(I’m a telemarketer and whenever I have a bad day I call this one number who always makes my day. The lady on the other end always seemed to get a kick out of getting telemarketers like me. Here are just some of my favorites:)

First Time:

Me: “Hello, is this [First name, Last Name]?”

Lady: “No, it’s the f****** Easter bunny and I’m on vacation. Go bother Santa.” *click*

Random Time:

Lady: “Hello, this is Warehouse of F***s. I’m sorry to say we have none to give right now. I would say try back later but our f***s just run out so darn fast, we almost never have any. Have a nice day! Bye!” *click*

Random Time:

Lady: “Hello, you have reached Mistress Iron Maiden, I can’t come to the phone right now, but feel free to give me your name, number, and how you want me to emasculate you at the beep and I’ll get right back to you. Beep!” *click*

Favorite of all Time:

Lady: “Hello, this is the Fairy Tail Bakery. I’m sorry we can’t come to the phone right now. We are either on the other line taking another order, closed, or the raccoons have burrowed through our walls again and we’ve all run for our lives because those raccoons are twice the size of a very large fat cat.” *click*

Me: “Oh, I need more than that.” *calls back*

Lady: “IT WAS THE RACCOONS!” *screams in terror, the phone sounds like it’s been dropped and then sounds of some sort of animal screeching in the distance* “COME AT ME, MOTHER-F*****S! THESE ARE MY CUPCAKES!” *click*

(I’m at a relative’s 60th birthday party and they are playing 60s-80s music. The Monkees’ “I’m a Believer” comes on, and a little girl near me gets really excited.)

Little Girl: “I know that song!”

(My husband and I look at each other, thinking this girl knows one of the “classics”.)

Little Girl: “It’s from Shrek!”

(It is a hot day. I am picking up two vanilla milkshakes and nothing else in the drive-thru. I get to the pick up window.)

Worker: *hands me the milkshakes* “Would you like ketchup with that?”

Me: *pause* “What?”

Worker: “Would you like ketchup with that?”

Me: “I don’t think that would taste very good.”

Worker: *realizing her mistake* “Oh… um….”

Me: “You automatically ask that with any order don’t you?”

Worker: “Yes…”

(A mother comes into our blood-draw station with her non-verbal, autistic adult son. He is at least 350 pounds, and probably about 6′. I am 5’1” and about 120 pounds, mostly lower body and core muscle as I’m a competitive Irish dancer. The mother proceeds to explain to me his special needs and his abilities and limitations.)

Me: “Okay. Is he likely to try and hit me?” *the mother gives me an odd look* “I’ll still draw him if he is, it’s just easier for me to block if I’m expecting it.”

Mother: *incredulous* “You’re going to block him hitting you?!”

Me: *looking at her son* “Yes. If he tries to hit me, I will block the hit.”

Mother: “You can’t hurt my son.”

Me: “Don’t worry. I’m trained to block physical attacks without harming the attacker; it’s a training that many healthcare workers have.”

Mother: “I don’t want you to block it.”

Me: “Let me get this straight. Look at me. Look at him. I am a 5’1” woman. You want me to just let him hit me?”

Mother: “Yes.”

(Luckily, he didn’t try to hit me.)

(I work as a tutor for local college students. I have one student whose mother is way too involved in his schoolwork. She claims she wants to learn the material herself so she can drill him on it at home, but she does a really bad job of hiding the fact that she’s actually doing a lot of it for him.)

Mother: “Today, I want to go over these practice problems that I couldn’t understand when I was trying to help him study, and then we have an assignment to work on.”

(We go over the practice problems. By “we,” I mean the mother and I — the son is eating lunch.)

Mother: “I think we’re ready to start working on the assignment. [Son], is there anything you want to go over with [My Name] first?”

Son: *silence*

Mother: “All right, let’s pull it up. [My Name], don’t help us at first; we want to try it on our own.”

(I work on other things while they do the assignment, but I still hear a lot of their conversation, and while the son knows several of the multiple-choice answers, the mother does all the math.)

Mother: “Okay, [My Name]. Do you want to take a look at this?”

Me: “Looks like most of these are right, but you should take another look at these two. Can you show me how you got those answers?”

(We go over the two questions, and with some prompting, the mother realizes where she went wrong and corrects her answers. After they’ve turned in the assignment…)

Mother: “Lord, forgive me for cheating. At least I tried to do it all myself.”

(So, doing her son’s work for him wouldn’t be cheating, if only they hadn’t asked me to look over it before turning it in?)