My band took a gig playing for a dedicated fan in rural Missouri. It was her birthday party, and her big wish was to have the group perform. She was so persuasive and so incredibly kind, we couldn't resist. We drove the hour to her homestead-era house, and set up our gear.
The first issue was the power. There was one (yes, one) electrical outlet in the entire house, which meant we had to run a power cable over 300 feet to the stage we'd created in a cow pasture.
The second issue were the flies. The family, grateful that we'd be willing to come play, had set a buffet outside, and there were layers of black flies sprinkled across the potato salads and lunchmeat. Our bassist Paul took one look and puked his guts out behind a barn. The party goers were polite and pleasant, and casually brushed the half dozen or so flies off of their plates before each bite.
We took the stage, and I stepped up to the mic to announce the first song. While I was still about an inch away, I spark of electricity zapped my lips. Both lips went numb, and I lisped out a short welcome before we started playing. When we were tearing down, we discovered the outlet wasn't grounded. They'd plugged us into an outlet with a bare wire, sporting a three-prong to two-prong adapter.
Takeaway: always check your work. Flies pooping on your food doesn't always kill you.