My sixth-grade class was learning about WWII, and the teacher was telling us about Japan’s kamikaze pilots.
Teacher: “They were told that when they ran out of ammunition, to send their planes into the enemy ships, and to stay inside the plane to guide it accurately.”
Classmate: “But you could get killed that way!”
It’s the Catholic Church’s Jubilee in Rome and the Vatican, so naturally, there are a lot of pilgrims around. And when I say “a lot”, I do mean it: the city is packed to the gills with people. Because yellow and green are the “official” color scheme for this Jubilee, most pilgrims wear at least a yellow-green scarf with the logo, an important detail for later.
I am bar-tending during a lull in activity, when a guy reaches the bar counter and orders a pretty strong cocktail. He pays, I make it, and, after a few sips, he starts talking to me.
Customer: *In English.* “Between you and me, what do you think of all those people going about with Hezbollah colors?”
Me: *Confused.* “Excuse me, what?”
Customer: “You didn’t notice? All those people going about, wearing green and yellow keffiyeh and s***. F***ers have gotten bold.”
Me: “I… sir, you do know it’s Jubilee Year, right? Those are the official colors.”
Customer: “F***’s a Giu-bi-li?”
Me: “…No? It’s a bit too long to explain, but… It’s a Catholic tradition.”
Customer: “Of what, celebrating the Crusades?”
I decided to switch the topic to something else, in case he turned aggressive towards me or something. The level of logical leapfrogging needed to get in that position sounds hallucinatory to me.
With all the commotion on the news about immigration, we’ve started a discussion about it in the office.
Me: “Technically, I’m an immigrant.”
Coworker: “No, you’re not! You’re an American!”
Me: “Both of those things can be true. I was born in Ireland, and my parents brought me over when I was a baby.”
Coworker: “Why? Ireland is so pretty!”
Me: “It is, but I think the IRA blowing up all the houses at the time ruined the view a bit.”
Coworker: “Well, then those people should have paid their taxes!”
The entire office goes into a confused silence for a moment, and then:
Manager: “IRA, [Coworker]! IRA!”
This was way back when. More years than I can count on ten fingers, and more than I care to think about.
We were on a coach headed on a school trip to Hadrian’s Wall. At the time, we were all probably around ten years old. We were excited. At one point during the trip, with still a good while to go, one of my classmates pipes up excitedly:
Classmate #1: “Look! There it is! I see Hadrian’s Wall!”
Cue excited scrambling while we try to catch our first glimpse. And then, from around the midsection of the coach:
Classmate #2: “That’s someone’s garden wall, ya idiot!”
A customer is looking at the Granny Smith apple chips. She looks over at me and says:
Customer: “I didn’t know Granny Smith made chips; I thought she just grew the apples.”
Me: “I’m sure there was a Granny Smith a long time ago, but she’s long dead. Now the name just refers to the type of apple.”
Customer: “Oh, well, alright then. But why do they make chips? Shouldn’t they just stick to apples?”
Me: “They’re still apples, they’re just sliced thin, baked, and dried, to resemble chips.”
Customer: *Squinting at the packaging.* “Oh. Gross! They would never have done that when Granny Smith was still alive!”
She tosses the bag of apple chips down and walks away, convinced she knew all about an Australian woman from the 1800s who she had thought was still alive less than a minute earlier…
