(My friend is at a gay bar during Pride Weekend in Canada. While there, a rather douchey American guy tries repeatedly to hit on her. She tells him several times that she isn’t interested but he keeps trying. Eventually, he stumbles over to her, quite drunk, and says loudly:)

Guy: “Hey, have you noticed how many [homophobic slur]s there are in here?!”

(A few people around him give really weird stares.)

Friend: “Er… What do you expect? It’s Pride Weekend.”

Guy: “Pride Weekend? What the f*** is that s***?”

Friend: “Well, it’s a weekend for LGBTQ people to celebrate being themselves.”

Guy: “What’s LBTGQ?”

(A couple of her friends laugh loudly at this.)

Friend’s Friend: “Sweetie, take a look around; you’ll have your answer!”

(Almost immediately the guy’s eyes bulge out of his skull.)

Guy: “WHAT? YOU MEAN I’M GONNA BE STUCK HERE WITH [SLUR]S ALL WEEKEND?! THAT’S F****** SICK! THAT GUY SET ME UP!”

(He bolted outside. My friend later saw him yelling into his phone at someone about how they had “set him up.” My friend and her buddies had a good laugh about it. Can’t imagine that guy made too many friends that weekend.)

(I work at an amusement park. I go on my 40-minute break to the staff cafeteria and see it is almost completely filled. I find an empty spot, and soon enough a cute girl asks if she can share my table.)

Girl: “Hi, can I sit here?”

Me: “Sure.” *she sits down* “Where do you work?”

Girl: “I work in retail, usually at the big store at the front of the park. What about you? I don’t recognize your uniform.”

Me: “I work crowd control.”

Girl: “But… don’t you have to be intimidating to do that?” *looks under table* “I guess you’re tall.”

(My classmate has a new boyfriend whom she already adores. For the purposes of this story, I feel that it’s important to mention that she is a white girl, and this is her first interracial relationship.)

Classmate: “He is such an amazing guy! I can actually see a future with him! I swear, I am going to marry this guy and be the mother of his children!”

Me: “Wow, that’s really neat, and I’m happy for you!”

Classmate: “Yep! You’re looking at the future Mrs. [Ethnic Last Name], here! Oh, but our kids are going to have normal names.”

Me: *mildly shocked* “Wait, what do you mean by ‘normal’ names?”

Classmate: “You know, just normal, traditional names, like John, Sarah, David, Amanda, etc. We’re not giving them [Ethnicity] names.”

(I just couldn’t continue this conversation with her. But I have developed a tremendous amount of respect for her boyfriend, who is still with her to this day, and has shown an equally tremendous amount of patience for her.)

(A coworker and I are looking at the schedule.)

Coworker: “[My Name], your last name is unusual. Where’s it from?”

Me: “Germany, but—”

Coworker: “Oh, so your family were Nazis, huh? Going to lock me up for being gay? You guys suck!”

Me: “I don’t know if my family were Nazis; let me ask my ancestors. Oh, wait! I can’t, because they were killed in camps. What I was trying to say is that my last name is German, but we come from Poland. My family are Ashkenazi Jews. Hmm, Jews, huh? Still think my family were Nazis? You need to watch what you say!”

Coworker: “I am so sorry!” *quickly walks away*

(I didn’t think it warranted being reported to HR, but I told the supervisor who had a talk with her.)

(It is about 30 years ago, when I am starting out as a food chemist, and I have been invited to give a talk to the FDA in Washington, DC. After the talk, I am shown around one of the labs where they are doing some toxicity testing on aspartame, a synthetic sweetener about 200 times sweeter than sucrose. I have never heard of it, so I ask to take some back to my lab to analyze. They give it to me in a little unmarked plastic bag. After I land in Toronto, I have to go through Canadian customs.)

Customs: “Do you have anything to declare?”

Me: “No.”

Customs: “Any food?”

(I think for half a second, pull the unmarked bag of white, powdery aspartame out of my coat pocket, and say:)

Me: “Yes.”

(I have never seen armed men come that fast. They put me in a back room and a few minutes later a border agent comes in.)

Border Agent: “What are you doing with this much cocaine?”

Me: “What?! No, this is aspartame. It’s a sweetener.”

Border Agent: “Never heard of it. What is aspartame?”

Me: “You know, I don’t really know.”

(I open the bag and dip my finger into it and lick it.)

Me: “Good God! That’s sweet!”

(The border agent also tastes it and agrees it really is a sweetener. But before they let me go, the border agent makes a comment.)

Border Agent: “Makes sense it wasn’t cocaine; I don’t think anyone would be stupid enough to pull out a bag of cocaine when asked if there was anything to declare.”