(I work at a supermarket that only offers organic products. We have regular automatic sliding doors. I am ringing up customers when I hear someone entering, and immediately after this a child, maybe around two years old, starts to cry. I turned to see what’s wrong as a woman dashes into the store, holding her crying child and giving me a death glare. Even before I can even ask what happened, she starts yelling at me.)

Woman: “My son’s hand got stuck in that stupid door!”

Me: “Well, that’s unfortunate. Will he be all right?”

Woman: “Of course not! I bet it’s going to swell!”

(I already am puzzled at how it would be humanly possible to get your hand into that tiny slit at the side of the door, but I know that she is going to blame me for whatever happened. I apologetically look at the customer I was ringing up.)

Me: “Would you excuse me for a second? I need to get something to cool his hand.”

(Luckily, they are very understanding and I hastily get up, leaving the already insane amount of customers in the line to wait. Luckily, a coworker hears me talking and goes to get a cool pack before I can. I get back to what I was doing before, to see that this woman has already snatched a popsicle out of the freezer next to the registers to cool the kid’s hand. He seems to be better now; he’s stopped crying, and looks around as my coworker hands them the cool pack.)

Woman: “That was about time!”

(She then snatched it out of my coworker’s hand but continued to cool her son’s hand with the popsicle. My coworker gave me an annoyed look. Just a few minutes later the woman rushed out of the store and I saw her son eating the popsicle; she never paid for it. A few days later the same coworker told me that she came back the day after to complain about me to our manager. I “never apologized” to her and acted completely rude. What should I have apologized for? For her not telling her kid to not stick his hands everywhere they fit? Luckily our manager took my side and I never saw her again.)

In the late 80s, my uncle looked like a big, hairy biker guy, despite being a very big teddy bear. He had the ZZ-Top beard and long hair, and perpetually wore a bandana like a headband.

He was pulled over for speeding or some minor infraction and decided he wanted to go to court to fight it. He decided nobody would give the time of day to a dirty, biker-looking guy, and went and cut off his hair and beard, which hadn’t been cut in the better part of a decade. My mother didn’t even recognize him clean shaven, it had been so long.

He showed up in court — my mom and I, a child, tagged along for some reason — in a suit, with short hair, clean shaven….

Only to find out the judge assigned the case was blind.

And nobody in our family has let him live that down!

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(I have PTSD from being in a severe car accident as a child that resulted in a traumatic brain injury. I am mostly recovered and normal as an adult. I prefer to have my wife drive on days when my PTSD is acting up. There’s just this one thing: when she’s driving and sneezes, she grips the wheel with a death grip, shuts her eyes tight, and shakes the wheel side-to-side, making the whole vehicle move side-to-side on the road. This is brown-pants-level terrifying for me. She thinks I’m being a baby about it. We have a dumb fight over it, and then get over it. The next week her parents are in town. Her father is driving us somewhere and he’s driving way above the speed limit. Suddenly, he sneezes, and in doing so, grips and shakes the wheel violently, which causes the vehicle to suddenly merge into a different lane.)

Wife: *with terror in her eyes* “Sorry about last week. You were right.”

(My friends and I have joined in on a tour of a hotel supposedly haunted by a little boy. The tour is being run by a group that has a few married couples. It’s decided that a group of females will go into the room where the little boy is supposed to be. There is one woman acting as lead.)

Leader: *addressing the ghost* “If you would like to make yourself known or even seen, we wish you no harm. We are all mothers here…” *even louder and with a b****y undertone* “…except for those who can’t actually have children.”

(I wonder why she would even toss that comment in. We wait about ten minutes with no action, so we move out into the pitch-black hall to get ready to move to the next part of the tour. A few minutes later, my friend hears a noise in another hallway off from where we are waiting. She quickly snaps a picture up the hall.)

Friend: “Oh, my God! Look at this!” *shows us a picture of two people embracing* “Um, isn’t that [Lead]’s husband and [Other Woman]? Are they having an affair?”

Me: “Wait a minute. It looks like she’s crying; he could simply be comforting her. I wondered who [Lead] aimed that comment at, about someone not being able to have babies.”

Friend: “Oh, she did say that, didn’t she? I thought I misheard her.”

Me: “I was standing next to her.”

Other Friend: “I must have missed that comment, but I did wonder why [Other Woman] got up and walked out of the room.”

I’m a very lazy person by nature. I’ll get up and walk around if I feel like it, but I never really go out of my way to try and stay fit. I’m also notorious for hating every sport except for swimming, due to poor performances in gym class. As part of a co-op program for college, I end up staying with my marathon-running, fitness-nut uncle for a month. He is constantly offering for me to join him for workouts or trips to the gym, but I always decline, and he never pushes it. He just wants to be polite and offer to let me come along.

One day, I decide I want to try it, so I get his help setting up a workout routine. When I go back to college at the end of the program, I try it myself without supervision. I end up hurting my hip and have to stop, but after a week or two, I notice that the pain is not going away. It takes me two years to get a proper doctor’s appointment for this — my community is notorious for long waits to see doctors for anything — and I am diagnosed with a muscle tear in my right hip.

So, to sum it up, I hate sports, but the first time I do an actual workout to try and get myself into shape, I come away with what is commonly called a “sports hernia.” Everyone who found out laughed at the sheer irony of it.