My truck has started making a weird noise. Since my dad used to be a mechanic, I ask him about it, but he can’t hear it and insists that I’m imagining it. A few weeks later, the noise is worse, and the truck has started acting weird when I use the brakes. If I just barely touch the brake pedal, the truck reacts as if I’ve slammed on the brakes, and the brakes also let go at unexpected times.

When I try to tell my dad about it, he actually makes fun of me. He says there’s absolutely nothing wrong with my truck and kind of bullies me for not wanting to drive it. I tell him that if he’s that sure, he can drive it. He seems to think it’s hilarious, but he does agree and we swap keys.

The next morning while I am at work, I get a text from dad.

“Don’t drive your truck anywhere.”

It isn’t until I get home that I finally get an explanation. He tried to drive my truck as we agreed. He got halfway out of the driveway, only to realize that he’d left one of the brakes behind!

It had rusted completely in half, but since he’d only been pretending to look at them he didn’t think there could be any problem… until one of them fell off completely.

Dad wonders why I don’t trust him anymore.

I’m the IT guy of a primary school. The school is located in a wealthy area which means that the school also is fairly rich.

We purchase some 80-inch touchscreen TVs, and they have been demonstrated to the parents to show how teachers are going to use them.

Skip a few weeks. It’s a vacation and there’s no one in the school except me and some people hired to clean the floors. While I’m sitting in my office I notice a group of elderly men carrying cases of beer into the building. I go up to them and ask what they are planning.

One of the men looks at me with a smug smile on his face and tells me that he and his friends are going to use one of the TVs to view an important football match, and that it’s okay because he’s the chairman of the parent council. I’m not impressed, but I call the principal anyway.

The principal is more furious about people bringing beer into the school than that they want to use the TVs to watch a game. I get the order: “Kick them out. Call the police if that is what it takes.”

So, that’s what I do. I tell them that their party is cancelled and that they have to leave or I’ll have to call the police. Of course, I get the, “Do you know who I am?” and, “I’ll have you fired,” spiel.

I tell them, “No, I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care, so get out or I’ll call the police.” The men show some wisdom and leave the school.

It turned out that they emailed a letter of complaint to the principal demanding that I be fired and threatening to stop their donations to the school. The principal replied that I’m not going to be fired and that bringing beer into the school just wasn’t acceptable, not even if you’re the chairman of the parent council

He “accidentally” sent his answer to all members of the parent council. The chairman resigned and donations to the school increased. Turned out that a lot of parents really hated the now ex-chairman for being a condescending t***.

It was nearing the end of the month, and as usual, I had put off getting my car’s yearly state inspection until the last week. The only time that I didn’t work when my preferred shop was open was a Friday afternoon, two days prior to the end of the month. I had conveniently made an appointment earlier that week on their online portal requesting a state inspection and oil change for Friday afternoon explaining that if I wasn’t able to, could they please let me know so I could make arrangements elsewhere. They responded saying it was fine and confirmed my appointment.

The day of, I drove to the shop, checked in, and handed over my keys and registration. I sat at one of their tables somewhat close to the desk, so I was still able to hear almost everything they were saying. I had brought my homework and was studying when I heard them tell a young man who came in that the state inspector wasn’t in for the day because he had to go to the hospital. I began to slightly panic and started looking up other shops in the area, but none were open on the weekends.

I went back to my work and heard them turn away another customer for a sticker, and another, and another, and another… Oh, no. I understand not having someone available when things happen unexpectedly, but why hadn’t anyone told me when I checked in?

When it was quiet, the woman who had checked me in asked if I had heard what she was saying. I nodded, and she told me that the inspector was indeed in and fine, but it was so busy due to another mechanic breaking his hand and going to the hospital that she had to turn away anyone looking for a sticker who didn’t have an appointment. I was relieved, and for the next couple walk-ins that were turned away, I had a slight smile of relief on my face.

For whatever reason, our corporate office sent us a life-size statue of a sheep. Our business is assisted living; we have nothing whatsoever to do with sheep or sheep products. Our local mascots are not sheep. There is really no local sheep industry in the area. So, basically, it’s just a random sheep. They never told us why they sent it.

I should mention at this point that although it is life-size, it doesn’t look real at all. It’s entirely a lovely cream color, but has no eye color, hoof color, etc. It’s the one solid color. And yet, I have had no less than four people say something along the lines of, “Oh! I thought it was real!” in complete, honest-to-God seriousness.

So, we moved it outside and put a scarf on it in the colors of the local university, just for fun. I kind of forgot it was there until not a week after it was out there and a lady came in and went, “There’s a sheep in your yard!” She honestly thought we had a live-a** sheep just hanging out in our yard with no fence, right next to a busy road, in the middle of the d*** city.

You’d think this would be the end of the story, but it’s not. Just yesterday, we got another huge box delivered. Guess what was in the box?

Yep, another sheep. I have no idea what the f*** is happening.

One summer I fell over quite badly, resulting in a severely sprained ankle. For about two months I was on crutches, with my lower left leg encased in a solid, bulky, black boot for support and protection. I had physio appointments at the city centre hospital, after which I usually went to the food court in the shopping centre on my way home.

This shopping centre has two main levels with stairs, escalators, and lifts between them both. The food court is on the first floor, overlooking an entertainment and display area on the ground floor. I couldn’t handle stairs at that time, for obvious reasons, and I was wary of trying to go up the escalators on crutches, as well. This meant I had to use the lifts, an experience I usually try to avoid.

One time, I went to the lift nearest the entrance where I came into the shopping centre. I was tired and wanted to sit down, and I knew there were seats near the lift upstairs. There were about half a dozen parents with pushchairs waiting to use a lift that can carry four at a time, so I knew I’d have to wait. The first group went up, and while waiting for it to come back down another pair of pushchair-wielding mothers joined us.

When the lift opened again, these new arrivals physically pushed me out of the way in order to get in the lift first. “Mothers before cripples,” one announced, with the other rebutting, “She’s probably faking it, anyway.” The lift was gone before I could get back up off the floor.

On another post-physio visit, I decided to use the lift nearer the food court. Like the other lift, it can hold four pushchairs with accompanying adults. There was only one pushchair waiting when I limped over. The lift arrived, disgorged its occupants, and the man with the pushchair got in and immediately turned the pushchair sideways across the entrance. He was completely blocking it, preventing me from getting in the lift myself. He didn’t explain himself or say anything; he just blocked me from getting into the lift so he could have it to himself.

After those two incidents, I started coming into the centre via the street entrance of one of the shops, and using their lifts to get up to the first floor instead of hoping that the centre lifts would be usable first time.