(I am sweeping up a minor spill in the lobby when a small group of irritated people comes up to me.)

Irritated Woman: “There are two men praying in the hall.”

Me: “Oh?”

Irritated Woman: “There are two—” *whispers* “—Muslims—” *normal voice* “—praying in the hall over there.”

(This is a reasonably diverse area and this happens somewhat regularly.)

Me: “Are they blocking the fire exit?”

Irritated Woman: “No.”

Me: “Then it’s fine.”

Irritated Woman: *more irritated* “This is America! They can’t pray like that here!”

(I decide to ignore the ludicrous hypocrisy of that statement.)

Me: “They’re not breaking any laws or theater rules. As long as they’re not blocking the fire exit, there’s nothing we can or will do about it.”

Irritated Woman: “What if we started praying in the hall?”

Me: “As long as you don’t block the fire exit, it’s fine.”

(The irritated group left. About half an hour later, they were holding an impromptu prayer circle in the hall when my manager asked them to move over about five feet. They were blocking the fire exit.)

(I work in a cell phone store.)

Customer: “Can you delete my butt pictures?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Customer: “My butt pictures!”

Me: “Your what, sir?”

Customer: “My butt photos! You know, photos my phone took with my butt, kind of like when you butt-dial someone!”

Me: “Oh! Okay, I see.”

(My parents bought a new couch for our downstairs family room. Considering that’s where the game consoles are, whenever I have friends over we usually sit on the couch. After a year of having it, my parents call me downstairs. They seem angry.)

Stepdad: “You and your friends broke our couch.”

Me: “How?”

Mom: “Can you not see it?”

Me: “I honestly can’t see anything wrong with it.”

(They point at a small blemish on one of the cushions. It looks like a burn mark from a cigarette. Being that I’m twelve, I definitely don’t smoke cigarettes.)

Me: “That’s not from me.”

Stepdad: “Why do you think that?”

Me: “That’s a burn mark. I don’t even know where to find a lighter.”

Stepdad: “Well, now it’s ruined! We’ll have to throw it out now!”

Me: “It doesn’t look that bad; I didn’t notice it until you pointed it out. But it is definitely not from anything I’ve been doing.”

Mom: “That doesn’t explain where it came from, though.”

Me: “Maybe it was [Brother] or [Brother’s Girlfriend]. Their room is down here. I’m not the only one who uses the couch.”

(They denied it. At that point, though, they just gave up and dropped it. We still have the couch, although it’s in the garage because my stepdad wanted to convert the garage into a man cave but never did. They’ve offered to let me take it whenever I decide to move out. I’m not complaining, either; who doesn’t want a free couch?)

I live on a farm deep in a hollow or “holler” as the locals call it in Kentucky. My husband and I moved there after he retired from the military because of my husband’s post-traumatic stress disorder in hopes that being away from people would help him. We have put a number of signs on the fencing and gate to the property to let people know that a combat veteran lives here and that unannounced visitors are not welcome. Lately, we have been having problems with a certain religious group that has an organization called the Watchtower that likes to proselytize disregarding those signs and coming up to the house. 

In this incident, my husband is recovering from hernia surgery. The religious group has decided to disregard the signs and open a closed gate to the property. I have had enough at this point so I decide to have a little fun. 

My favorite movie franchise is “Police Academy” and my favorite character is Zed — played by Bobcat Goldthwaite — a former gang member who communicates through screaming. When I see the religious group coming up to the porch, I smear eyeliner all over my face and turn out all of the lights in the house to make the house really dark. My husband keeps a large flashlight by the door and I pick that up.

When I open the door for the religious group, I hold the flashlight under my face and start screaming incoherently. Apparently, I scared them because they immediately leave my porch and start babbling about Ozzy Osbourne as they leave the property! 

We haven’t had problems with them since. In this area, I have the right to answer the door with a gun, but doing this was way more fun! I don’t understand why they picked this holler to do their proselytizing because the houses are about 1000 feet apart and no one welcomes their brand of religious message.

(I’m working the returns desk and I have an older lady and her young granddaughter in my line.)

Me: “Could I see your card for your return?”

Lady: *digging around purse* “Where did I put my card?”

Girl: “I don’t know, Grandma.”

Lady: “Did you take it out?”

Girl: “I’m a zombie killer, not a stealer!”