During one of my summer breaks while attending college, I take a job as a summer camp counselor. Part of our weekly program involves performing a short play near the end of the week, and I volunteer to be one of the main characters. All goes well until I catch a bad cold. All the coughing I end up doing hurts my throat and makes my voice sound gravelly. I thankfully am not assigned a group of kids that week, but I don’t have anyone to replace me in the play. I rest my voice up as best I can, and even find a funny in-character reason to explain the way I sound. It works, right up until I have to sing a small solo. When I try to sing, absolutely no sound comes out of my mouth. I start to panic a bit, but the other counselors are quick to pick up on what is happening.

Every counselor in the audience knows this song, because of how much they’ve seen the play. So, when my voice fails me, the song only gets a couple bars in before the counselors all start singing my part for me! They don’t hesitate to cover the other bits of singing my character does, either. I swear it’s something straight out of a feel-good high school movie! Ten years later, and thinking about it still makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

(As a teenager, I am diagnosed with scoliosis, which requires some rather heavy physiotherapy. To prevent the condition from degenerating, I have to wear a back brace that wraps around my torso, paired with an undershirt to prevent it from chafing at my skin. It’s a surprisingly hot day, and after an entire day spent running errands, I am exhausted and soaked in sweat, and I can’t wait to get home so that I can take my brace off for a bit. I get on the bus and sit down on a priority seat. It should be noted that up, until now, nobody has had any issues with me sitting there.)  

Lady: “You shouldn’t be sitting there.”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Lady: “Move. They’re for injured and disabled people. You shouldn’t be sitting there.”

Me: “Ma’am, I assure you that I have every right to sit there. Please leave me alone.”  

Lady: “Bulls***! You’re young and healthy. You can sit somewhere else. Now move!”  

(I’m getting fed up.)

Me: “You know what? Fine. You want proof so badly?”  

(I stand up, look right into her eyes, and rap as hard as I can on my brace twice through my shirt, loud enough for her to hear. She blanches, eyes widening. I then turn around and lift up a portion of my shirt, enough to reveal one of the three straps keeping my brace secured. I turn back around, tuck my shirt into place, and sit down.)  

Me: “I have to wear a brace because of my scoliosis. It’s hot out, and having to wear two extra layers doesn’t help. Now, can you please stop being a judgmental a**hole, and go mind your own d*** business?”  

(She shut up, sat down, and refused to look in my general direction for the rest of the ride.)

I had been having horrible stomach cramps, to the point where I could barely stand. I’ve already had my appendix removed, so my doctor ran a few other tests and determined the pain was from a bowel obstruction. He sent me home with instructions to drink more water and take a laxative and some OTC pain killers.

While waiting in the checkout line with my purchase, several waves of cramps came over me and I started seeing stars. The cashier saw me start to stumble and called for help. More stars appeared before the pain became so intense I passed out.

When I regained consciousness, there was a crowd surrounding me with a mixture of emotions on their faces. Some were concerned, others embarrassed, and others looked like they were trying not to laugh, but none of them are looking at me. I started to sit up and the associate closest to me — the pharmacist who helped me pick my laxative — told me to stay still and wait for the ambulance to arrive.

I asked what happened and the pharmacist blushed deeper. I looked down to make sure I hadn’t lost control of my bladder. I hadn’t, but then I realized my stomach didn’t hurt as much anymore. I made that comment aloud, and some of the crowd laughed. A man from the crowd leaned in and told me that when I hit the floor, I’d released the biggest, loudest, longest fart he’d ever heard out of any human being.

The people gathered around were obviously there to see how I handled the news of my flatulent faux pas. I was terribly embarrassed, but I was also so relieved that I wasn’t in pain anymore, I just laughed until I cried. The ambulance arrived shortly thereafter and gave me the okay to go home. I apologized to everyone in the vicinity and told them I hoped the rest of their day went better than mine.

CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

(I’m working at a famous hamburger place when this happens. A young lady has come in with her child, who is maybe three years old. The child is running around in the lobby while she is waiting in my line. When she gets to me, the following happens:)

Me: “Ma’am, it’s unsafe for your kid to run around in here like that. He’s going to hurt himself.”

Lady: “He’s fine. And don’t call my child a kid. A kid is a baby cow! Call him a child!”

Me: “Okay, ma’am, but your child will get hurt; please ask him to stop running around.”

Lady: “He’s fine! Now let me place my order.”

Me: “Fine, what can I get for you?”

(Just as she’s starting to order, her kid falls and does a header right into the corner of one of the garbage cans. The kid doesn’t make a noise, but all of a sudden starts shaking, so it’s clear he’s having a seizure. The mother runs over to her kid and turns him over. His eyes are rolled back, his head is bleeding, and he’s shaking. One of my coworkers is calling 911 and others have rushed to help her.)

Lady: *looks up at me and yells* “THIS IS YOUR FAULT!”

(She later tried to sue us. I was asked to give a deposition, and I told them that I had asked her to stop having her kid run around, and a couple other people I worked with said they’d heard me tell her. She didn’t win her case. Also, a kid isn’t a baby cow; it’s a baby goat.)

(I am coming to the end of a line of customers checking into our hotel. When I come to the last, she appears to be in considerable pain from a headache. I offer to let her sit down and she can check in once she feels better.)

Woman: “Thank you, dear, but I have electromagnetic sensitively, and your Wi-Fi box is giving me such a headache.”

Me: “Um, I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Woman: *now extremely irate* “I’M ALLERGIC TO WI-FI!” *points at telephone* “TURN THE BLASTED THING OFF NOW!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but that won’t—“

Woman: *laying on the floor* “I am in agony!”

Me: “Madam, I wish I could help, but this is a telephone, and the Wi-Fi hub is—“

(She sits up abruptly and sees that I am holding the receiver of our wired public telephone. She lets out a massive sigh.)

Woman: “It must just be a headache, then. I’ll take some painkillers from my bag.”

(She checked in and seemed perfectly all right after being in agony just a few moments before. She spent the rest of the week walking by the reception with no issue, despite the fact that the main Wi-Fi hub for the hotel was directly above my head. When she checked out, she commented on how “Wi-Fi-free the hotel was” and left a positive rating in her feedback. We have hubs on every floor and the signal is pretty much constant throughout the entire hotel. I don’t want to criticise the claims that allergy to Wi-Fi is an actual thing, but in her case, I sincerely doubt it was.)