(I work at a petting zoo which has emus. Emus are big and scary-looking, but ours are friendly and enjoy treats. However, they’re occasionally over-eager, and if you hold food on your flat hand, they might accidentally get your skin with a peck. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s uncomfortable. For that reason, I give kids lettuce to give to them, instead of their usual pellet treats, since you don’t have to use your flat hand.)

Boy: “We’re out of lettuce. Can I feed them those?” *points at buckets of pellets nearby*

Me: “Are you sure? We just need to make sure your mum is okay with it. Sometimes they do peck a bit harder than they mean to, so it can pinch.”

(The kid is very eager, and the mum gives us the go-ahead, so I help the kid hold out his treats. Shortly, this happens.)

Boy: “He pinched my hand!” *starts to cry*

Boy’s Mother: “Wow, isn’t that cool?! You got a kiss from the emu!” *to me* “Can I have a treat? I want an emu kiss, too.”

Boy: *suddenly stops being upset* “Wow! I got an emu kiss! Can I feed them again?”

(Great parenting, and unlike with most parents, I didn’t get blamed for the emu pinch that I warned them about!)

(I work in a drive-thru at a fast food store.)

Customer: “I would like a bacon egg burger.”

Me: “Was that a bacon and egg muffin?”

Customer: “Yes, but add tomato and ketchup.”

Me: “Okay, that’s $4.95. Please drive forward.”

(The customer pays, gets his muffin, and then drives away. He comes back through the drive-thru about five minutes later.)

Customer: “Excuse me. I ordered a f****** bacon egg burger, and you gave me this s***.”

Me: “I’m sorry. You ordered a bacon egg muffin with tomato and ketchup. What’s wrong with it?”

Customer: “I just wanted a burger.”

Me: “So, a hamburger with bacon, egg, and tomato?”

Customer: “Yes, just give me my f****** burger.”

Me: “Okay, I’ll get that out to you.”

(He gets his burger and drives away, but he’s soon back in my drive-thru.)

Customer: “How f****** hard is it to make me a f****** burger?”

(I’m tired of his ranting.)

Me: “So, exactly what do you want?”

Customer: “A f****** bacon egg burger.”

Me: “Yes, but what exactly on the burger and what bun?”

Customer: “A normal bun with bacon, egg, burger, tomato, and ketchup.”

Me: “Right, I’ll get that to you.”

(I then go make a quarter-pound burger with no cheese added, bacon, egg, and tomato, with ketchup, worth double his original payment.)

Me: “There you are; just so you know, next time you order just say that you want a quarter po—”

Customer: “I don’t give a f*** what I say; you should know what I want!” *drives away*

(I have gone to my general practitioner to get a referral to a specialist for endometriosis. My regular GP is a middle-aged, Singaporean man, but I don’t mind having male doctors for female issues.)

Me: “I’m seeing [Specialist] for endometriosis, and I need a referral.”

GP: “You realise that you’ll have to have surgery to know for sure?”

Me: “Yes, I have a family history.”

GP: “Okay, I just have to make sure that you have a reason to go. Do you have painful periods?”

Me: “Yes, definitely.”

GP: “So, it hurts in your abdomen region? Is it cramping, or other pain?”

Me: “Actually, my knees hurt.”

GP: “Come again?”

Me: “I get pain from my knees up during my period. But it’s worst in my knees.”

GP: “Really?” *chuckles* “All right, just give me a minute to write that referral.”

(I honestly hadn’t realised how weird it was, before that. I did end up having endometriosis — it turned out the knee pain was nerve damage from that.)

(It’s Ramadan — the Muslim holy month which is observed by strict fasting — and while I’m not Muslim, I teach in an area with a lot of first- and second-generation immigrants. I get a wide variety of races and religions through my classroom. My class is completing a “music reading for beginners” worksheet, where they write the letter names of notes on a line underneath the note and these letters form words which fill in the blanks of a story. We are about ten minutes into the worksheet when I hear a chorus of groaning and protesting from four boys sitting along one side of the classroom.)

Me: “Hey, what’s wrong over there? Why the groans?”

Boys: “This worksheet is all about food!”

(The story on the worksheet is indeed about a girl going out to a cafe with her dad and eating lunch.)

Me: “Yeah, it’s got food in it. Why?”

Boys: “WE’RE FASTING.”

Me: “You’re… Oh, yeah! It’s Ramadan, isn’t it?”

Boys: “We’re sooooooo hungry… This is torture! You’re torturing us, Miss!”

(They make a huge show of fainting from their chairs, and one of them starts chewing on a scrunched up ball of aluminium foil he found in his bag.)

Me: “Haha, okay, boys. If that page is too torturous, how about you turn to page two and do those questions? They have nothing to do with food.”

Boy #1: “Aww, dude, there’s more than one page!”

Boy #2: “What? Oh, fine, we’ll just finish the page we were working on.”

(If you’re going to use Ramadan to get out of school work, at least do it in sports class where fainting is a legitimate issue!)

(I’m on the train on the way to meet up with some friends. It’s around the time that Twilight is really popular. As I stand to get ready to get off, there’s a teenage girl glaring at me because of the shirt I’m wearing. As I move closer to the door she comes up to me.)

Girl: “Why would you wear that? It isn’t funny.”

Me: “Yeah, it is.”

(She turns to a teen boy she’s with.)

Girl: “[Boy], tell her that it’s a terrible shirt.”

(He looks at my shirt, starts laughing, and gives me a fist bump.)

Boy: “That’s the best s*** I’ve seen in a long time.”

(The girl walked off in a huff. I got off the train and went about my day with my friends, two of whom had the same shirt. What did my shirt say? “Then Buffy staked Edward. The End.”)