I work in a planetarium. We have a large domed room where we project space-themed movies and documentaries for guests. I’m narrating the audience through a piece about black holes.

Me: “And if an astronaut were to be unlucky enough to fall into a black hole, the forces acting on them would be so intense that they would be stretched long and thin. This is a process scientists call — and I’m not kidding here — spaghettification.”

That elicits a chuckle or two. After a few minutes, the presentation is over.

Me: “And that concludes our presentation on the mighty Black Holes! Are there any questions?”

I see an eager hand in the audience shoot straight up. It’s a little boy, maybe four years old. I point to him. He looks nervous at first, but his mother encourages him to speak out.

Boy: “What happens… if… when you go to a black hole… and… it… doesn’t like spaghetti?”

Everyone laughs and the boy looks a bit nervous again. I’m just smiling at the absolute adorableness of the question.

Me: “That’s a good question, little man! Y’see, we know that black holes must like it, because do you remember what I said about how black holes get bigger?

He thinks for a second, but then his eyes go wide.

Boy: “They eat everything up!”

Me: “That’s right! They want to eat everything on their plate! They can even eat stars, which are like big, hot meatballs!”

Boy: *Laughing* “They like meatballs and spaghetti!”

Me: “They make sure they eat up all their food, and then they get bigger. And you know what else gets bigger when it eats up all their food?”

Boy: “What?”

Me: “Little boys!”

The audience chuckled, and I answered a few more questions. As the audience left, the little boy ran up to me with his mom and asked to be in a photo with me. I felt like a famous astronaut for the rest of the day!

Stay curious, little dude!

My twelve-year-old cousin’s scooter disappeared. A few days later, the police call up and say that someone found it and brought it in, so I take her to the station to pick it up. She’s typically nervous with strangers but wants to try talking to the cops herself.

Cousin: “Hi… I’m here for lost and found… You have, my, um…”

Cop: *Not looking up* “Sorry, was that the scooter or the chainsaw?”

Cousin: “CAN I HAVE BOTH?”

Back in high school, over the summer, I’d spend a lot of time at my friend’s house. He had a little sister who was about three or four at the time. One day, whilst we were watching something on the computer, she came into the room, and [Friend] noticed a rather serious scratch on her arm.

Friend: “Whoa, hey, [Sister], how did you get that boo-boo?”

[Sister] replied in a sweet but serious voice.

Sister: “Satan scratched me!”

Friend & Me: “WHAT?!”

Sister: “Satan scratched me! See?!”

She repeated herself firmly, showing us her arm with the scratch.

Sister: “I don’t think he likes me…”

Me: “Uh, yeah…”

I looked at [Friend]. [Sister] was very young, and though his family was religious, they hadn’t introduced such concepts as Satan or the devil to her, so you can imagine how troubling her statements were.

We both started quickly firing off questions, testing her to see if it was a misunderstanding, but her answers either did little to calm us or, more concerningly, made things that much more sinister and worrying.

Me: “Did he say anything to you?”

Sister: “No, he doesn’t talk.”

Brother: “What does he look like?”

Sister: “He’s black, and, uh, small and he has yellow eyes… and nails! That’s what he scratched me with!”

After a few more questions, [Friend] asked:

Friend: “Have you seen him before?”

Sister: “Yes, but sometimes he’s there and sometimes he’s not. Sometimes he follows me around, but most of the time he just watches me.”

Yeah, that one actually genuinely shocked us both. Neither of us said anything for about ten seconds after that.

I mean, seriously, we were being told that a small, black, yellow-eyed “entity” that didn’t like [Sister] would come and go, sometimes following her around but mostly just watching her. And now, no longer content to just watch her, he had actively attacked her. And despite being unable to talk, he had somehow communicated to a three- or four-year-old little girl, that his name, of all possible names, was Satan. That gave the both of us pause. 

Concerned, suspicious, and slightly dumbfounded, [Friend] eventually got a bright idea.

Friend: “Can you show us where this happened?”

Without saying anything, [Sister] confidently led us through the house and into the garden and pointed at the fence. 

That’s when [Friend] figured it out.

The next-door neighbor’s new cat named “Satin”, after the fabric, had been the one to scratch her, and she just hadn’t learned the cat’s name properly.

We both collapsed into hysterical, deeply relieved laughter once we figured it out, and we went on to excitedly tell the rest of his family. Still, for a few moments there, it was quite sincerely like being in “The Exorcist”.

A customer comes in with his son.

Customer: “I need a baseball kit for my son.”

I show him the relevant section.

Me: “We have an extensive range here, sir.”

He stares at me expectantly.

Me: “Do you need further assistance?”

Customer: “Well, yes! I don’t know what he needs.”

Son: “Dad, I—”

Customer: “Not now, son. Adults are talking. Now, what will he need?.”

Me: “Well, he’ll need the gloves and recommended shoes, I would think. What hand does he pitch?”

Customer: “I don’t know.”

Son: “I pitch right, but Dad, I—”

Customer: “He pitches right.

I talk to the son directly, as he seems to want to say something.

Me: “And what size shoe are you?”

Customer: “Excuse me, I’m standing right here. Talk to the adult, please. Just measure him for the shoes.”

Me: “And if he needs the whole outfit, it’ll be easier to know his age.”

The father stares a little and then looks at his son, who looks like he’s given up.

Son: “Seven.”

Customer: “He’s seven.”

Son: “And he’s also playing softball, not baseball.”

Customer: “What? Why didn’t you say something?”

Son: “But Dad… adults were talking.” 

I liked the sass of that kid. I got him kitted out with the correct equipment, and Dad was sheepishly quiet for the rest of the transaction.

I still remember a funny story my mom told me about way back when I was maybe two or three years old, in 1986 or ‘87.

My parents were at a department store shopping for a new TV, and I was with them. The salesman was showing them a TV where all the controls were hidden behind a panel that looked like one of the speakers along the side of the TV; you had to press the panel door to open and access the controls.

Salesman: *Boasting very proudly* “This design is ingenious for folks like you two who have young children! Little kids like this one would never be able to figure out how to open that panel!”

As he was going on about this remarkable feat of 1980s electronics engineering, my mother set me down, and I toddled right on up to the unit in question and IMMEDIATELY opened the supposedly hidden panel, bypassing what the salesman thought was some labyrinthine construct to tiny minds like my own. It just COMPLETELY took the wind out of his sails.

My parents still liked the TV overall, though, and still ended up buying it.

Related:
Dogs Will Make Liars Of You Every Time
Kids Will Make Liars Of You Every Time