(I live in Australia. I work at a petrol station and as it is around Christmas time, our work has bags of cookies we can give away free to customers. A customer has just finished paying for her fuel.)

Me: “Would you like a complimentary cookie today?”

Customer: “Oh, no! I can’t possibly have that; it’s summer season! I have to watch my figure!”

(Having heard this from a lot of people that day, I let it go and wish her a good day. She then turns back around.)

Customer: “Oh, I almost forgot! Could I get a pack of [cigarettes]?”

(At home, my significant other is playing a medieval-style video game. I’ve just gotten out of the shower and am walking back to our bedroom to finish getting dressed when he updates me on what’s happening in his game.)

Significant Other: “Hey, baby, I just f***** the princess!”

Me: *laughing* “That’s awesome, hun. Want to do it again?”

Significant Other: “Nah, I don’t think I can get back to that part of the game again, because it’s story-based.”

Me: “Uh… Babe…”

Significant Other: “What?”

Me: *raises eyebrow, looks down at towel covering me, looks back at oblivious fool*

Significant Other: “Oh. Well, then…” *races me to the bedroom*

(I am a student teacher. Today, my class is on a trip to a fire station. The RCMP — Royal Canadian Mounted Police — officer is talking about bike safety, and starts answering questions from the students.)

Student: “Were you alive in the 1920s?”

RCMP: “I’m not sure how to take that. No, it was a bit later.”

(The RCMP officer gets back to his presentation. The following remarks happen in the next five minutes.)

RCMP: “Well, back when I started policing, in the 1920s, we used horses and tractors.”

RCMP: “During the Crimean war, which I fought in during the late 1800s, we used our swords to catch bad guys. Then we would ride to the police station on our horses.”

(A coworker comes to the back of the store. She looks angry.)

Me: “[Coworker], what’s wrong?”

Coworker: “Stupid, rude customer just reported me to [Store Manager] and says she is going to report me to head office for being racist.”

Me: “What did you do?”

Coworker: “Nothing. I was serving a customer at the counter when I heard someone calling out from [Department]. They wanted someone to come and help them find something. I called out that I would be with them in moment when I finished serving. When I went over there, they demanded to see [Store Manager] and accused me of being racist because I didn’t come straight away.”

Me: “Could you see them from the counter?”

Coworker: “No, they were at [section].”

Me: “With two aisles of stock separating you? There’s no way you could have seen them; don’t worry about it.”

(She calms down and heads back to her station. [Store Manager] comes back, looking flustered.)

Store Manager: “That b****! First, she accused [Coworker] of being racist. I pointed out that where she was, there was no way that she could have even seen her. I was with a customer and saw the whole thing. She said that because she is Iraqi, she was ignored.”

Me: “But [Coworker] is Iraqi.”

Store Manager: “I pointed that out; now I am being reported for being racist, as well.”

There’s a stereotype that the more academically intelligent or successful you are, the less likely that you have “common sense” intelligence. This was never truer than in my chemistry exam eight years ago. Despite being part of the “nerdy” group in my class, I wasn’t feeling confident with chemistry at all. In my anxiety, the weekend before the exam I managed to complete every single past exam that I could get my hands on, dating all the way back to the mid-90s. My head was whirling with about 15 years’ worth of formulas and equations, and I finally felt ready for the exam. All that practice did pay off, as I found most of the exam fairly straightforward, right up until the last question.

It was a long question divided into multiple parts, and it started off okay, asking me standard questions like writing out the correct formula, identifying the product of the reaction, naming the molecule in question, describing its structure, and so on. Everything was fine… until the very last question completely threw me off.

The question was, “Why wouldn’t you place this molecule atop a Bunsen burner?”

I stared at the question for several minutes, completely stumped. There hadn’t been any questions on the dozens of practice exams I’d completed that were in any way reminiscent of this one. It was only worth one point, but I couldn’t think of what to write. I ended up writing something ridiculous, like, “Because Bunsen burners are hot,” or something equally stupid.

After the exam, my nerdy group of friends gathered together outside the classroom and we all pondered over that last question. None of us had figured it out; we had all been equally baffled. Then, finally, one of my friends slapped her forehead in frustration.

“Oh, my God, you guys! It was alcohol!“