(I work at the front desk of an assisted living home, checking visitors in and out, among other duties. Two people are just leaving, male and female relatives of some sort, or maybe just friends. The guy is signing out.)

Guy: “There’s my name.” *signs the time he’s leaving*

Woman: “Oh! My name’s just below. You can do me now, too.”

(I looked up with an OMG-did-you-just-say-that face. She looked right at me with an OMG-did-I-just-say-that face, blushing. The woman and I smirked at each other and the husband just went on, oblivious. I had a good laugh after they left.)

(I work in a call center. Outside is a break room where people go to smoke. Sitting across from me is a guy sullenly eating a pizza. His phone starts to chime, and he hits a button to silence it. Again it happens, and then again.)

Coworker: “Hey, buddy! I’m on break! Can you shut off your—”

(He hasn’t finished the sentence when the guy stands up and throws his cell phone hard, past the smoking area, where it crashes hard into the pavement, shattering and splintering into pieces.)

Sullen Guy: “IT’S OFF NOW!” *walks inside without a word*

(My mom does a lot of charity work, and I occasionally get to help her with lighter deliveries of clothing and other goods. One place my mom tries to support is a local shelter aimed at young women and teen girls. I’m about 16 or 17 when this takes place, and since it’s the weekend — with the accompanying chores — I’m not dressed all that fancy.)

Mom: “Hey, [My Name]. You want to help me deliver to [Women’s Shelter] today?”

Me: “Sure, I’m ready if you are!”

Mom: “They’re not expecting me today, but I don’t think they’ll mind as we’ll still be within their usual donation hours.”

(We arrive at the apartment complex with boxes of donated clothing, magazines, etc. Due to the nature of some of the women’s “care,” the location isn’t well-known, and only a few non-volunteers are aware of it. Before we can start unloading, Mom and I get out of the car to explain to the staff on-duty what’s all included. A middle-aged woman, no doubt a coordinator of volunteers, steps outside and nearly shrieks when she sees me.)

Coordinator: “OH!” *gasps and starts to grow frantic, glancing at my oversized sweatshirt and old sneakers* “They didn’t tell me we were getting a new girl in today! Oh, honey, we’ll get a room set up for you right away, but we’ll need a bit of time!”

(The second she catches on, my mom starts laughing too hard to explain. Meanwhile, I’m left standing awkwardly on the driveway, wondering what I can possibly say.)

Mom: “S-she’s my daughter, [Coordinator]!”

Coordinator: “Oh! I’m so sorry!”

(My mom was now nearly on the ground in hysterics, so I calmly introduced myself before helping unload the car. The coordinator apologized again, and I dismissed her concerns while secretly resolving to buy some new sneakers.)

(I am waiting for a friend to fight his parking ticket. I am sitting in the back of a very busy traffic courtroom.)

Bailiff: “NEXT!”

(A guy goes up and hands a ticket over to the bailiff, who announces his name and citation number to the court reporter.)

Judge: “Well, Mr. [Guy], what’s the story here?”

Guy: “I was parking on the South Side in a municipal lot. It was really busy and I was in line for the meter.”

(In this city, there is one “meter” per lot. You enter your plate number and a receipt prints out.)

Guy: “While I was in line, the meter maid gave me a ticket.”

Judge: “This ticket says it was on [date], is that correct?”

Guy: “Yes.”

Judge: *sighs LOUDLY, places his head in his hands, and makes an announcement* “If there is anyone in this courtroom with a ticket from the South Side on [date], please stand up.”

(About fifteen people stand up.)

Judge: “How many of you were in line to pay when you got the ticket?”

(Everyone raises their hands.)

Judge: “Son of a— Bailiff, can you collect up all those tickets, please?”

(There’s a bit of a wait while everyone pulls out their tickets. The bailiff hands them to the traffic court judge and he reads each one. Finally he announces that he doesn’t have time to hear each case. He’s dismissing every ticket; they can all leave. Finally, my friend gets called.)

Judge: “What’s your story?”

Friend: “Well, I was on the North Side on [date two weeks after the last group]. I parked, walked across the lot towards the meter and the meter maid pulled in. She immediately ticketed me. If you look at the time on the ticket and the time on the receipt, she wrote the ticket at exactly the same time as the receipt printed. I was the only one in the lot. She had to know the car in the lot belonged to the guy currently at the meter.”

Judge: *looks at ticket* “This ticket was written by [Meter Maid].”

Friend: “Yes, sir.”

Judge: “Well, today is your lucky day. That story sounds so stupid I wouldn’t normally believe it. But, given what I just witnessed, I’m dismissing yours, as well.”

Friend: “I don’t suppose there’s a way to prevent this from happening again?”

Judge: “I’m going to suggest she get retrained or replaced. I can’t make any promises.”

(Based on a story in the local paper a month later, she was still doing it.)

(Where I work, six of us get the chance to have a “business lunch” on the company’s dime, so we check out a new restaurant nearby. It’s a nice place, a little pricey, but the lunch menu is okay. We all place our orders, and everything seems fine, until the drinks come out and one of us is handed an iced tea.)

Black Coworker: “Um, I ordered the lemonade.”

Waiter: “Oh, sorry about that. Let me fix that right up for you!”

Me: *after the waiter leaves* “Is it bad that the first place my brain went to is, ‘Hey, that guy must have the racist filter on; the one black guy at the table must want the sweet tea!’”

(Everyone at the table starts laughing, including “the black guy,” and we affirm that, no, it WASN’T right but it WAS funny. He gets his lemonade, we place our orders, and eventually the food comes out. Five of us get exactly what we want, including one customized one. Guess what?)

Black Coworker: “Dude, seriously?”

New Server: “What’s wrong?”

Black Coworker: “I ordered the bacon cheeseburger with fries; this is a fried chicken sandwich and mashed potatoes!”

New Server: “Wh… Ah, I’m, so sorry sir, there must have been a mix-up. Let me go get that fixed for you!”

(This time there was no laughing. It also turned out that, no, there wasn’t a swap; that was what the waiter had written down! My coworker had ordered LEMONADE and a CHEESEBURGER, and was given SWEET TEA and FRIED CHICKEN. If everything had been messed up, it wouldn’t have been so obvious, but we definitely made mention of this to the manager before leaving, and my coworker’s portion of the meal was totally comped. At least the food — once it was corrected — was tasty?)