The hallway my college dorm room was in had a large whiteboard posted along one wall. Unsurprisingly, it became a locus for a variety of graffiti. As it filled up, a few hallway residents denoted themselves as the “Keepers of the Board.” They had a notebook where they’d write down anything they deemed interesting or amusing enough and erase the board to make room for further doodling.

One day, my roommate and I came across the Keepers busily at work recording the most recent whiteboard notations. They were discussing a particular graffito and trying to decide whether they felt it was witty enough to merit entry into the annals.

My roommate leaned in and read the item.

Roommate: “There are two secrets to success. Number one: Never tell anyone everything you know.”

After a pause to digest this morsel of wisdom, he asked:

Roommate: “Wait, what’s the other one?”

The Keepers traded an amused look.

Keeper #1: “Quick! Write that down!”

Another one did so, attributing it to my roommate. Then, they dutifully recorded the entire exchange in the notebook before erasing the message from the board.

Several decades ago, I helped a friend clean out a family member’s home, and in exchange, I got to keep several items, including multiple potted plants. I’m pretty good with gardening, and all the plants were thriving — except for one. I didn’t over- or under-water it, but it wouldn’t grow, and the leaves were starting to brown along the edges.

Fortunately, my mom was coming to visit me, and she really has the green thumb in the family. After she arrived and got the tour of the place, we sat on the porch while I watered my plants. She, of course, went to check them out. When she came to the dying one, she closely examined it for about ten seconds before turning to me with an expression half-amused and half-concerned for my well-being.

Mom: “[My Name].”

Me: “Do you know what’s wrong with it?”

Mom: “Tell me. Why are you watering a fake plant?”

That’s right. I’m great with living plants. Not so great at caring for the plastic ones.

I was doing a logo for a client. The client didn’t really know what a logo consisted of and basically wanted me to do a full-body vector illustration of him as his logo.

Client: “I hate it. Looking at it hurts my eyes.”

Me: “Okay, what can I do to make it better?”

Client: “Make it mysterious. People need to be able to recognize me but not recognize me at the same time. I want to look brooding.”

I made his shoes pointy.

Client: “PERFECT!”

Customer: “Can I get the grilled chicken, please?”

We serve that as a whole breast. She gets her food.

Customer: “Oh, so cute! Did you cut it into the shape of a heart for Valentine’s Day?”

None of us had the “heart” to tell that that’s how all chicken breasts look.

Back in the 1960s, my dad returned a birdhouse kit to the store because it did not have the chain to hang it, as pictured on the box.

Dad: “I think it’s shameful that I have to come all this way because a simple part is missing.”

The returns lady, a crusty old gal, looked at the box, which did indeed show the birdhouse hanging from a chain, attached to the branch of a tree. It even showed a bird on the perch under the hole in the front of the birdhouse.

She looked at the box and then looked at my dad.

Dad: “Well?”

Returns Lady: “This also shows a picture of a bird on the box. You gonna complain because there’s no bird in the kit, either?”

I had to turn away in mirth. Her response was definitely a bit rude and that of a smart aleck, but it was very funny to me, too. A nearby manager, spying the encounter, drifted over and quietly asked me what was happening.

I steered him away, whispering, and told him the story. He, too, found it hilarious.

Manager: “C’mon; grab your dad and let’s go cut him a length of chain.”

I summoned my dad with a wave, and we three went to the chain department, where the manager cut off a three-foot section of gold decorative chain made of interlocked ovals exactly like the one on the box.

Manager: “With our compliments. And if you’d like, I can try to catch one of the pigeons up on the porch roof.”

By then, my dad had realized how truly amusing this whole incident really was, and he declined the bird capture, chuckling. We even had a kind exchange with the returns lady, who apologized for being a bit snippy.

All was well.