(My sister and I have just done some grocery shopping and on our way out, we walk past the service counter where tobacco, lottery tickets, and some types of medicine are sold. It turns out that a friend of my sister is working there that afternoon and, as she has no customers, my sister stops to chat for a bit. After a while, a customer walks up and we step aside. As we walk away, I take a look at the customer and think, “He does not look over 18,” but I also don’t think too much of it because not all the products sold at that counter require you to be over 18. However:)

Customer: “Can I get a pack of [Cigarette Brand]?”

Sister’s Friend: “Sure, can I see your ID?”

Customer: “Yeah, here it is.”

(He hands her what looks like a legit ID from where we are standing, but she takes quite a while to look at it. She finally looks up, a bit flustered.)

Sister’s Friend: “This isn’t you.”

Customer: “What? No, that’s me!”

Sister’s Friend: “That’s not true.”

Customer: “It is!”

Sister’s Friend: “Umm, no, it isn’t. I actually know this guy; he’s not you.”

(He turned very red and quickly walked away.)

(I work evenings, especially Saturdays. 99% of the employees are 16 to 25 and the atmosphere is pretty relaxed. If your shift is long enough, employees are allowed to take dinner from the store up to about €8 worth. Many coworkers opt to get a pizza and bake those in our ovens. This is completely fine as long as we still have room to bake bread if we have to and so long as they clean up. It’s the cleaning up bit that quite a few have trouble with. They take their pizzas from the oven and drop the hot baking plates wherever on our tabletop. Quite often this is on top of plastic bags that melt and stick to the plate. It’s a waste of bags and product, and a horrible smell, if we don’t notice and use the plate to bake again. Also, we bakers have a system of putting hot plates in kind of half-enclosed trolleys to the side so anything laying on the tabletops should be warm at worst. One evening, I AGAIN remind a coworker as she is putting in her pizza to properly clean up her hot plate. As she comes back from the lunchroom, we have the following exchange:)

Me: “[Coworker], could you come over here, please?”

Coworker: “Sure, what’s up?”

Me: “Could you put your hand in the oven, please?”

Coworker: “What?”

Me: “Just for a second or two, place your hand in the oven; just lay it in there.”

Coworker: “Are you mad? No way!”

Me: “Then how about putting away your hot plates?”

(The penny dropped, and after that, she always put them in the right place. Word must have spread, as well, as the number of hot plates on the tabletops dropped significantly.)

(About ten years ago, I worked on an island off the Dutch coast in a nursing home. This happened on one of my night shifts. Note, at that time there were no helicopters allowed to fly at night. It’s just after 12 when I get a call from a resident. I can’t hear her, so I run as fast as I can to her to see if she needs help. The moment I step through the bathroom door, I can see she’s broken her hip. As she’s quite a big woman, my coworker and I can’t get her off the ground, so we call the local GP, who sends the ambulance to help us out. I ask him what medication she should be given, as she’s already in a lot of pain. The GP replies that I can give her paracetamol and call him if it’s not enough. Ten minutes later, the ambulance is onsite and they lift the resident into her bed. I give her 1000 mg paracetamol and cross everything in hopes it’ll at least do something. Forty-five minutes later, it’s clear it didn’t do anything — not surprising, really — and I call the GP again. He tells me to give her another dose of paracetamol and he says she’ll be transported off the island on the quick ferry around 8:00 am. I tell him that I don’t think paracetamol is going to cut it, but he insists. Another 45 minutes later, I call him again, saying it didn’t help and her condition is worsening due to the immense pain she’s in. I can see her getting a fever, amongst other things. He tells me to give her paracetamol again. By this time, she’s had 3000 mg in just over 90 minutes! It’s not good, but I’m not allowed to give her anything else, nor do I have the right papers to decide on anything else. I’m really frustrated and get the feeling the GP is not listening to anything I say. I go and have a look at the medication cabinet and find an unopened bottle of morphine that was described to a resident that died two weeks ago. I call the GP again and ask him to allow me to give her morphine, instead. He says yes, go ahead. Then, the following conversation takes place.)

Me: “All right, if you’ll send me the prescription by fax I’ll get right on it.”

GP: “Yeah, just give her [dose]; I’ll write the prescription in the morning.”

Me: “No, you know I’m not allowed to do that; it’s morphine. I need that prescription.”

GP: “In the morning!” *hangs up*

(I call right back.)

Me: “[GP’s First Name], I’ll give you exactly five minutes to write and fax that prescription, before I’ll head over to your house, grab you by the hair, and drag you out of bed to write it. Understood? Your time starts now!” *hangs up*

(It’s not nice of me, I know, but I’m really tired and I feel unheard. I walk over to the fax and within three minutes, the prescription has arrived. My coworker — who’s been doing all the work I should have been doing in the meantime — and I give the resident the morphine and within ten minutes I can see it’s finally working and the pain gets a bit less by around three in the morning. I start doing some other work, like writing a report for the hospital and packing a bag for the resident. At around five, I get a phone call.)

GP: “Hi, [My Name], since you haven’t called again I gather the morphine has started working?”

Me: “Yes, it has. She’s doing a bit better; she’s still in pain, but the edge is taken off.”

GP: “Yes, well, you know I said she’d be getting on the quick ferry? I’m having a problem as I need that spot for a woman in labour.”

Me: “So… she’s flying at dawn?”

GP: “Well… no. The helicopter is standing by for a man with heart problems.”

Me: “Right. So, normal ferry it is?!”

GP: “You see, that’s the problem. There’s nobody at the ferry headquarters who can accompany her. I can’t do anything other than hope to get her on the next ferry at noon.”

(That would be over 12 hours after she’s taken the fall and I know she’ll get worse if this takes too long.)

Me: “You know, I’m on the normal ferry this morning. I can accompany her.”

GP: “Really?”

Me: “Yes, if [Ferry Company] allows it, I can do it.”

GP: “I’ll call them and let them know.”

(They did allow me to accompany her; they even reimbursed my ticket and gave me breakfast! In the end, I did report my behaviour to my boss and told her what I’d said to the GP. She laughed it off and told me not to worry, as she thought it was hilarious.)

I am an artist and I post my work online. In the early days, I only added my signature, next to the image. Then, my art got stolen, signature edited out. I posted my signature next to the image and added a digital signature over the bottom. My art got stolen, the digital signature cropped off. I added the digital signature halfway down the image, and it still got cropped off. Tired of all the theft, I created a large watermark. You can still see the image, but if you wish to crop it out, you’d only have like half a face. 

Two days after releasing my work with a huge watermark, I get a message from someone who has been following my work for a while, but always complained I was in it for the money, should do more freebies, and that I should think of the fans more; they are the base of my success!

“I don’t understand why you’d want to ruin your art like this. Please don’t use that ugly watermark any more. Now I can no longer print it out and hang it on my wall. You are losing fans, starting with me!”

I didn’t listen to him and am now bankru– Oh, wait, nothing happened. Still in the business, but the art theft decreased significantly!

(I’m the person in the story “Best… Seizure… Ever”. A few years before that, I accumulate a bit of “bachelors’ disposable income” and decide to treat myself to a new used car. Due to personal interests, I set my sights on a Japanese import sportscar. I find a dealership in the Netherlands that imports this sort of car. I make a trip there to check out their stock, choose one of their cars, and leave a down payment. They take care of the import paperwork and registration, I convince my roommate at the time to drive me there two weeks later to pick up the car. We drive past the border and notice two police cars that are marked “Customs”.)

Roommate: “Do you think they will pull us over on the way back?”

Me: “I’ll have all the import paperwork including the customs payment, so even if they do, we’ll be good.”

(We get to the dealership and I pay the remaining price, sort out the paperwork, and put temporary plates on the car; it takes us maybe 30 minutes. We drive back over the border and, lo and behold, five kilometers behind the border, I see blue lights in my rearview and the customs officers pull us over. After the pleasantries are exchanged:)

Customs Officer #1: “Do you know why we pulled you over?”

Me: “Because you have to make sure I paid customs on an imported car?”

CO #1: “What? No. Get out of the car and open the boot!”

(I do as I’m told, and I notice the officer in the second car is doing the same to my roommate in his car.)

CO #1: “Stand over to the side and don’t do anything stupid!”

Me: “Look, we just bought a car; I have all the paperwork right here.”

CO #1: “Yeah, right, you bought a ‘car’! Stand over there and shut up!”

(By this point, I’m pissed off by his rudeness but can’t do anything about it. I shoot my roommate a look to the tune of “WTF, dude?,” and [CO #1] starts searching the empty boot, just like [CO #2] is doing on my roommate’s car. After five minutes of not finding anything:)

CO #1: “Open the hood!”

(I get in the car and pop the hood release, and then open the hood up. The sound of the release makes [CO #2] look up and make his first focused observation of my car. His face immediately lights up and he comes over to my car.)

CO #2: “Is that a [Japanese import]?”

Me: “Yes, we bought it literally an hour ago.”

CO #1: *grumbles to himself while searching the engine bay*

CO #2: “Oh, that’s cool! [CO #1], be careful with that Turbo; don’t burn yourself!”

CO #1: “The what now? I’m sure they have it somewhere!”

CO #2: “[CO #1], can I talk to you for a second?”

(They walk back to one of their cars. I can see both of them gesturing, with [CO #1]’s face getting redder as they speak. After a while, [CO #2] comes back to us.)

CO #2: “You’re good to go. He thought you guys were smuggling weed because you fit our description of a wanted gang. Can I see that import paperwork for a second?”

(I show him.) 

CO #2: “Yeah, it is all legit.”

(He keeps asking me a few questions about the specs of the car, and it becomes clear he is an enthusiast. As we part ways:)

CO #2: “Please don’t crash it on the way home. Drive safe!”

Me: “Thanks a lot! I won’t!”

(He leaves.)

Roommate: “Wait, if we are a drug trafficking gang, where is my share?”