I’m on a bus on my way home from work. My stop is near the end of the line and in a residential area, so there are not many passengers coming onto the bus at that point. I hit the button for my stop, but the driver keeps on driving right past it.

Me: *Calling out* “Hey, you missed my stop!”

Driver: “What?”

Me: “You missed my stop, back there!”

The driver pulls over in a safe spot, and I go up front to swipe my card. He hasn’t opened the door for me at this point.

Driver: *Belligerently* “Next time, press the button.”

Me: “Excuse me? I did press it.”

Driver: “I didn’t hear anything.”

The other passenger and I both heard it.

Me: “Well, I did, and the light went on, so I know the button isn’t broken.”

Driver: *Suddenly, more belligerently* “Do you think I can see the f****** light from here?”

This is a fair point, as the light is behind him as he’s looking at the road. However:

Driver: “You sit down there—” *indicating his seat* “—and tell me if you can see it. Huh?”

Now a bit taken aback, I just stutter.

Driver: “Go on. Sit down there.”

He then grabs me and shoves me down into the driver’s seat. I’m not too strong and I’ve had a long day anyway, so he easily gets me sitting down.

Driver: “Can you see it? Can you see that light from there?”

Of course, I can’t, but at this point, I’m pretty fed up.

Me: *Standing up* “Look, mate, you know that I can’t see it. And I know I heard the buzzer, so either something’s not working up here or you need your hearing checked. Which one is it?”

The driver shrinks a little and opens the door. I start to tag off. The driver speaks a bit more meekly but still tries to be belligerent.

Driver: “I’ll put in a request to get it looked at.”

Me: “Smart move.”

And then I simply turned around and walked off the bus. I started using a different bus route the next day.

We’ve had problems in the past with food delivery drivers taking our orders to our neighbours. Because we’re on an intersection, it’s somewhat understandable. For context, if our house is 13 Main Street, the house across the intersecting street and down one is 13 General Street. It’s an understandable mix-up, so I’ve started putting in the description for delivery drivers that we are on the corner and have no vehicles; the neighbours in question are bikers and have multiple cars. It has mostly fixed the problem… except for one day.

I’m at home waiting for an order when the phone rings with an unknown number.

Me: “Hello?”

Delivery Guy: “Yeah, I’m outside your house, but you’re not on a corner and there are cars here.”

I look outside and can see him parked across from the neighbour. I sigh deeply.

Me: “That’s because it’s the wrong house.”

Delivery Guy: “Oh.”

Seriously?!

My three-year-old car has decided that it needs a new engine block, something not covered by warranty.

Mechanic: “We have found a secondhand engine for $6,328.00. We just need a deposit put down in order for us to order it in.”

Me: “Oh, okay, sure. How much are we talking for a deposit?”

Mechanic: “We need a deposit of $4,500.00.”

Me: “Um, that’s not a deposit; that’s basically paying the whole lot up front. A deposit for something is usually 10% to 20% of the cost of the item. Are you sure you know what ‘deposit’ means?”

Mechanic: “I know what ‘deposit’ means. This is our policy.”

Me: “I really think you need to look at the definition of a deposit.”

When I was younger, around six or seven, there used to be a store that sold various knickknacks — small furniture pieces, decorations, gardening things, and books.

I used to be a huge bookworm as a child, so I used to walk into that section and peruse the books available. I’d occasionally take one book, open it up to read, and skim a few pages to see if I had any interest in buying the book — you know, the normal way to decide if you want to buy a book and not waste your money.

Usually, this wasn’t a problem. But for some reason, on this occasion, this “wonderful” woman decided that I was being a huge nuisance. I’d walked over to the book section as usual and picked up a book to read when this “wonderful” employee came barreling into the book section shouting at me.

Most of her tirade is lost to time, but one line I specifically remember from her long tantrum is:

Employee: “Don’t touch these books! You are going to get them dirty! These books are not for reading!”

What are they for, then, lady? Decoration?

I remember that my mother was livid and swiftly removed us from the store. We didn’t return to that store after that, and my mother has confirmed that this was on purpose.

That store has now been closed for almost twelve years. I guess that employee scared off everyone who had an interest in that store.

Client: “We have six designers working for us at the moment and an intern. That makes it six and a half people.”

Me: “Your intern would love to hear that.”