(For the holidays, my mother always makes an apple pie from her grandmother’s recipe. It’s a completely lovely pie, but she’s made the same one every year for Thanksgiving and Christmas since long before I was born. One Christmas, my brother and I decide to get on her case and tease her about it, asking why she never makes any other variation.)

Brother: “You know, you could mix it up a little, and make something different for once.”

Mom: *sassy* “Oh, like what?”

Me: “I don’t know; try a different fruit. How about blueberry?”

Mom: “No one likes blueberry pie!” *meaning she doesn’t like it, therefore no one does*

Me: “Um, [Brother] does…”

Mom: “Oh, please…” *turns to the rest of the family gathered in the living room, not paying attention to our conversation* “Who here likes blueberry pie?”

(Everyone reacted positively, raising hands or shouting, “Me!” or, “I do!’ My elderly, schizophrenic uncle turned around in his chair and started to shakily struggle to stand up, wondrously crying out, “There’s blueberry pie?!” My brother and I cracked up as my mother rushed to stop my uncle from standing. She had to explain to him that there was no pie but apple, and promised to make him one next time. That moment was the most alert my uncle had been in years, and sadly, my mother never followed through on her promise to make him his pie.)

My stepdad currently works for a national pizza chain as a delivery driver. It is no secret that people intent on stealing from pizza delivery drivers will call in fake orders, and when the driver shows up, they take money and sometimes even the car the person is driving.

My stepdad got one those orders one night. He showed up at the house and was held at gunpoint, and thieves took the car and what little cash he had on him.

After two weeks of my mom thinking they would not get their car back, my stepdad called from work and told my mom he was on his way to pick her up. Come to find out the two idiots who stole the car two weeks prior had attempted to sell it.

While they were trying to sell the car, they told the person that they were trying to sell it to that they had stolen it from a pizza delivery driver for the company my stepdad worked for. The guy got the idiots to let him take it for a test drive, and when he was far enough away he found the registration to the car and called all the [Pizza Chains] in the area until he tracked down my stepdad and returned the car to him and my mom.

Let this be a lesson to all criminals: if you are going to try and sell a stolen car — or anything for that matter — do not mention it is stolen and from whom you stole it.

My cousin is 17 and has been home alone for an entire month while her parents are on a trip. Though family often visit, she’s by herself every night.

There have been several reports by a neighbour about someone playing guitar too loud at night. My cousin has heard it, too, but a security guard often comes up the next day to tell her to stop, even though she says it wasn’t her.

One night, when the playing starts, she goes downstairs to the guard so they can see it isn’t her. He, however, refuses to go up and investigate ASAP. The next day, a different guard comes up to my cousin to tell her to stop again!

This time my cousin proudly sticks all ten of her one-and-a-half-inch, brightly-colored, real fingernails in the guard’s face and asks if the guard really thinks she is the one playing.

That finally gets an investigation, and the guard check every apartment nearby and find other neighbours that heard it but never reported it. Apparently, the issue was also with the first neighbour, who reported the sound coming from the wrong direction.

(I work at a deli that also serves hot food during the day. We have a hot case with various pieces of chicken and potatoes to make combo meals from. It’s the very end of the day and we’ve run out of breasts to make the combos with, so it’s by-piece or bust. It should be noted we have a discounted eight-piece meal that’s incredibly popular at the moment, so it’s a quick grab for most. It features two of each piece: breasts, thighs, wings, and legs. A customer walks up about twenty minutes to close, an older gentleman with frazzled hair looking a bit… out of it.)

Customer: *looking over the meals* “I want some chicken.”

Me: “Can do, but fair warning that we’ve run out of breasts, so I can’t make you any combos. Can’t substitute for ’em.”

Customer: *seeming a bit out of it* “That eight-piece chicken.”

Me: “Sorry. No more breasts for the night; can’t do any combos.”

Customer: “That eight-piece chicken.”

Me: “No breasts? Single pieces are all we have.”

Customer: *quietly, with a tinge of annoyance* “I want an eight-piece chicken!”

Me: *sighing internally, trying a different tactic* “I can give you thighs and other pieces, but no breasts—” *gesturing to the case FULL of the other pieces* “—perhaps a few of those?”

(At this point, the customer stares off into space, as if this decision would blow up a sun somewhere in the universe. He pauses for a minute.)

Customer: “Oh. Uh.” *stares* “Chicken?”

Me: “I, um… How about I just grab you a few of each and make you a box?”

Customer: *hazy* “Chicken?”

(I just nodded and made him a box. He ended up requesting five of everything, something close to nearly $25 of chicken. I handed it over, and he happily tottered off to the checkout. Enjoy the chicken, eight-piece dude.)

(I work at a local grocery store as a cashier. We sell frozen breakfast corndogs. They’re delicious; they are pancakes wrapped around breakfast sausages. The ends of the box are taped down. But a customer thinks that the box was tampered with when they see the tape.)

Customer: *stares at breakfast corndog box*

Me: “Is something wrong?”

Customer: “Yes. This box was tampered with.”

Me: “I see. Let me get you a new one.”

(I return from the frozen aisle.)

Me: “I just realised, after looking at all the boxes, that all of those have tape on the ends. I still got you a new box since the other one was dented.”

Customer: “That one was tampered with also; that one is taped, too!”

Me: “Ma’am, the box wasn’t tampered with. All the boxes are taped like that.”

Customer: “No, food boxes can’t be taped! I want you to get me an untaped one right now!”

Me: “You don’t understand. That’s just how that company packaged them.”

(A manager hears this back and forth, and comes to my register.)

Manager: “Is something wrong here?”

Customer: “This box of breakfast corndogs was tampered with, and your employee says that it wasn’t, even though it clearly was!”

(I explain the situation that all of the boxes are taped like that.)

Manager: “I’ll check the ones we have in the back, just to be sure.”

(The manager leaves for the back room, and comes back within two minutes.)

Manager: “[My Name] was right. That’s just how they’re packaged.”

Customer: “But food boxes can’t be taped, and the customer is always right! I expect a discount for all of this!”

Manager: “I’m afraid we can’t do that. If you’re so concerned about them, then you don’t have to buy the corndogs.”

(The customer quietly paid for the rest of her groceries, but then started ranting about how she should have been given a discount since we tried to sell damaged goods to her. She kept it up until she walked out the door.)