(My roommate and I, both young adults, used to be best friends, but we’ve been getting on each other’s nerves more and more lately, so we’ve decided to part ways when our lease is up in about four months. About a year ago, we each bought a beautiful and rather expensive meditation pillow made of recycled sari silk, mine in red, hers in blue. Six months ago, we took in her sister’s cat, when her sister was unable to take care of him anymore. The cat has a bad habit of clawing and puking on everything, so I moved my pillow into my bedroom and kept the door shut. My roommate left hers on the couch, and didn’t seem to mind when the cat moved onto it, and started, predictably, clawing it and barfing. It’s worth noting that I’m a professional seamstress, and I specialize in restoring vintage pieces.)

Me: “Huh, the cat really likes that pillow.”

Roommate: “Yeah, the goofball!”

Me: “He’s thrown up on it at least three times, though, and I mean, we’ve cleaned it up, but it can’t be good for the silk.”

Roommate: “Eh, it’s just stuff, and it makes him happy.”

(We both go back to our books for a few minutes until she asks, out of the blue:)

Roommate: “The pillow is one of the things we bought together, right?”

Me: “Huh? No! I got the red one, and you got the blue one. Remember? I moved mine into my room to keep the cat off it.”

(She immediately went pale, shooed the cat off the pillow, and moved it into her room. So, it was fine that the cat was shredding it when she could count on me to restore it, but as soon as she knew it was her responsibility, he had to go? I wasn’t sad to see her — and the cat — leave when the lease was up.)

(I’m a cashier, ringing up a woman’s groceries. Her young son comes up and puts some broccoli on the belt for me to scan.)

Mom: “How many times do I have to tell you that broccoli is bad for you?! Put it back!”

(I’m in AP chemistry.)

Teacher: “[My Name], can you go to [Other Teacher]’s class? I think she left her purse here.”

(I head to her room. When I walk in, she’s gone, but the other class has managed to get a Bunsen burner, plug it in, and turn the gas on. They are standing about ten feet away, while one guy is holding a sparkler you use to ignite the gas. At this point, I drop the purse, turn around, and SPRINT out of the classroom. I almost accidentally knock over the elderly academic chemistry teacher.)

Me: “Oh, my God, GET TO THE CLASS! THEY’RE ABOUT TO RECREATE THE HINDENBURG!”

(She tells me to calm down and makes it back to the classroom, but not before we hear a “whoosh” and a few screams. Apparently, the idiot who started it decided to walk near it and light it directly where you’re supposed to, but it had been pumping gas for so long it blew up all over the place, giving the idiot pretty bad burns. I see the teacher a few days later.)

Other Teacher: “Just so you know, the Hindenburg was hydrogen.”

(I work in a bank. A guy I’ve never seen before walks up to my window.)

Customer: “Yeah, can I exchange this $20 for a better-looking one?”

(He hands me an obviously fake $20.)

Me: “Uh, sir, this is counterfeit, and I can’t exchange it. In fact, I can’t even give this back to you.”

Customer: “I got it from my buddy, and he said it went through the wash!”

Me: “I’ve put several 20s through the wash by accident, and none of them have come out looking like this. I’m sorry, but we cannot exchange this.”

Customer: “IT WENT THROUGH THE WASH!”

(He reaches over my window, grabs the $20, rips it into tiny pieces, walks into the lobby, throws them all over the waiting area, and stomps out the door. The branch manager walks out of her office while he’s doing this, then heads up to my window.)

Branch Manager: “What was that?!”

Me: “Counterfeit $20. Happy Monday to us!”

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All the employees wear earpiece walkie-talkies, keeping us in contact at all times. Chatter on the main channel is kept to a minimum, as it’s the default channel everyone is required to use unless requested on another channel.

Our regional manager comes for a week-long visit. Normally, he doesn’t participate in store operations, so it’s the first time he uses one of the walkie-talkies. For some reason, he switches it from push-to-talk to always-on. This means we can hear everything on his end, plus it drowns out everyone else from being able to use the channel. I head off to try to find him to fix the issue.

Before I locate him, he heads into the managers’ bathroom, and chooses to ignore my polite knocks on the door. For the next 20 minutes, all two dozen staff members are treated to a disgusting chorus of a series of grunts, shuffles, curses, farts, and plops, followed by a loud flush.

When he comes out, he angrily looks into my office to ask me what was so d*** important that I tried to interrupt him. I explain the walkie-talkie to him, hearing the echo of my voice in my earpiece, then show him how to properly set it.

None of the employees can keep a straight face when they see him the rest of the day.