(I run sideshow games at an amusement park, and because of all the negative stereotypes of carnival games portrayed in movies and such, many people often wrongly believe that the games are rigged. One of the games uses a fishing rod to pick up a duck with a hook in it. Each duck has a different colour dot underneath it to identify the type of prize the player could win. The best prize is a stuffed bulldog and there are two ducks out of fifty that have the proper colour needed to win one.)

Customer: “How do I win one of those bulldogs there?”

Me: “You need to pay for a turn to play the game. Then, if you manage to pick up a duck with that rod that has a certain colour underneath it, you can choose that prize.”

Customer: “Pfft, probably rigged, anyway.”

(He then leaves for a few minutes and comes back when I’m serving two other customers who are playing the game.)

Customer: “Oi, give me one of those bulldogs!”

Me: “You have to play the game to win one, sir. I can’t just give it to you.”

Customer: “How the f*** am I supposed to win it when all the games are rigged?”

Me: “The games aren’t rigged, sir, but if you feel that strongly about it, you don’t have to play.”

Customer: “Give me the toy, then.”

Me: “Sir, I have already said that you need to play the game first to win the toy. If you don’t think you can do it, then you can probably buy a toy just like this in a store somewhere.”

(The customer then goes on a rant about how he’s already paid to get into the amusement park and how I am trying to scam him with a rigged game.)

Customer: “Give me the toy or I’ll jump over there and f****** smash you.”

(I get a bit nervous at this point as he is much bigger than I am and looks like he could really hurt me.)

Me: “I wouldn’t do that, sir; there are children around and a security guard just over there.”

(I signal my coworker to call the security guard over.)

Customer: “I swear to God I’m gonna smash your f****** head in.”

(The security guard was almost there at that point. The customer realised this and, after a few more curses, he left. I was still shaking with nerves an hour later.)

(My middle school math teacher seems to have had a severe problem with me and has no problem showing it. My learning disability does at times affect my work, which she doesn’t like, and if I come to see her during her after-school tutoring sessions that she holds for any student needing extra help, she rails on me for not understanding the work, and quickly loses her patience and refuses to help, telling me I am wasting time that the other students in the tutoring session need. All the while, she keeps going easier and even coddling students who do even less work or are even disruptive in class. Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to contain her dislike for me to my academic performance. In her class, desks are set up in quads pretty close together, meaning if you are sitting at the side of the “square” directly back to back with someone sitting at the square right next to yours, it is hard to get out of your seat unless the other person scoots their chair closer to their desk to let you out. I should also note that I’ve never exactly been thin.)

Teacher: “[My Name]! Come hand out these worksheets!”

(I attempt to get up only to see that the classmate behind me has his seat pushed out so I can’t get up.)

Me: “[Classmate], could you move your chair in, please?”

Classmate: *moves his seat in barely an inch, not enough to let me get up, moves it back, and laughs*

Teacher: “[My Name]! I told you to get up! Now!”

Me: “There’s not enough room…”

Teacher: “Stop slacking off!”

(I try again to get the classmate to move his chair, but he ignores me. I’m getting more and more upset since she’s continuing to yell at me in front of the class, even though all this is going on in front of her eyes. The deskmate right across from me tries to help by pulling her desk back so I can push my desk forward to make room, only to be yelled at by the teacher, as well, for moving the desks.)

Me: “I can’t get up with [Classmate]’s chair out like that!”

Teacher: *rolls her eyes, condescendingly* “[Classmate], move your chair in so she can get up.”

(The classmate moves in a little bit, just enough to let me get up, but before I can…)

Teacher: “Move in more than that! She’s fatter than you and needs the space!”

Me: *speechless*

(I wish I could say that was the worst of it. I missed a week of school due to my father passing away. I was attempting to catch up with my classes once I was back, and I attended one of her tutoring sessions. This time, due to still being in a pretty fragile state, the harsh treatment I received made me burst into tears. Her response was to just coldly say, “Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you just because your dad died!” That didn’t just shock me, but the other students in the room, as well. All I could do was grab my stuff and leave. The following school year, my mom was pulling me out for winter break a few days early so I could go on a trip with extended family, since this would be my first Christmas without my father. I went around to all my teachers to get holiday homework beforehand, and all were understanding and gave their planned assignments. When I went to this teacher, she scribbled some equations in my notebook and said that was it. I foolishly took her at her word. When classes started back up, I learned the homework was an entire section of our textbook. She railed on me for not doing the work, and when I tried to remind her she didn’t tell me what the work was, she sneered that that’s what I get for missing school. That following year, I ended up in the same high school with a bunch of classmates from middle school and we decided to get together and visit our old stomping ground one day after classes let out. When we arrived, we found four teachers sitting together in one of the classrooms: three of my favorite teachers, including two who had been such a comfort after my dad died and even came to his funeral, and THAT teacher. I got a petty little thrill at her shocked and offended expression when I deliberately ignored her, turned my back to her when speaking to the other teachers, and went around hugging all of them except for her. That’s what you get for being mean.)

(My youngest brother is thirteen and a very sweet kid. He can be a bit overwhelming at first; he’s very energetic and loves to talk your ear off with fifty different topics all at once. Despite this, my family and I love him dearly. He has some mental damage done from seizures he had as a baby, so he’s certainly “different” to others, but to us he’s normal. Most people in our family accepted him right away when they met him, thinking he’s a sweetheart… Some didn’t — not right away, at least. One day, my cousin, about four years older than my brother, visits from out of state to see us and our grandparents. I offer to drive her and my brother to the store as they need something. This happens while we’re there.)

Brother: “Oh, oh! [My Name], look, look! This shirt has a Minecraft creeper on it! I want it.”

Me: “It’s 30 bucks! I don’t have that money on me right now, bud. Sorry.”

(He’s a bit upset but walks it off. He tends to mumble to himself to let off steam. He’s mumbling something about getting money himself for it, and I can hear him. So can [Cousin].)

Cousin: “Um, excuse me?!”

(Both my brother and I look at her.)

Cousin: “What did you just say?! Under your breath?”

Brother: “N-Nothing…”

Cousin: “I know you said something. What was it?”

Brother: “I… I just wanted the shirt…”

Cousin: “Okay, so you act like a f****** baby because she said no?”

Me: “Woah, woah. Calm down, [Cousin].”

Brother: “N-No… I wanted it but… I can wait for it… I just said that I could get money myself.”

Cousin: “Yeah, okay, sure. You need to stop acting like a f****** baby. Grow up! You’re too old for Minecraft, anyway. Get over it.”

Brother: “But I like it. It’s fun and I play with friends.”

Cousin: “You’re too old! Grow up. Your stupid friends are probably younger than you. Why do you act like such a baby?!”

Brother: “I just–”

Cousin: “No excuses! [My Name], your brother is so immature. What the h*** is wrong with him?”

Me: “[Cousin], you don’t need to make a scene. I heard him and he said nothing bad. You don’t need to be insulting him like this.”

Cousin: “Yeah, well, it’s not like it’s my fault he’s so [disability slur].”

(That’s when I stare at her, unsure of what to say. My brother tears up and runs off, about ready to cry.)

Me: “Excuse me?! It’s not his fault… You have no right to act this way towards him.”

Cousin: “This is why he acts spoiled. You’re a f****** idiot for giving him what he wants.”

(She stormed off towards the checkout with whatever she happened to pick up while I ran off to look for my brother, who was crying in the toy aisle. I tried to calm him down, letting him know I’d talk with [Grandparents] when we got home. He accepted that and walked with me towards [Cousin] who looked impatient. The drive home was silent, save for a few sniffs from my brother. I tried to explain the situation to my grandparents, but [Cousin] kept interrupting and, in the end, my grandparents scolded my brother for his behavior and me for allowing him to act like that. [Cousin] was smug about it, too. My brother and I went home and I refuse to speak to my cousin, who has tried to talk to me like nothing happened since.)

(We catch a shoplifter, and while we wait for police, I’m catching up on mall gossip with my friend who is a mall security guard.)

Friend: “I got threatened with a lawsuit today.”

Me: “You personally, or the mall?”

Friend: “Both. Guy fell off of a toilet seat and hit his head.”

Me: “Off?”

Friend: “Yup, he stood on the seat to see what the guy in the next stall was doing.”

Me: “Why?”

Friend: “He said it sounded like he was using too much toilet paper, and he wanted to see what was going on. Guy in the next stall heard, looked up, and saw him looking over the wall. He yelled, and the other guy slipped and fell.”

Me: “So… why did he threaten you with a lawsuit?”

Friend: “He said I wasn’t doing my job and looking out for perverts in the bathroom.”

Me: “Like, perverts who stare over the divider between toilets?”

Friend: “No, like perverts who use too much TP when pooping, apparently.”

Many small dogs are very territorial; Chihuahuas are notorious for this and for being extremely loyal to only one person. My dad grew up around lots of animals, so between his training and the even temper of our Chihuahua, I was under the impression that they were usually sweet. I was jolted into reality when some friends came to stay with us and had to bring their Chihuahua with them.

To start with, our dog was a strictly indoor dog, who, despite chewing through leashes and barking when people came to the door, would never bite and would always lay down to get a belly rub. Their dog was a strictly outdoor pet that had to be tethered to a secure point with a chain. In the three days they were there, I don’t think he ever stopped barking. He ran back and forth in the same half-circle so much that there was no longer grass there, and he snarled and lunged if anyone besides one of the daughters or occasionally the mom got within three feet of him.

One day my dad came home and saw that the dog had run in a circle around the sprinkler he was chained to, catching the chain in a way that left him with his head about an inch from the ground and unable to move anywhere. My dad thought about leaving him like that but knew he couldn’t, so he started thinking of ways to unhook the chain. Now, anyone who’s worked with animals — or even watched a nature documentary — knows that, when in a desperate situation, many aggressive animals will calm down long enough to accept help, so my dad started approaching slowly and low to the ground, making calming noises. The dog seemed to relax for a second, but when my dad was about six inches away, the dog snarled and almost bit him. My dad jumped back quickly to avoid the small but sharp teeth that Chihuahuas have.

He thought about what to do again and walked into the garage to grab some supplies. He came out with a broom and a long pole. I was about seven years old, but I will never forget the image of my strong, 6’3″ father shoving a broom in a two-pound dog’s face, using a pole to unhook his chain, and running away as soon as the dog was loose enough to stand up straight. It’s pretty funny in hindsight, but it was scary to little me in the moment, and I now know to be much more cautious with dogs, even small ones.

For the record, the dog was fine afterward.