I work in politics, taking calls from the constituents of our MP (Member of Parliament). Our MP has recently won an election. I take a call from an angry woman.

Caller: “I’m never going to vote for you again!”

Me: “I’m sorry to hear that, madam. Can I ask why you have changed your mind?”

Caller: “Because [MP] voted yes to bringing in a whole lot of refugees! I saw them on the news! They’re all men!”

Me: “Well, I don’t know what news channel you watch, but—”

Caller: “You don’t understand! It’s too many new men! My son still lives with me! He’s thirty years old and he already can’t get a date!”

Me: “I… am sorry to hear that.”

Caller: “You tell [MP] that as long as my son is single, she won’t get my vote!” *Click*

Yes, I’ll be sure she includes that as an urgent item on her next manifesto.

This happens while I am working as the emergency planner for our county Health Department. I am in a training session with, among other people, six members of a local fire department. Let it be said that I love working with first responders, if only because they are very funny in a dark sort of way.

Two of them are discussing a piece of equipment.

Fire Dude #1: “Is [radio] firefighter-proof?”

Fire Dude #2: “If you can use it as a wheel chock, it’s firefighter-proof.”

The instructor is a quiet gentleman from Utah who really should have known better.

Instructor: “So, what is the single most dangerous item in your house?”

Fire Dude #2: “My wife.”

The training ends with a tabletop exercise simulating a flood in a resort town.

Instructor: “You still have over fifty people stranded at the (imaginary) hotel. What is your recommended course of action?”

Fire Dude #3: “They’re tourists. Let ’em drown.”

The best part of the training? After lunch, all of the fire dudes showed up wearing hot pink T-shirts with the breast cancer ribbon printed on them. TIGHT hot pink T-shirts.

I am volunteering in a voting booth. A woman is holding up the line by checking her phone when it is her time to step into a cubicle to vote.

Me: “Can you please move along, ma’am?”

Voter: “Not yet! I need to check what they look like!”

Me: “Okay? Well, maybe you could step aside so that—”

Voter: “No! It’s my right to vote, and it’s my right to know what the person I am voting for looks like! My Google is just slow!”

Me: “Oh, well, we have a pamphlet provided by each candidate at this table here if you need to reacquaint yourself with their policies.”

Voter: “I don’t give a flying f*** about their policies! I just want to make sure whoever I vote for is white! You can’t just trust white-sounding names anymore.”

I stopped talking to her before I said something I couldn’t take back, and I just subtly redirected the line around her while she used Google for racism.

Once upon a time in Sweden (or prior to 2019), we had something called a TV licence or a TV fee. In order to finance public service TV and radio channels, every household that owned a TV had to pay a fee. Around the time when Internet streaming services were beginning to get popular, there was a bit of a crackdown on people who had not reported that they owned a TV.

There were controllers going around, knocking on doors of people who had not paid the fee because, for some reason, it was unthinkable that someone would elect not to own a TV. These controllers were not allowed to enter the home. They could only stand outside and ask if there was a TV in the home or, apparently, peek through the windows.

At this time, I legitimately did not own a TV. I lived alone, I got most of my news from the Internet, and I used streaming services for my entertainment needs, so I only had my laptop. However, one day, I got home from work to find a letter from Radiotjänst (the authority in charge of the TV fee) that a TV had been observed in my apartment and that I would need to pay the fee.

This was news to me, so I called their customer service number.

Me: “I got this letter today that says you’ve observed a TV in my home?”

Employee: “Yes, I can see that we’ve had controllers out in your area. Your address is [address], right?”

Me: “Yes, that’s correct. I’m just curious about what TV they’ve observed since I don’t own one. I haven’t had a visit from a controller, either, so I’d really like to know how they reached that conclusion.”

Employee: “All right, let me bring up the notes here. It says the controller walked past your apartment and observed a wall-mounted TV through the living room window.”

Me: “Really? My living room window?”

Employee: “Yes. According to my notes, your apartment is on the ground floor, right?”

Me: “Actually, this is a split-level building. The front entrance is on the ground floor, but in order to observe anything through my living room window on the other side of the house, your controller would have had to climb up onto my balcony. Even then, the only thing they could possibly have observed that’s even remotely TV-shaped would be the cage where I keep my pet rats.”

Employee: “Umm… I’m going to have to get back to you.”

A few days passed by and I didn’t hear back, so I called customer service again and was informed that I would not have to pay the fee.

I guess the controller just wanted to earn their salary without doing their job, assumed that everyone had to have a TV, and just reported everyone in the area who hadn’t paid their fee.

Thankfully, the government eventually realized what an outdated and impractical practice this was and replaced the TV fee with a tax.

I’m the author of this unbelievable story from my time living in Virginia, about forty minutes south of Washington DC.

At the time of this story, my mother is engaged to a man who is high-ranking in the Secret Service. (He is now retired.) [Mom’s Fiancé] is on Presidential Protection; He escorts the President personally and is paid to potentially take a bullet for him.

[Mom’s Fiancé]’s job has had some fun perks for my sister and me while we live with them, like getting invited to certain events. White House employees are always invited to the Christmas party and a few other major holiday celebrations.

It’s the second of July, 2010, and Barack Obama is in office. My mom calls and asks if I am interested in going to the White House’s Fourth of July party. She quickly confirms that, no, we won’t be meeting Obama, as he’s in Hawaii visiting family. (We previously got to meet George W. Bush at the aforementioned Christmas party, so this wasn’t a totally insane expectation.)

The invite is so late because [Mom’s Fiancé] was supposed to go to Hawaii with Mr. President but has to stay in DC for reasons he isn’t allowed to talk about. (That happens a lot.) I am bummed we didn’t get a meet-and-greet with the first black president, but I still want to go.

I scramble to get my shifts covered, and I am ultimately able to attend the party. I am aware that there will be a USO show of some kind, but my mom can’t remember who will be performing, and I don’t take the time to look up anything else about it.

The party is on the absolutely massive lawn behind the White House. We settle in a little bit further uphill from the stage, where Cedric The Entertainer is doing stand-up comedy. After his routine, he greets people from behind a waist-high metal fence that leads to a cordoned-off area backstage. He’s extremely friendly and a celebrity I recognize, so it is fun to say hi really quickly.

Another fun fact: I am seven and a half months pregnant with my first child. I am normally fairly slim, so my baby bulge is very noticeable. It’s hot and humid, so I stretch out on our blanket, sip my (nonalcoholic) beverage, and settle in, fully intending to not move for the rest of the party. My little sister is sitting with me and we’re chatting away. Meanwhile, a sound check is going on, so I’m dimly aware that a band will be up next.

We hear applause welcoming the band, but it is not introduced by name. My sister and I are facing away from the stage, deep in conversation, and not really paying attention, when we hear some music blaring out of the speaker. It’s quite distinctive and I immediately recognize it.

My sister and I go silent and lock eyes in mutual shock. Without a single word to each other or the rest of our family, we get up and run toward the stage, me with my third-trimester belly and everything.

We manage to squeeze in pretty close. I would’ve gotten even closer if I wasn’t so pregnant! Still, we are less than ten feet from the stage, shocked and ecstatic that one of our favorite bands is right there and we are watching them! It is an amazing set and we have a blast!

Looking back, I think this was my favorite concert experience because it was a complete surprise. The shock of recognition and our sprint to the stage made it all the more exciting. It’s one of those moments I’ll always remember very vividly.

The band? The Killers. That first song? Human. Best Independence Day ever!

Related:
Creepy, Cut-Off, and Caught!