weaving across the median. Fearing for my own safety, I hasten my pace and duck down the next side street to wait for the car to pass, hoping the car does not follow.

Rather than watch the car pass by, I hear a loud bang and see a fire hydrant rocket towards a chain-link fence. The hydrant then proceeds to somersault off the top of the fence and directly through the window of the house said fence surrounded. After a moment of freezing in shock, the driver floors the pedal, and the car disappears down the street.

Emergency services swiftly responded. The good news is nobody was home when the fire hydrant intruded, and the geyser was swiftly halted. However, there was still a ton of property damage to deal with. I gave a statement to the responding officers, outlining every detail listed above, as well as the make, model, color, and plate of the car, as well as a description of the driver.

No sooner had I finished my statement than a call came over the officers’ radio, listing a stolen vehicle of the same make, model, and license plate I just described. The officers and I could not help but chuckle.

Before my part of the story continues, there are a few crucial details, most of which I learned later.

The police found the heavily damaged car loaded with beer cans that were crushed but not pierced (save for the pop tops) and a massive stain of beer across the interior. The car had no signs of being hotwired, and this older model did not have enough computers in it to be driven by pure hacking. When questioned, the owner of the vehicle looked, sounded, smelled, and even freely admitted she was day-drinking. She was adamant she had the only keys to the vehicle and showed the police they were accounted for; police later verified these keys paired with the vehicle. And she matched my description of the driver, right down to the character on the top she was wearing.

My involvement picked up a few hours later when the police had me do a lineup. I imagine no one is surprised that the person I picked out was the owner of this “stolen” vehicle.

My husband and I are driving home from an event and taking the bridge that cuts an hour off our travel. The bridge is part of the highway that runs from one side of the state to the other.

When we get to the very top of the bridge, we must dodge around a chair that is in the middle of the lane that we are guessing fell out of someone’s truck. Thankfully, the person behind us also missed it. As it was at the very top of the bridge, where there are no emergency lanes, it would not be safe for us or anyone else without flashing lights to stop, as traffic would not notice them.

I decided to call the state highway patrol as it didn’t seem like an emergency serious enough to call 911, and I was on the highway, so it made sense to contact them.

A man very quickly picks up and gives a sigh.

Highway Patrol: “[State] Highway Patrol. How can I help you?”

Me: “Yes, I’m on [Name of the specific bridge], and there is a hazard at the top that could cause an accident.”

Highway Patrol: “We don’t service that bridge. What is the hazard?”

Me: “It’s a large office chair. Who should I call?”

Highway Patrol: “What side of the bridge is it on?”

Me: “The very top, at the hump.”

Highway Patrol: “What side? Closest to [City] or [City]?”

Me: “The very top, right in the middle of the bridge hump.”

Highway Patrol: “WHAT SIDE?!”

Me: “When you cross [Bridge Name] and you’re at the top, what side would that be?”

Highway Patrol: “DO YOU WANT ME TO HELP YOU OR NOT?”

Me: “I’m trying. You said you don’t cover the bridge. Who should I call?”

Highway Patrol: “IF YOU’RE NOT GOING TO ANSWER MY QUESTIONS, I CAN’T HELP YOU!”

Me: “It’s at the top of the bridge. That is my answer.”

Highway Patrol: “CALL 911 AND SEE IF THEY CAN HELP YOU AS YOU REFUSE TO ANSWER THE QUESTION!”

They then hang up the call.

I looked over at my husband and asked if I was missing something or if I was unclear. He looked as puzzled as I felt.

I called 911, and they confirmed the [State] highway patrol line was the department I was supposed to talk to. They said they would reconnect with me and stay on the line to ensure I was helped.

When they transferred me back to the (state) highway patrol line, a different man answered the phone and was very pleasant. He said that they covered the top, and they would send someone out now, as an office chair in the middle of the road could be very dangerous.

That was it.

Still have no idea how I could have answered the first guy differently.