My hometown has large fairgrounds that include eighteenth- and nineteenth-century buildings to form a small village museum — a meeting house, a one-room schoolhouse, a blacksmith shop, houses, barns, etc.

My mom and I are at one of their Yuletide events, which includes live animals in a small paddock that you can pet. There are about five or six animals, and we’re loving the cute goats. My mom notices one of the animals stands out from the rest, being fluffier. She decides to ask the farmer about the animal.

Mom: “These goats are all so cute! But why is that goat fluffier than the others?”

The farmer gives her an odd look, glances at the animal in question, and replies:

Farmer: “Ma’am…  that’s a sheep.”

I am giving a tour to a small group at a history museum, specifically military history. I am explaining a few interesting facts about the Revolutionary War when one of the guests says:

Guest: “Woohoo! U…S…A! Victory!”

Me: “Haha, yes, sir. The Revolutionary War did end in a victory for the USA.”

Guest: “Like they all do!”

Me: “Well… that’s not entirely true.”

Guest: “Nuh-uh! America wins every war it’s in!”

Me: “Sir, I recommend you visit the south pavilion after this tour. You might find what it says about the Vietnam War very enlightening.”

Guest: “Woohoo! Another victory!”

Other Guest: *Having had enough* “Dude… who’s in charge in Afghanistan right now?!”

I’m working at a natural history museum. I see a little child running toward a model of one of our dinosaurs. They are eagerly admiring it and I can’t help telling them a few fun facts. Suddenly, their mother runs over and pulls them aside.

Mother: “No! Remember, I told you, no dinosaurs!”

The mother then narrows her eyes at me.

Mother: “And you! You should be ashamed of yourself, poisoning young minds into thinking dinosaurs were real!”

Me: “But ma’am, they were.”

Mother: “No! Dinosaur bones were put into the ground by the devil to confuse people and make them believe in evolution.”

Me: “I… Ma’am, if you believe that, then why are you at a natural history museum?”

Mother: “I wanted my child to see the volcano exhibit.”

Me: “Oh, that’s great. Just up these stairs.”

Mother: “Come with me, [Child]. You need to see what Hell will look and feel like in case you start straying again.”

I wanted to give my fiance, who had never been in NYC before a quick tour of Manhattan before we finished packing up my home and moving halfway across the country.

One of the places we wanted to go to was the 9/11 Memorial. I passed it daily on my way to and from work, and had never gone. Having vivid memories of that day, and knowing people who had been killed in the Towers, it was a somber self-guided tour. There is a room that has small plaques of each victim that light up and a short announcement made of the person’s name, where they were from. There had been eight people from my tiny hometown village killed, including one of our councilmen. I wept, not just there, but in several other areas.

My emotions were raw, and flashbacks to that day were hitting. We entered a large room where there were mangled fire trucks, police cars, rescue vehicles, etc. Most had scorch marks, interiors grey with ash, etc. They were all behind rope barriers, with multi-language signs saying ‘Do Not Touch.’

Ahead of us was a tall man with a small six-or-seven-year-old child, appearing to be father and son. The child scampered off ahead of the father, ducked under one of the ropes surrounding a mangled police car – a door was missing, the front hood caved in, and the trunk popped open. The child climbed right onto the car, and started playing on it like it was a playground jungle gym.

The father not only didn’t say anything, but encouraged his son, and started taking photos. They were talking and laughing with each other in some European-sounding language. I wanted to smack the father, but my fiance dragged me out of there and found a security guard to go extract them out of that room (hopefully out of the Museum altogether).

I was appalled at the disrespect shown to the memories of the 2736 people killed at that very spot.

I am a tourist at an art museum in Rome. I am admiring paintings that are hundreds of years old and most containing Christian themes. As I go around the room and look at the paintings, I notice a woman behind me, huffing and tutting, camera in hand.

I notice that she is trying to take pictures of all the paintings containing Jesus, and as I admire the paintings slowly, I keep getting in her way. This keeps happening, and eventually, a security guard notices.

Guard: “Madam, no photos allowed.”

Tourist: *Scowling at me* “I wouldn’t have been so obvious if he hadn’t been hogging all the Jesus!”