(I’m a stagehand, on tour with a French play. I’m an Anglophone, but, like most Canadians, I took French in school, and I’m a bit of a Francophile, so I have a basic understanding of the language and can speak a little.)

Me: “I need a pipe. Hey! I can say that in French! Je besoin un pipe!”

Francophone Coworker: *laughing* “No, you don’t want to say that.”

Me: “Did I say that wrong?”

Francophone Coworker: “You just said you need a blow job.”

Me: “I am never speaking French again.”

(I work as an intern/assistant in a public access TV studio. Since the job has a lot of downtime and I enjoy programming, I write programs to automate some of my tasks when there is nothing else to do.)

Me: “Hey, [Boss], check out this new script I wrote.” *runs script that does in 30 seconds something that used to take me more than an hour to do by hand*

Boss: “Can I give you a bit of advice? I know you’ve written four or five little scripts like this, and that’s really awesome. However, I’m 55 and I learned a long time ago never to let my bosses know exactly how long it took to do the work.”

(I’ve learned this lesson well and in my current job I’ve written scripts that save me more than 10 hours a week and my boss still thinks I do most of the work by hand.)

(My daughter has forgotten her purse, and gone back inside to retrieve it.)

Daughter: *to greeter* “I forgot my purse at that table. Did someone find it and turn it in?”

Greeter: *with obvious glee in his voice* “Oh, boy! You f***** up!”

(The waitress from our table smacks him across the back of his head, and starts cursing him out in Spanish, opens the drawer at the check-in desk, pulls out my daughter’s purse and hands it to her, while still cussing out the greeter.)

Daughter: “Thank you…?”

(My family are South African and English is our first language. My uncle does a lot of travelling through the African continent for work, and has loads of entertaining stories about his travels. English is not widely spoken in some parts of Africa, and this story is a perfect example of that. Note that in South Africa, we use the term ‘waiter’ or ‘waitress’, and not ‘server.’)

Uncle: “Good morning. May I have an espresso, please?”

Waiter: “Of course, sir, I’ll be right out with that.”

(About five minutes later, the waiter comes out with a tray containing a normal coffee pot, cup, saucer, teaspoon, jug of milk, etc., all the things you expect to see when you’ve ordered a normal filter coffee.)

Uncle: “Sorry, I think you may not have understood me. This is a filter coffee, but I wanted to actually have an espresso, please. See, here it is on the menu.” *points to item on menu*

Waiter: *blank look*

Uncle: “Okay, so it is coffee as well, but an espresso is strong coffee that you put in a small cup—”  *tries to motion the size with his hands* “—and you have it with a glass of water.”

Waiter: “Oh, yes, sir, now I understand. I’m so sorry about that! Please give me one minute to fix it for you.”

(The waiter then left the table without taking the filter coffee with him. My uncle, perplexed, sat back and waited to see what happened and whether he did understand. To his absolute amusement, the waiter brought back a small cup and a glass of water. He then proceeded to take the coffee pot with the filter coffee and pour it into the small cup. The waiter, very happy with himself, gave him a huge smile and then wandered off. My uncle just drank the filter coffee.)

(I frequent a coffee shop famous for its “double double” order. This happens every time I go to one, anywhere I’ve ever been in one.)

Me: “Can I get a large double double with caramel, please?”

Cashier: *baffled* “What?”

Me: “A large coffee with two creams, two sugars, and a caramel shot, please.”

Cashier: “Okay, so that’s a large double double with caramel.”