(I am part of a club fencing team at my college, and we are usually very laid back about adult language and jokes, but we have gone to a practice that also includes kids as young as eight, so we are all trying to watch our mouths. We are running a drill in which we try to score points in specific places on the opponent’s body. I am fencing with the assistant coach.)

Coach: “Okay, I still need to get my arm shots and leg shot. Already got my body shots.”

(I smirk but manage not to make the obvious joke, mindful of the twelve-year-old three feet away. Later in the same fight, I push him to the end of the strip, but hesitate in going much further because of a wall right behind him, and he scores the touch on me.)

Me: “Yeah, I should have just kept going on that, but I didn’t want to knock you into the bookcase.”

Coach: “Wouldn’t have been the first time I got pushed into a wall.”

(Later, after a lot of the younger fencers have gone, the other college fencers join us in a corner to chat.)

Me: “Man, it is so weird not being able to swear after a point. And I am holding myself back from some of the jokes I want to make.”

Coach: *laughs* Yeah, I realized after I made the wall joke that it might have been a bit much.”

Me: “I think that one might have gone over their heads. But I was talking about the body shots. I had to bite my tongue on that one.”

(He laughs, but another fencer looks confused.)

Fencer #1: “Body shots? Yeah, he hit you in the chest; that was a body shot.”

Me: “No, but it sounded like he had body shots.”

Fencer #1: “What?”

Coach: *sighs a little and turns his back to the room of kids to face her* “Yes, but a body shot is also when someone pours a shot of alcohol down someone’s chest and then you lick it off them as it drips down.”

Fencer #1: *still very confused* “But… that’s not what we were doing.”

Coach: “Well, yes, but— Oh, never mind.”

(Last year, we on the maintenance staff had a coworker who got on everyone’s nerves. He would not listen to the supervisors, did things his own way, and sometimes did weird and random things that, when combined with his attitude, made us genuinely concerned about his mental stability. Somehow he managed to last six months because the timing of his shifts rarely crossed over with our boss, so he rarely pissed off the boss personally. One day, he is scheduled for a 6:00-12:30 evening shift, but when 7:00 arrives and he hasn’t shown up, Supervisor #1 marks him as a no-show. He finally shows up around 9:00.)

Coworker: “Hey, I can’t stay and work the whole night. I have to leave at 11:30.”

(This is not the first time he has taken it upon himself to decide whether or not he should work when he’s scheduled.)

Supervisor #1: “I don’t think so. You’re already late; I marked you as a no-show an hour after you were supposed to start.”

Coworker: “You can’t mark me as a no-show! I’m here! I showed up!”

(He starts working while Supervisor #1 calls Boss.)

Supervisor #1: “[Boss] wants to see you in his office tomorrow morning.”

Coworker: “Oh, tomorrow doesn’t work for me. Tell him it has to wait until Tuesday.”

(It is Tuesday. He’s saying he’s not going to show up in the office until next week even though he’ll be working other shifts in between. Come Tuesday, it has been agreed that Coworker will meet with the boss at 5:00 pm, shortly before Boss has to go to his other job. I arrive around 5:30 so I can eat before my own 6:00-12:30 shift. Around 5:45, Boss enters in a bad mood and punches out.)

Boss: *to [Supervisor #2], who is in the break room with me* “When [Coworker] gets here, tell him he’s fired.”

(I do an internal happy dance, and around 7:00, I overhear this:)

Coworker: *to Supervisor #2* “He can’t do this! I couldn’t come in at five! I had to eat first! I’m going to the labour board!”

(I have no idea if he actually went through with it, but I never heard from him again. There’s no way the labour board would take the side of someone who couldn’t be bothered to go to work on time and STOOD UP HIS BOSS instead of just having supper later.)

(I’m chatting with someone at a sports club, who also is one of my classmates at school. With us is a younger girl. We’re discussing the merits of turning sixteen.)

Me: “Well, I’ll be able to get married with my parent’s consent.”

Younger Girl: “Why? Do you have a boyfriend?”

Me: “No, but—”

Classmate: “Yeah, she’s still in her ‘hates boys’ phase.”

Me: “Not really; it’s more of a permanent phase—”

Classmate: “She’s been in it since, like, year seven!”

Me: *looking her in the eye* “Actually, it’s more of a condition—”

Classmate: *goes on about how funny it is that I ‘hate’ boys*

Me: “…You really don’t get what I’m telling you, do you?”

(I overhear two customers, and mistake them as part of the same conversation.)

Customer #1: “What’s intersex?”

Customer #2: “It’s when you take money out of an ATM!”

(I am 11 years old and whilst my mother plays netball, I score games at the sports centre for a few dollars a game. I sit on a row of chairs on the sideline, and often players or their family members sit beside me. The 50+ year-old mother of one player often sits right next to me to make sure I’m scoring correctly as her daughter plays. She is not particularly nice, and to top it off has dreadful halitosis. I complain to my mother about this.)

Me: “… and her breath is terrible.”

Mum: “Well, honey, when a woman reaches a certain age, her insides start to rot. When this happens you can smell it on her breath.”

Me: “Oh, okay…”

(I didn’t realise until years later this wasn’t the case and was just my mother’s way of being funny.)