While I was in college, I came home for summer vacation and got a summer job working at a warehouse. During the lunch break, I was speaking to someone who had worked there for much longer than I had.

Coworker: “This job is what pays the bills, but during the weekend, I work as a bouncer. That job’s as much for fun as to make money, though. I could take you there sometime if you want.”

Me: “Oh, no, thanks. I don’t drink, and I spent enough time around a bar as a kid to last me my whole life, thanks.”

Coworker: “Okay, suit yourself. But if you ever change your mind and want to come down to the [Bar] on a weekend, come look me up.

Me: “Wait, you work at [Bar]? Really?”

Coworker: “Yeah, you know it?”

Me: “That is the only bar in this state I do know, and way too well. My dad used to own it when I was a kid. How’s it doing nowadays?”

Coworker: “What? You’re [Owner]’s son?”

Me: “No, no, my dad sold it to him a few years ago, and he was renting it from us for years before that. Actually, the sale is working out really well for us; he’s paying us 13% interest and barely pays enough each month to cover the interest so it’s just like free money each month.”

Coworker: “There is no way your dad owned the [Bar].”

Me: “Umm, I’m pretty sure he did. My sister even had one of her birthday parties in the restaurant half one year.”

Coworker: “If your dad is rich enough to own a bar, why are you working here?”

Me: “He isn’t as rich as you seem to think. When he owned it the bar barely made a profit and all that went into fixing it up. If it weren’t for those rental properties in the back parking lot, I’m pretty sure it would have lost money; turns out the real money is in being a slum lord! It really didn’t pay him enough to be worth the effort he put in until he started renting it to [Current Owner] and just kept the rental properties.”

Coworker: “No way you would be working here if your dad owns a bar.”

Me: “My parents expect me to pay my own way through college; they think I’ll appreciate it more if I earn it myself. They put a bit into our college fund every Christmas, but my sister and I still have to cover the rest.”

Coworker: “Fine, what’s your dad’s name?”

Me: “It’s [Dad], why?”

He grins at me a little smugly

Coworker: “I’ll just ask [Current Owner] if your dad really used to own the [Bar].”

Me: “Umm, okay, you can do that.”

A week later, my father comes back from running some errands.

Dad: “So, what’s this about you bragging that you use to own the [Bar]?”

That coworker avoided me for a week or two after that, apparently embarrassed once it was confirmed that my dad did own the bar just as I had said.

The funny thing is that I wasn’t trying to brag; it hardly seemed worth bragging about to me. I was so sick of that bar after being forced to hang out in the restaurant half for hours on end as a kid while my father dealt with the latest crises. I was more than happy to be rid of the place when my father started renting it out.

I create a slide deck for a client and am given this feedback:

Client: This word analysis. Change it to survey or review or something.

Me: “What’s the reason?”

Client: “Well, I’m not gay or anything like that, but all I see when I read the word analysis is anal.”

Me: “Would you be satisfied with probe?”

I’m checking out a customer at the register when a man comes in and makes a beeline for the soda fridge we have in the next-in-line area. He then walks off into the store.

Me: “Sir, you need to pay for that.”

Customer: “It’s okay. I’ll pay when I leave.”

Me: “No, you need to pay for it first.”

Customer: “Don’t worry; I promise I won’t drink it.”

His girlfriend comes in.

Customer’s Girlfriend: “What’s going on?”

Customer: “She says I have to pay for the soda before I can start looking around.”

Customer’s Girlfriend: “Seriously?! They don’t even do this at [Local Grocery Store Chain]!”

I let them go, since I’m still with a customer at the register and I figure that I can just have somebody keep an eye on them. As they go further in the store, I hear the girlfriend say that they should “report it to her manager”. The woman I’m checking out tells me that I was right and that she’ll back me up if they do get my manager.

I do seek out my manager on the floor and ask him if we’re allowed to let them do that — take a soda and let them pay for it later — and he says that it’s not ideal, but it’s better to avoid a fuss. I see them on the floor, too, but make a point of giving them a wide berth.

At a later point, the man comes to the register to check out, and he has clearly drunk out of the soda. He puts down his items and the first words out of his mouth are:

Customer: “So, are you single?”

He keeps hitting on me through the whole transaction. Thankfully, nobody, customer or otherwise, is nearby, so I can get away with not even trying to be friendly. I’m not rude, mind you; I just say everything through gritted teeth. At the end of it, my manager comes by just as I’m saying, “Have a nice day.”

Me: “Yeah, this guy just started hitting on me.”

Manager: “What?!”

Customer: “Sorry, sorry, she was just being so mean. I had to try and loosen her up a little! She’s such a b****, am I right?”

My manager then takes him into the vestibule near the register and says something to him — I can only make out the words “very special girl.” Afterward, he comes in, apologizes, and then leaves. My manager then comes to me.

Manager: “Are you all right?”

Me: “Yeah, just mad. He’s that guy I was telling you about.”

Manager: “With the soda?”

Me: “Yeah. It had clearly been drunk out of when he brought it up. And he came in here with his girlfriend, too!”

Manager: “Yeah, I think the girlfriend might have been responsible for these.”

He shows me a bunch of packaging for power banks, earbuds, etc.

Me: “And he drank the soda before he paid for it, too!”

We contacted the other stores to let them know about him and his girlfriend. Thankfully, he had easily identifiable and hard to conceal facial tattoos. But really, the nerve of some people!

I live in a government-owned block of flats which houses only elderly people. About a year ago, I was attacked by a resident who is known to be a drug abuser and has attacked and hospitalised a number of residents of the complex and outsiders during what appear to be drug-induced psychotic episodes.

He tried to kill me, and he might have done so if a young visitor to the complex had not interfered and prevented it. I was very badly traumatised and have never really recovered from the incident. 

I contacted the Housing Department urging that my attacker be evicted for the safety of all the residents.

Me: *On the phone* “He tried to kill me! He should be evicted for all our safety.”

Bureaucrat: “Well, we can’t evict him unless it is for something serious.”

Me: *Nonplussed* “You mean that him trying to kill me isn’t something serious?”

Bureaucrat: *Obviously not paying attention* “Not unless he actually killed you.”

Me: “…”

A female friend of mine and I are going out for a walk as we often do. This time, we are walking around a developing housing area.

Friend: “Ooh, look! They have show homes! I love looking round show homes.”

Me: “You know, I’ve been considering moving over here. It looks nicer than it does online.”

Friend: “Can we look round a house?”

Me: “Yeah, that would be fun.”

We go into the office and I explain what sort of property I’m interested in. Luckily, they have a show home of that style. The agent initially gives me the key but looks at my friend and announces that she will join us.

Agent: “Large windows, lots of natural light. Kitchen is on your right.”

Friend: “Nice, this would suit you.”

Me: “Yeah, I like it.”

Agent: “Living room and garden.”

Friend: “Good space for your BBQ.”

Me: “You’re just hankering for an invite.”

We go upstairs.

Agent: “The third bedroom, perfect for a nursery. Do you two have children?”

Friend: “Oh, we’re not together.”

Agent: “Of course, of course.”

She leads us around the house and we head back to the office.

Agent: *To my friend* “So, how would you be financing the property?”

Friend: “Oh, it’s not me. It’s [My Name].”

Me: “Yes. Mortgage, but I would be interested in part exchange.”

Agent: “Good. Our part exchange program is detailed here.”

She gives a flyer to my friend, who then passes it to me.

Agent: “We have an excellent package available.”

Friend: “Okay, but it’s him that would be deciding. I’m just here for moral support.”

Agent: “In my experience, even if the man is paying, it’s the woman choosing.”

Friend: “Yes, but it’s his house.”

Agent: “His house, your house… It could be a fantastic home for you both.”

Friend: “I’m going to step outside.”

Me: “Okay, thanks.”

I finally got some sense out of the agent once she actually talked to me. I bought from another builder, but what you know? My friend did become my girlfriend. We’ve lived in our new home for five years now.