(My stepmum has been unwell for a few months and has been on a number of different antibiotics. Her symptoms aren’t improving, so she goes back to the doctor and my dad goes with her. During the examination, the following takes place.)
Doctor: “I’m going to put you on a stronger antibiotic, but before I do that, I want to make sure you haven’t had reactions to the antibiotic you’re currently on. Have you had any headaches or trouble sleeping?”
Stepmum: “No. I’m tired from the illness, but I have no trouble sleeping.”
Doctor: “Okay, and any stomach issues?”
Stepmum: “No, that’s fine, too.”
Doctor: “Great. Now, this might be a bit sensitive, but have you had any thrush?”
Stepmum: *looks at my dad, confused* “No, but I have a parrot at home!”
Dad: *nearly peeing his pants with laughter* “He’s means a yeast infection, not a bird!”
(I work in an upscale coffee lounge in a five-star hotel.)
Madam: “I’d like a coffee, a weak coffee, please. Tell you what, I’ll have a weak flat white.”
Me: “Madam, our Flat White’s are generally double shot, would you like a latte instead?” *our Latte’s are only single shot*
Madam: “Oh no, Latte’s are a strong coffee, I’ll have a weak Flat white.”
Me: “Of course Madame.”
My Muslim friend doesn’t drink, but she always thought it was funny when other people did and got a bit silly. Once we were having a small get-together and she decided she was going to mix us all cocktails. Even with our instructions telling her how much to put in, she made them strong; she used at least twice, if not three times as much alcohol as I would use.
Years later, she posted something on a social networking site about being a non-drinker and how annoying people were about it. I remembered this party and the cocktails, so I jokingly replied mentioning it. She went nuts at me, saying it never happened — maybe she doesn’t remember it but it happened — that she had never even touched the outside of a bottle of alcohol — a lie — and that I was malicious for posting it.
I realise that maybe I made a mistake posting publicly, as some of her Muslim friends and family might not know that she used to do things like that, and I have apologised for this. But I do not appreciate being called a liar.
(I answer a call from a number I don’t recognise.)
Caller: “I am phoning to talk to you about reviewing your life insurance policy. Is it all right for us to talk?”
Me: “Who are you looking to speak to?”
Caller: “I am phoning from a company—” *doesn’t name the company* “—that reviews your life insurance company’s policy. Is it all right for me to ask you a few questions?”
Me: “I need to know the person you want to speak to; there is more than one person here.”
Caller: “Well, I… I… I…” *hangs up*
(If you want to review my policy, why don’t you know the name of the person whose policy you want to the discuss, or even the name of your company?)
(I’ve ordered some takeout and I answer the entry phone for the delivery driver. I let him in, but the main door doesn’t make a sound to indicate it’s open, so sometimes people don’t realise it’s open even after you tell them. Gathering that this has happened again, I go to the main door to let him in myself. My apartment door is in full view of the main door, so he’s seen me approach him.)
Delivery Driver: *aggressively* “I thought I’d got the wrong flat; you didn’t let me in.”
Me: “Sorry about that. Sometimes the door plays up.”
(We finish the transaction and all seems normal again, but as I’m closing the door, he shouts:)
Delivery Driver: “That’s what you get for living in a s***hole!”
