“You have big hair, Monica.” This has been told to me by several people (I have really thick, curly hair) They later assured me that they meant it as a complement.
“You look like you should be wearing one of them Renaissance type dresses and riding a horse.”
-A year or so ago from an older guy who comes in once a year to do lighting for a panel discussion I help organize. It was completely out of the blue, and this guy had no idea that I love Ren Faires and such, so I was just tickled.
(My mom’s reaction when I related this over the phone: “You stay the hell away from that guy!” 
)
“Your poo smells interesting. Stinky, but interesting.” ~my friend, as she was going into the bathroom and I was leaving
“I’m jealous of the spoon when you eat chocolate pudding.” ~comment on how I eat chocolate pudding and how it looks like I’m doing some naughty licking of the spoon
“You have cute little feet.”
“I can’t believe you never had braces. Your teeth are too straight and perfect.”
“You have great hips for child bearing” - and this was meant as a pick up line.
Thanks, dick.
After reading an erotic horror story of mine, a friend told me it was so arousing he jerked off to it. <blush>
When presenting me with an award for “Social Studies Student of the Year”, my high school history teacher likened me to Teddy Roosevelt, because I “spoke softly and carried a big stick.”
He was a huge Teddy Roosevelt fan, so I know it was a compliment. It was just so terribly odd, though, especially coming from the man who had exhorted me the previous year to “get a personality.”
“You look like a cartoon character.”
I think that’s the coolest thing anyone’s ever told me.
“Would you go out with me? I really like girls with a big ass.”
(Has this line EVER worked before? Geez!!)
On leaving a yoga class around ten years ago: “You’d make a good yoga teacher”.
Eh?
Still haven’t figured that one out.
I had someone tell they liked my fingernails. 
“If you didn’t have your metabolism, you’d be a giant blob.”
I still can’t decide whether my laziness was being insulted or whether my metabolism was being praised.
We must be separated at birth. I hold the world record for pee time, hand washing included. Why spend more time in there than necessary?
My dentist also told me I had the biggest mouth he’d ever seen. In my head, I could hear the wocka-wocka start . . .
I was once told by a friend that I was like a noble gas: very stable.
From a close guy friend (most of my close friends are men): “You’re like a guy–with tits.”
“You could make a lot of money with that voice, like in phone sex.”
I don’t know how weird it is, but it’s the one I’m most proud of:
“Ron, you make me feel like I’ve been drinking all day!” - my friend Don.
(Hope that doesn’t mean I make him puke and black out…)
I received this phone call from my mother a few weeks into my freshman year of college.
Mom: “I, erhm, cleaned out your closet.”
Me: “Uh huh.” (Inside: Uh-oh. That was my ‘horny teen’ storage room.)
Mom: “I found your drawings.”
Me: "Uh huh. (Oh shit. Those would be the dozens of very sexually explicit sketches I created because I found static magazine-based porn boring. Most of them were on regular sketchpad paper, but some were on big poster-sized sheets. I most certainly didn’t want anybody to find them.)
Long, awkward pause. Apparently my mother is waiting for an explanation, and I’m keeping my mouth shut because I’m waiting to hear what she has to say.
Finally (and here’s the strange compliment):
Mom: "…You’re quite good an artist."
(I specifically recall the odd construction of that phrase.)
Me: “Uh-huh.”
Mom: “What should I do with–”
Me: “Just leave them. I’ll take care of it.”
Mom: “Okay.”
Conversation segues elsewhere immediately. On my next visit, I went into my closet, gathered up all my stuff, and got rid of it. Nothing was ever said of it again.
But I think being complimented by my mother on the quality of artistry in my private and very pornographic artworks qualifies as pretty fucking strange.
I was in an 8th grade Social Studies class. Mr. Sturbaum was leading up to a point about how we see people according to their jobs. He had us name various professions, and he wrote them on the board. Doctor, lawyer, teacher, plumber, grocer… When he called on me, I said, “Safe cracker.” He looked at the ceiling. He put his palms on his desk. He ran his left hand up his furrowed brow and up through what was left of his hair. He said, “Nott, you are an iconoclast!” I was embarrassed, not having any idea what he meant. Later, I looked it up, and I was proud. I still am.
When we rated the professions for respectability, lawyer rated just above safe cracker. We knew little about lawyers or safe crackers, but we already knew that lawyers take it tough. I don’t mean that as a klop in the chops to lawyers (easy, counselor! Take deep breaths.) It’s only an observation on how pervasive the perception is about that profession.
From a well-known, crazy homeless person, on a bus:
“You must be a Christian, you’ve got such a nice round head.”
From friends:
“You’d make a good hitman.”
I was helping my sister move, and she said, “If you were a superhero, your talent would be packing and moving.” Odd, but true.
The best - and maybe also strangest - compliment I ever got came from a friend’s ex-boyfriend, about six years after they’d broken up. He’s one of the sexiest guys I’ve ever met. So I was pretty pleased when he thanked me for teaching her how to give a blow job. Maybe that should be my superhero talent.
Well, when I was 13 I frequently (I’m talking about weekly here) used to go into chat rooms, tell people I was 13…
And get replies like,
“No way! You type too fast!”
“No 13 year old talks like that!” (referring to my vocabulary and the way that in chat rooms I like to type phrases correctly rather than lazily)
And even “You remember that? You’re NOT 13!”
Generally I was told that I was really about 33-35 (it was always that age bracket for some reason!)
I could type 61 wpm at last check (a year ago) and do have a pretty good grasps of words (yesterday I found 55 words from a That’s Life! world puzzle and the genius rating was 25+), and my long term memory is quite a lot stronger than my short term memory, but I assure you I’m a relatively normal 16 year old who’s never been 33.
I choose to take it as a compliment.
“You’ve got a nice, big… ‘right here’”.
Said to me whilst consoling a female friend. She was crying and said that while patting the upper left quadrant of my chest.
“Jeee-eeez… is there ANYTHING you can’t do with those hands?!”
Said to me by a woman with whom I would soon have a hot fling after, in one day, learning that I play drums and piano, juggle, can do close up magic, can do one-handed pushups, work wood, throw pottery; and immediately after having seen me dispatch an obnoxious ass in a bar with a knuckle-punch to the solar plexus.