People Share Their Well-Polished And Shiny Revenge Stories

Some people are just dreadful. It’s like no matter how much you try to like them, or at the very least, try to respect them, they continue to find ways to make your life miserable. As the cherry on top, they often simply do not care how their actions are wrecking you. Way to be human, right?

Many of us have had that terrible boss who just never seemed to be happy, always nitpicking every little thing we did, even when we’ve been doing things correctly and with good intentions. Lots of us have had a jerk of a neighbor who refused to respect our simple wishes in order to maintain a peaceful neighborhood (e.g., not being noisy at inappropriate hours). And an unfortunate handful of us has dealt with a dishonest partner who decided to shatter our heart through one of the most harmful acts of betrayal: cheating.

While you may or may not have gotten your revenge, these people did, and they share their beautiful stories with us!

13. Won’t Let Me Improve The Recipe? I’ll Secretly Make Changes

“For the past ten years, I have been working ‘back of house’ in fine dining restaurants.

I love learning, and I love all things about food. Because of this, I’ve had a variety of positions in many establishments, learning a pretty diverse set of skills. I’ve baked bread and been a line dog, pastry chef, sous chef, executive chef, all the things.

So six months ago, I decided I wanted to try something different and begin to enjoy my life. I didn’t want where I worked to define me anymore because I’m a human and I have other things that I enjoy.

So I accepted a position at a small local dairy and began to learn cheesemaking. It’s been great. I have been able to work on my house/garden and spend so much time with my dogs. But admittedly, I do miss the kitchen and so I agreed two months ago to help out a few ex-coworkers who are the respective chef and sous chef at a new restaurant with a pretty cool concept.

In the spirit of trying to maintain my new relaxed life, I agreed to only work two days a week.

Now a week in, my new boss, Le Chef, asks me to please make some ice cream, following his recipe. He’d made a small batch already and gave me a bite to try. He said: ‘It’s a bit hard, but I think that’s just because of the temp of the freezer.’ I took a bite, and while the flavor was nice, the texture was off. Hard, icy, and chalky. He gave me his recipe and I could immediately spot the problem.

For those who haven’t made a lot of ice cream, there are a few things that make really great ice cream.

Yolks, sugar, fat, air. Yolks are tempered in and help bind the sugar/liquid/fat together. The sugar content helps lower the freezing point of the mix, preventing it from freezing into a solid block. As it’s churning, air is added to the base and the yolks help hold that air in place, making the ice cream lighter.

They also add fat and make for really rich ice cream. Commercial ice creams often skimp on the yolks and use stabilizers to help hold the air inside the ice cream.

This specific recipe had only 4 yolks and 110g of sugar per quart of liquid(milk/cream mix).

A pretty standard recipe would have at least 6 yolks and 250g sugar.
I tried to point this out to Le Chef, also pointing out that his ice cream machine was a two-quart gelato spinner that inherently spins slower and therefore incorporates less air.

I offered to troubleshoot the base and make a few test batches so we could really bring this ice cream home. Le Chef gives me a funny look, says the recipe is fine, and instructs me to make a large batch of it, so I do.

The following week Le Chef asks me to work on a new flavor of ice cream and to just use his base recipe and add flavor until it’s right.

I’m kind of sick of watching the poor girl who has to scoop the ice cream struggle with a rock at this point, and also annoyed that the ice cream I made a week prior is hard, icy, chalky.

So I decided to just ignore him and make a base that I know will be killer. The next day we spin it up, and it is luxurious. Smooth, creamy, all the things. The owner of the restaurant makes a comment about how fantastic it is. I explain to a fellow coworker (sous) what I changed, and I guess he tried to tell Le Chef that I had made some adjustments but Le Chef refuses to believe him.

In the meantime, Le Chef makes more ice cream base, and they continue to come out crappy. A mutual coworker tells me Le Chef is getting upset that he can’t make ice cream as nice as I can, and still refuses to ask me why. I try to explain ice cream science to him the next day, and am met with a wall of knowledge, ‘4 yolks are fine’ and ‘the freezer is too cold.’

At this point, I am frustrated, because I think learning and sharing is key to everyone’s success.

A better product makes for happier customers. I also don’t want to make anything that is crappy and has Le Chef be able to say that I am the responsible party.

So I go full revenge. I begin to use my favorite ice cream recipe which calls for a whopping 12 yolks per quart. I add a splash of appropriate liquor, and sub out some of the sugar for an inverted sugar, all done super low key.

I don’t tell anyone, and the results are ridiculously good.

According to a mutual coworker, it’s been driving Le Chef CRAZY. But until he decides to man up and ask for a mini-lesson on ice cream science, I’m just gonna keep improving his recipes on the down low and enjoy laughing about it to myself on my ride home.” Lakeveloute

12. Refuse To Turn Down The Volume? Time For You To Get Silenced

“Back in the Eighties, I lived in a flat in South-East London.

The flat was located in a small tower block ten stories high with four flats per floor, one per corner as it were. The flat overlooked a local park and afforded very nice views of the area.
The neighbors were generally very amenable but everybody tended to keep to themselves, so no one had any problems with anyone.

That all changed when a new family moved into a flat down on the second floor on the same corner of the building where we lived (we lived on the eighth).

They were not the most gracious of individuals, frequently leaving rubbish bags strewn around their floor’s lobby for days, rather than depositing them in the communal bins, and parking their cars in other residents’ allocated parking spots-in other words, the epitome of the appellation “chav”. Complaints to the local council invariably fell on deaf ears.
They soon developed a reputation for hosting loud drunken parties at the weekends which tended to go past midnight.

This was pretty ******* annoying for us and the other residents, but we were somewhat less affected due to the distance between our respective flats.

One particular Friday evening, however, proved to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

At around 10:00 pm we heard the music start back up, but it now appeared that the hosts had recently purchased a new sound system because the bass was now intolerably loud. I can only surmise that a peculiarity of the building’s design, coupled with what sounded like much larger bass speakers, appeared to magnify the effect in our bedroom to the point where it made it quite impossible to sleep.

At about 11:30 pm, I trotted downstairs and knocked on their door. It was flung open by what I could only assume to have be the male resident, looking somewhat the worse for wear. I politely asked him if he’d mind turning the music down as it was very loud, rattling the furniture in my flat and making it difficult to sleep.

“**** off!”

Charming, I thought.

So I go back upstairs and call the non-emergency police number and explained the situation.

They assured me that someone would be around in due course-being a Friday night, I reckoned it might take an hour or two.

So, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, we sat there waiting for the cops to rock up. Sure enough, about an hour later, I saw a patrol car pull up and a couple of London’s finest enter our building. A few moments later, the music gets turned down and the police leave.
No sooner had the car disappeared up the street than the music went back up to its previous level.

We endure it for another half hour-no change, so once again I call the cops. This time it takes closer to two hours for them to turn up-yep, definitely a busy Friday night.

They finally arrive around 3 am and once again the music is reduced to a sensible level. Unfortunately, shortly after they depart, back up goes the volume to its previous furniture-shaking intensity.

As you might imagine, by now I was royally pi*sed off. ‘Er indoors too (someone not normally prone to displays of anger) was positively foaming at the mouth and looked like she was single-handedly going to re-enact the Battle of Austerlitz in glorious Technicolor, together with full orchestral accompaniment.

It was then that I had a Dazzling Idea: one so fiendishly cunning and yet devilishly simple-a guaranteed cast-iron, 100% pure, 24-carat stonker of an idea so brilliant that I felt certain that within a few minutes, I could stop this once and for all, and execute my plan in such a way as to make it impossible to trace back to me.

Grabbing my toolkit, I crept down the stairwell to the second floor, just to double-check the actual flat number.

Having confirmed the number, I went back up to the fourth floor. In the stairwell just next to the exit door to the fourth-floor lobby was a wooden access door that concealed one of the two electrical distribution panels for the entire building. The door was only secured by dint of a simple square-key fitting, and the application of a large flat-blade screwdriver would pop the latch no problem. Thus I opened the door to reveal the distro itself.

Pulling the cover open I was presented with a large panel containing twenty large 80 amp fuses, one each for the lower set of flats.

Each one was neatly labeled with the flat’s number and it was but a moment to locate the appropriate one.

Now by one of those happy coincidences that usually only occur in the more egregious examples of the Hollywood B-movie, I just happened to have in my toolkit a dead fuse of exactly the same type and capacity.

A few weeks previously I’d had to replace a similar fuse in the theatre where I worked, and I’d tossed the dead fuse in my toolbox where I’d promptly forgotten about it-until now.

Now, with all my ducks in a neat row, I pulled the fuse carrier for the miscreant’s flat out…

Instant.

Blessed. Silence.

I rapidly swapped the live fuse for the dead one and reinserted the carrier. Securing everything back up again, I casually strolled back upstairs to enjoy a few hours in the hallowed arms of Morpheus.

Some weeks later, the troublesome family was moved out of their flat. It transpired that the local council had received so many noise complaints over the previous six months that they were obliged to rehouse them elsewhere.” GhostOfSorabji

11. Be Greedy Preachers To A Dying Church Member? She’ll Put You In Your Place

Be careful who you mess with.

“My grandmother was a member of a large conservative “Bible Believing” church for her entire adult life. This church, which I’ll call BigWhiteChurch, was a member of a large Evangelical denomination.

BigWhiteChurch was located in a prosperous suburb of a large city in the Bible Belt of the Deep South of the USA.

Grandma was very active in BigWhiteChurch. She worked in the nursery every Sunday morning, helped cook hundreds of church fellowship breakfasts and dinners, accompanied her children and grandchildren on dozens of church retreats and choir tours, taught Youth Bible Study on Sunday nights, and was very active in supporting Home Missions, as well as helping with other youth programs.

She always tithed and often gave extra for missions and special offerings.

Grandma’s greatest talent was making other people feel important. I’ve seen this first-hand many times. Although I belonged to a different church, I often visited with Grandma, and when I did, I usually went to BigWhiteChurch functions with her. I’ve seen her single-handedly cook breakfast for dozens of BigWhiteChurch Youth, a task which took over 2 hours, even in the church’s large kitchen. Then, after the meal, she asked the group for a round of applause for the high-school student leader for “doing such a great job of organizing the Prayer Breakfast.”

I remember that on a BigWhiteChurch youth retreat at a rural Church Camp, she drove most of the night to go back to the city and retrieve a big box of evangelistic materials that one of the Assistant Pastors (whom I’ll call A**Pastor) had forgotten and asked her to get in time for our morning program the next day.

His boss, the Senior Pastor (I’ll call him PompousPastor), never found out that A**Pastor had screwed up or that Grandma had fixed it for him. A**Pastor never even thanked Grandma. Even though I was a child, this bothered me so much that I asked her about it. She said that she didn’t mind at all; she told me her reward would be that those materials “would help children find Jesus.”

Grandma’s service to her church ended abruptly at the age of 73 when she broke her back in a car accident.

Afterward, for the last 10 years of her life, she was homebound and could not go to church because of this injury and declining health due to old age. Her mind was just as sharp as ever, and her faith remained sincere, but her body wore out a little more every day.

During those 10 years, she made many efforts to reach out to her church, its leadership, and her church friends, inviting them to visit her at her home, etc., without success.

Every one of these invitations was declined or simply ignored.

Near the end, when she was in home hospice care, she decided to plan her own funeral. She and my grandpa called her church and asked for the Senior Pastor, PompousPastor, whom she had known for over 30 years, to visit her so that they could plan her memorial service, which she and Grandpa wanted to be held at the church.

PompousPastor was too busy, but A**Pastor stopped by a few days later.

According to my grandpa, here’s what happened at that meeting with my Grandma literally on her deathbed:

Grandma, Grandpa, and A**Pastor discussed her funeral for a couple of minutes. Then A**Pastor started pressuring her to “lay up your treasure in Heaven” by “remembering your church in your will.”

Grandpa told him firmly that “this is neither the time nor the place to discuss her will.”

They went back to discussing the funeral for a few minutes. Then A**Pastor steered the conversation back to Grandma’s will with liberal injections of how badly “her” church needed “her support.”

Grandpa told him several times that it was inappropriate to talk to Grandma about her will or the church’s financial needs because she was terminally ill and in an enormous amount of physical pain.

A**Pastor would agree and briefly talk about the funeral but would then go back to talking about the church’s financial needs, heavenly rewards, “where your treasure is, your heart will be also” (Matthew 6:21, Luke 12:34), etc.

My grandma started crying.

To put this into context, Grandma was more than a “steel magnolia;” she was “titanium coated with diamond wrapped in kevlar.” She rarely ever cried and never EVER cried about herself. Not one tear when the doctor told her that her back was broken so badly that she would never walk again, nor during the following 6 months in futile rehab.

She would shed sincere but well-managed tears at funerals and while visiting family members in the hospital when they received bad news. She would cry to console others; “weep with those who weep.” But nobody – not Grandpa, not her daughter (my mom), nor any of my uncles or Grandma’s siblings – ever remembered her crying for herself.

My grandma was sobbing uncontrollably.

Grandpa, a retired steelworker, former Marine Sergeant, and Korean War combat veteran, physically grabbed A**Pastor and “escorted” him out of their house, not too gently.

Contrary to everyone’s expectations, Grandma lived another 6 months, mostly because of sheer force of will. Eventually, though, Grandma passed away, and we held her memorial service at the funeral home, not BigWhiteChurch. PompousPastor and A**Pastor were conspicuously absent. In fact, there were no “Professional Christians” from BigWhiteChurch at the service at all, not even in the audience.

To start the service, Grandpa stood up at the podium in front of the crowd and said, “Some of you may have heard that I dis-invited PompousPastor and A**Pastor from this funeral service.

This service is not an appropriate place for me to give you my reasons for doing this, although you all know me and so you know that my reasons are good ones. Also, my wife asked me to exclude them.”

“This funeral service may be different from other funerals that you have attended. It is going to be an “open microphone” funeral. Everyone who wants to say something is invited to come up here and describe your friendship with my wife, tell a story about her that is worth remembering, or anything else that you want to say that will honor her memory and bring comfort to everyone here today.

I have asked several family members to prepare statements, but you don’t have to have anything prepared. Please, if you want to say something, come up here and do so.”

There were about a hundred people at the funeral service; at least a third of them eventually stepped up to the microphone. The service, which we had planned to last about 30 minutes, lasted for over two hours and, as best I can tell, not one person left early.

There was laughing, crying, and hugging. Three of her grandchildren played some of her favorite songs on the piano and guitar, and we all joined hands and sang her favorite hymns.

Afterward, dozens of people told my grandpa that it was one of the most comforting and uplifting funerals they had ever attended. More than a few remarked that “funerals are better without preachers anyway,” or something similar.

REMEMBERING HER PASTORS AND HER CHURCH IN HER WILL: THE ONE-TWO PUNCH

A couple of weeks later, it was time to start distributing the bequests in Grandma’s will.

Although Grandma and Grandpa dearly loved each other, they had separate wills because she told my Mom, “That makes it easier for us to respect each other’s turf” and because their lawyer had recommended it. Nobody thought that my grandparents were wealthy. They had lived in the same small but charming house in a prosperous, well-maintained suburban neighborhood for the past 50+ years, and had worked hard and lived modestly. But it was rumored that they had a very nice nest egg.

Of course, there is no legal requirement for anyone to attend “the reading of the will” or to even have a “reading.” Modern telecommunications and near-universal literacy have made this quaint custom practically extinct.

But “the reading of the will” was a tradition in our family because it was one of those events that gave our close-knit, extended family an excuse to get together. We never had family reunions; they were too difficult to schedule for our large family.

But we got together at birthdays, holidays, funerals, baptisms, etc. so that if you attended several of these, you would see just about every one of your cousins, aunts, uncles, and even great aunts & uncles who were Grandma’s and Grandpa’s siblings and in-laws.

With this family tradition in mind, many of our family members’ wills often contained very personal bequests of items that had little cash value but were the departed family member’s way of telling their loved ones that they wanted to share a cherished memory with them one last time.

As an added incentive to attend, the family rumor mill had been buzzing with speculation, encouraged by Grandpa, that Grandma’s will contained some “surprises.”

The “reading” was held in a conference room at a lawyer’s office. Unsurprisingly, the attendees included my mom, as well as aunts, uncles, great aunts, great uncles, and many of the grandchildren.

We were all surprised, however, to see PompousPastor and A**Pastor from BigWhiteChurch. They informed us that Grandma’s lawyer had told them that Grandma’s will had bequests not only for BigWhiteChurch but also for them personally.

Maybe it was just our imagination, but my siblings, cousins, and I couldn’t help noticing that these preachers appeared to be actively salivating over their good fortune at Grandma’s generosity.

Grandma had a large family, so a sizeable number of beneficiaries were named in her will. The lawyer’s conference room was a bit smaller than an average middle-class living room. Extra chairs had been brought in, every seat was filled, and people were standing in every remaining space.

There was barely space for all of us. Grandma’s lawyer suggested that PompousPastor and A**Pastor sit in chairs which were in the front of the room next to himself. Since there was a large table in the room, this meant that the lawyer and these two preachers were the only ones who were directly facing everyone else. Although the preachers were gratified to be physically next to the center of attention, they did not notice, as all of the rest of us quickly noticed, that these seats made it easy for everyone else in the room to watch them closely and practically impossible for them to leave the packed-to-more-than-overflowing room before the entire meeting was over because they were farthest from the room’s single door, and there were almost two dozen people standing or sitting between them and their only path to escape.

The bequests were quite generous, but pretty much what we had expected. Grandpa kept their house, its contents, their retirement accounts, and everything that remained after all of the bequests had been satisfied. Children, grandchildren, and several local charities received nice, but not extravagant, amounts of money. Several sentimental items were named and given to various friends and relatives.

Grandpa was the first beneficiary listed in the will. But after him, all of the other bequests were arranged in order of increasing worth.

They started with sentimental items, which had very small cash value. Then each grandchild received several thousand dollars; then each son, daughter, brother, sister, niece, and nephew received a little more; then several local non-profits received very nice amounts, etc.

Bequests to BigWhiteChurch, PompousPastor, and A**Pastor were (almost) the last ones listed in the will. They listened politely to the other bequests but with steadily growing anticipation as they noticed the exponential upward trend in Grandma’s largess.

When Grandma’s lawyer got to the BigWhiteChurch and Preachers’ part of the will, he said, “This is a bit unusual, but before I announce these bequests to BigWhiteChurch, PompousPastor, and A**Pastor, Ms. [Grandma’s name] requested that I read the following statement to everyone present.”

He opened a letter that was written in Grandma’s own handwriting…

“For the past 10 years, NOT ONE person from BigWhiteChurch has ever called me, come to visit me, or sent me a note to tell me that they cared about me.

Not one minister, not one deacon, not one of the church women, not one of the church members who I worked with for all of those years, loved dearly, and thought were my friends. I worked very hard for you when you needed me for many, many years. But when I needed you and your church, you all pretended that I didn’t exist.”

“I only got one visit when I was dying, and I invited PompousPastor to come to my house and help me plan my funeral.”

“This was my last attempt, after many attempts that I had made over the past 10 years, to reach out to my church and pastor, whom I still loved dearly even though they had made it clear that they did not love me.

If only I could have my funeral at my church, maybe some of my church friends, whom I had not seen in a decade, would come to the service to see me one last time. And I know they loved to hear PompousPastor preach, so if he preached at my funeral, maybe they would come to my funeral to hear him, even if they would not have come to see me.

But PompousPastor couldn’t find the time to visit me, or even call me to tell me whether or not he was willing to preach at my funeral.

A**Pastor came by my house, but he didn’t want to talk about my funeral. He just wanted me to ‘remember his church in my will.’ That’s all. Just, ‘remember his church in my will.'”

“It was then that I realized that I had allowed my church to break my heart for one last time. But that was the last time. The VERY last time.”

“A**Pastor did not know it when he visited me, but Grandpa and I had already prepared my will, long before his visit, which did include a double tithe – TWENTY PERCENT – of my ENTIRE ESTATE, for what was now my former … FORMER … church … BigWhiteChurch.

This amount was [named the amount – an enormous sh*tload of money – generating muffled “wows” from many of her heirs, including me].

“But I got to feeling badly that we had not personally remembered such nice people as PompousPastor and A**Pastor. So, I changed my will to include them by name. While I was at it, I changed the amount of money that I left to BigWhiteChurch to match all of the love that they have showed to me during the last 10 years of my life, when I was suffering and lonely, and no longer able to work my a** off for them, for free, like I had done for almost half a century.”

“That is her entire written statement,” the lawyer said.

“Now let’s get back to the bequests in the will.”

“Bequest to A**Pastor: One Cent.”

“Bequest to PompousPastor: One Cent.”

“Bequest to BigWhiteChurch: One Cent.”

The PompousPastor and A**Pastor sat there looking like someone had just injected a gallon of novocaine into their jaws.

Every one of Grandma’s family and friends felt an overwhelming urge to laugh out loud. But we kept quiet because we knew Grandma. We knew she wasn’t finished yet. Grandma was simply setting them up for a one-two punch.

The best was yet to come, and we didn’t want to miss it.

“There is one last bequest,” the lawyer continued, “For a charity called …”, which he named and I’ll call “BlackCharity,” then he paused before naming the amount….

Most of us had no idea what BlackCharity was. But, by the looks on their faces, we could tell that PompousPastor and A**Pastor knew BlackCharity very well. Their faces displayed the same expressions of shock, dread, and horror that they would have if the lawyer had said, “This bequest goes to The Demonic Baby Eaters to buy extra large rotisserie barbecue grills and tons of charcoal.”

Every eye in the room was now fixated on PompousPastor and A**Pastor.

The lawyer, who happened to be my uncle, one of Grandma’s and Grandpa’s sons; let the silence continue a few seconds more….

If we had been able to read PompousPastor’s and A**Pastor’s minds, we would have known the history behind the looks on their faces. BlackCharity was sponsored by a large black church just a few miles from BigWhiteChurch. They ran a free food/clothing bank, assistance programs for foster children, home delivery of pre-cooked meals for homebound seniors, legal aid, and other social services.

A long time ago, BigWhiteChurch, which was (and still is) 100% Caucasian, had provided a few years of financial and other support to BlackCharity. Then there was a very bitter, acrimonious breakup, allegedly because BlackCharity was practicing “the Social Gospel” while BigWhiteChurch was preaching “the True Gospel.” BigWhiteChurch even sued to try to get some of their money back, although the suit was eventually settled and very little money actually changed hands.

But, this being the Deep South, everyone knew the real reason why BigWhiteChurch, or any white church, would stop supporting a Black charity: “Those [expletive] were getting uppity and not staying in their place.” Grandma and Grandpa had seriously considered leaving BigWhiteChurch at that time.

But they had reasoned that it was better to stay there and teach tolerance by their words and example. They knew they would never persuade everyone, but maybe they could reach some of the youth at their white church and break the generational cycle of racism. Grandma used to tell us, “My church is my mission field.” We did not learn the true depth of her statement until after she died.

Since then, Grandma and Grandpa had secretly sent a portion of their “tithe” to BlackCharity every month.

Most of Grandma’s family, including me, didn’t find out about any of this until after the meeting had ended.

But PompousPastor and A**Pastor obviously understood what Grandma, by her actions which are more powerful than words, was saying to them. If you had grown up as a white person in the Deep South, as Grandma, Grandpa, PompousPastor, and A**Pastor had, you would understand.

To many white Southerners, this was one of the most personally insulting things you could do to them.

It simultaneously labeled them as racists, condemned their bigotry, and crushed their delusions of white superiority by saying, “These Black human beings, whom you hate, disrespect and have mistreated, are better people than you are. So they deserve my money more than you do.”

Having allowed time for everyone to observe PompousPastor and A**Pastor while they thought about how their white church had treated this black charity and how they AND their church had treated our Grandma…

The lawyer said, “The amount is….”

Then he named the EXACT SAME AMOUNT that Grandma had named in her handwritten letter, the huge amount of money that would have gone to BigWhiteChurch if she had not changed her will.” BamaFan4Jesus

Another User Comments:

“My only regret about reading this is that I never had the pleasure of meeting your grandmother.

She sounds like an amazing woman.” bowlbettertalk

10. Restaurant Manager Wants To Treat Us Like Garbage? Let’s Screw Up On Purpose

“Entirely too many years ago, I started to work at a fast-food company. Let’s call it Southern State Not Baked Poultry. Southern State Not Baked Poultry wasn’t a bad first job (I was 16), and the assistant manager at that location was my best friend’s step-dad, so we took what was tedious and menial and tried to make it fun.

He was actually a really good manager and genuinely cared about the people who worked for him. We would do silly stuff before the store opened while we were doing prep, he would have music playing loudly from his office, and as long as everything got done and done well, he really didn’t care if we had fun doing it. We’ll call him Larry.

This story is not about him though.

This story is about our store manager.

We’ll call him Tim. Tim was the exact opposite of our assistant manager. Everything had to be taken seriously. Fun was outlawed. I genuinely hated working with Tim. Tim was an egocentric, power-hungry, petty, little man with delusions of grandeur because he was a manager for Southern State Not Baked Poultry.

Tim’s approach to “managing” was to work the employee until they burned out, and when they did, fire them and hire someone else. Needless to say, morale, when Tim worked, was in the garbage.

Tim hated that crews would prefer working with Larry instead of him. He hated that crews had fun when Larry was working. He hated that our store’s numbers were always better when Larry worked. Mostly, he just hated everyone. But one thing that he absolutely hated was a silly, little thing Larry did. If it was before the restaurant opened, he would stick his tongue between his teeth and lower lip, and shout out a “HI, [NAME]” to whichever employee had just walked in.

It sounded absolutely ridiculous. I would always do the same thing back, which ended up sounding something like, “HI, WAWWY!”

A perfect example of what an a** Tim was is this: there was a young woman, who due to a variety of stressors, attempted to commit ******* after a particularly grueling shift working with Tim. After she had recovered, she came back for her last paycheck, and Larry was working (not a coincidence – she called the store to find out what day he was working).

So, Larry sat her down out in the lobby, bought her lunch, brought her last check out, and sat and talked with her for about an hour. It was after the lunch rush, and he had the time. So he made sure she was doing ok now and talked about whatever she wanted to talk about. By the time she left, she was smiling but had tears on her cheeks. She had never had someone just sit and listen and let her talk out everything that was going on.

Well, the next day, Tim had come in and hauled Larry into the office. His words (and I can quote them exactly because the “office” was a tiny little cube with no ceiling – just a place to stash paperwork and a computer), were, “The next time the ******* queen comes in, tell her to do it right next time!”

So now you have a clear picture of exactly how petty and vindictive this little man was.

Here is where the revenge starts. We were scheduled to have the regional and national bigwigs for Southern State Not Baked Poultry come through our area for an annual inspection. Tim had his eyes set on being one of those bigwigs, at least for the region. Why wouldn’t he be, he did everything by the book! That automatically made him a good manager (at least in his eyes). Everything had a checklist and a procedure and a set of written instructions in the book, and if you couldn’t meet the expectations set forth in the book, well, Tim would yell at you and berate you because that’s how a manager manages, you see.

Well, before the bigwigs got to our store (we knew what day they would be coming), several of us had agreed that on the day they came through, we would all screw up just enough to get Tim to blow his cool because our regional manager and the national bigwigs all believed that Southern State Not Baked Poultry was a family company and that employees were valuable team members.

The day in question arrived, and the bigwigs were there for their big tour.

Whoops, one of the fryers hadn’t had the oil replaced last night. Oh look, the shaker table hadn’t been cleaned. Darn it, we’ve got way too much coleslaw made up, and we won’t get through it before we have to toss it. Crap, we don’t have enough chicken poultry in the cooker to fulfill the lunch rush. Man, someone forgot to preheat the second cooker!

You get the picture.

After the second time, I took a minute too long to get a basket of poultry into the cooker, and Tim absolutely LOST.

HIS. ***.

Yelling.* Cursing. Throwing things. He actually physically pushed me away from the breading station. In the middle of the lunch rush. While the regional manager and several bigwigs from national stood there. While we had a line of several people deep at both cash registers. And a lobby full of people eating.

Tim stood there, gulping like a fish. His mouth was moving like he was trying to say something, but no sounds were coming out.

The room was absolutely quiet other than the beeping of a fryer that was done. I looked at Tim. This was the moment we had all been gearing up for. I looked down at where he had pushed me, a set of handprints in flour on my chest. And I cut loose into him. Yelled at him that I quit, took off my apron, and threw it at him. Told him I was tired of his abuse, of his poor management, of how he single-handedly drove morale through the floor every time he walked through the doors.

How he was a crappy excuse for a manager, and that if he didn’t have Larry and a couple of good shift leads, he’d have driven the location out of business a long time ago.

All the color drained from his face, and he bolted to the office cube. The national and regional folks ended up comping everyone’s meals that were in the restaurant.

Interestingly enough, Tim was not fired. But he was demoted. To assistant manager. Larry was promoted to manager.

About 10 years later, I was working at my current job as an EMT. We had just dropped a patient off at the hospital that was across the street from the same restaurant, and my partner was hungry, so we drove across the street and pulled in. Now, I hadn’t set foot in that restaurant since the day I had quit. But lo and behold, who is working the counter, but Tim himself. And his nametag still shows “Assistant Manager.”

The restaurant was empty since it was between lunch and dinner time, and I just couldn’t help myself.

I stuck my tongue between my teeth and lower lip, and as loud as I could, shouted out “HI, TWIM!”

Haven’t been back there since, but that was around 12 years ago. I’m willing to bet he’s still just the assistant manager there.” AmbulanceDriver2

9. Yell At Me For Training My Guide Dog? Lose Your HOA Position

“To start the story, there’s some background you need to know about me. I volunteer to train and raise service dogs. My fiancee says, clearly, I have a look that says I am weak and a pushover.

I have constant encounters with Karens who are just not ready for my responses when they engage me. I have been in the military for 17 years when this happened, and I was responsible for managing over 130 service members. I am anything but a pushover. I work with civilians, so I have cultivated a polite exterior because I was counseled for looking unapproachable and scary to civilian counterparts.

The story, as I said, I raise service animals, so I fall under the ADA when it comes to regulations on where and what I can do with my puppy.

We’ll call him O. O is an amazingly behaved black lab of 6 months. I have cultivated a level of trust and obedience where I can leave him in a sit with other dogs around, so as long as I am in eyesight, he will stay. I have raised a few pups by then, and I would never have done that with them, but O is amazing, and I can’t wait to get him back after his tour of duty helping Mrs.

C be independent.

I meet the HOA Karen one Saturday, me, my fiancee and O were going to head on a road trip to visit my fiancee’s parents. In our preparation, the last on the list is always getting the kids to use the bathroom before a long trip. So, we head out, O gets busy, and I grab a bag to clean it up. I put him in a sit-stay and hand the leash to my girl.

And I start walking to the trash can. It’s about 100 feet from where he went. I have a clear line of sight to the dog, and he is sitting pretty and alert and watching me intently for a hand cue or voice command.

As I am walking, I hear a womanly screech. I don’t quite make it out, but it sounds angry. I ignore it and keep walking to the dumpster deposit my waste bag and turn around to head back to my two favorite people.

It is then I make eye contact with the HOA Karen, Karen from here on out. She is your typical Karen, not an inch over 5 foot and has the same circumference. The short chopped hair that says I’m the manager now.

She looks me in the eyes, and I finally listen to her shrill scream of, “Your dog must be on a leash and in your hand. My county state law says so. I will call the cops.” Now I don’t do ignorant, and respect given is respect earned.

I was willing to try and de-escalate. My fiancee owns the condo and is super non-confrontational. So for her, I try to bring it back down to civil levels of discussion. In a polite but firm voice, I asked “if she even looked over at the dog before she started yelling at me.” She just bellows like a banshee again, and I repeat. This back and forth happens three or four times as I try to calm her escalating in pitch and volume.

At this point, she hasn’t given respect, so none is required to be given back. I break out my “you done ***ed* up NCO to junior voice it is loud, firm, and clearly states I’m done with your *******,* lady.’ I clearly tell her if she would have taken two seconds to look, she would see the dog is sitting on a leash in someone’s hands.” She stops bellowing at me and looks and turns a bit red in the face, then musters, “You could just say thank you,” which I curtly reply, “Shut the **** up, and get out of my face.” She waddled quickly off, tail-tucked, and walked through the condo door.

My next meeting with her was when I was grilling. The HOA states no charcoal grills and no smoking/BBQ. I was born in the north but as a military brat moved to the south since I was two. There is a difference between BBQing and grilling. BBQ is twelve plus hours with coals of hardwood or wood smoking. Grilling is cooking meat on a grill instead of the stove. The HOA put out a reminder about no BBQing on the premises and no coals.

So I was like, awesome, get a small propane grill; it’s not BBQ, but its better than nothing.

So I was out grilling and I hear the banshee cry all too familiar now. Again, she didn’t come up to me and talk; she just started screaming. So I looked her right in the eye, and with the same firm voice, “Shut the **** up, and go away. If you say one more word, I’ll be the one calling the cops for harassment by an HOA member.” She sputtered something about no grilling or open flames, and I told her **** off show me in writing and by someone other than her.

She waddled off and then I was approached by the HOA president with the HOA bylaws and sat to read them. During which, my fiancee started a conversation with them about another issue we were having with them. She was in the middle of having the state attorney’s office ask some questions about activities they were trying to force her into paying for. It wasn’t going well for the HOA, and she took this opportunity to introduce herself.

While she may be none confrontational when it comes to small things, she will stand up for herself when it comes to it. Her introducing herself changed everyone’s tone, and they became oh so polite. Karen tried to play the victim to her and say I was mean and could use some manners when engaging with people.

I love my soon to be wife; she let her paint her tale of how she was a victim. When she finished, she looked her dead in the eyes and said, “You know I was the one holding the leash, and I was standing right here when he was grilling.

So, no, you got the same respect you gave.” She paled and faded to the back. That’s when the president of the HOA stepped in and told me I can’t have the grill and that I can be fined, and I needed to follow the rules of the HOA, or the next time, he’ll be the one calling the cops. Well, Pres Roger that.

It is my job to enforce regulations in the military. I spend hours reading instructions.

Nothing pleases me more than when I can shove the black and white in an ****** f************ace at work to get my guys what they are owed or to force them to do the job right. So you want me to follow the rules? Copy that buddy. So I began my research, and I found a few interesting things

No HOA by law can be enforced if it is not the State database.

This particular HOA’s bylaws were last updated 1994; it was 2016.

They state they follow my county’s fire code, which follows NFPA.

Finally, the gem the exact lat and long coordinates of the HOA’s property lines.

So I get a login for the state’s database and print the HOA’s bylaws. I print the NFPA, which states in a multi-family home, you can store propane tanks no bigger than 2.7 liters, but they can total no more than 5.4 liters cumulatively.

I go to Lowes get a rope tape measurer and stakes.

I pull Google Maps and mark the HOA boundary line on it. Low and behold, what do I find? A drainage ditch that is city property, not ten feet from where I was grilling. So I take my coordinates my stakes and go carefully mark off the section of city property.

Now for the revenge, I call the city/county fire departments and request a permit to grill on said city property. They tell me to go for it; I didn’t need a permit for it, and no one would care.

I insisted, and they said it’s my 50 bucks (they issued and event open flame), so with both permits, it was 100 bucks, but I got permission from the city to grill there for six months.

The next day at 0700, I went to set up. I carefully measured, so I was at least three feet into the city property and set up my cooler with enough meat and beer to grill till doomsday. Then waited for the fireworks.

It didn’t take long for Karen to come screaming at me. I mean, I was ten feet from the community pool and 3 three feet from the sidewalk gazebo that led to the pool. I just hit record on my phone and politely told her she has no need to yell, and I am breaking no laws. She kept screaming about no grilling and how she is tired of me, and she going to get me arrested and kicked out if it’s the last thing she does.

She hasn’t liked me since she saw me and has just been waiting to get me kicked out. That now that she knows which condo is mine, it is just a matter of time till she finds something. On and on, I guess me being polite and showing zero fear was p*ssing her off, so she tried to come to take my stuff. Big no-no. As she reached for my cooler, I broke out my NCO voice and told her if she so much as brush a finger against my property, I would remove the offending body part with force if necessary.

This sent her scurrying off again.

About twenty minutes later, I see two cop cars pull up, and Mr. HOA pres himself. He is all chummy with the cops, and as they approach, I hear him say, “Yep, the same guy. I already told him once before that he can’t grill on the HOA grounds.” He comes to a stop about ten feet from me, and one cop stays with him while the other keeps walking up to me.

I have a sh*t-eating grin on my face; I can hardly wait for the conversation to happen. The cop is slightly off-put by my joyous face and slight giggle when I ask what seems to be the problem office. I get informed that I am in violation of the by-laws and have been warned once already, and I am going to receive a ticket for disturbing the peace for threatening the HOA when they were trying to enforce the rules, a ticket for an illegal open flame, ticket for illegal storage of flammable substances on, and on the last was if I didn’t pack up, I would be arrested and removed.

Now that he was done, I first handed him my permit from the city to grill. He took it walked back to the pres, and they discussed it for a moment then returned and say that you can’t get a permit from the city to grill on private property. I then showed him the coordinates for the HOA and the Google Maps gridded drawing and my current GPS location. Mind you, I am smiling handing sheet after sheet to him because the grid was not all on one sheet and had addendums.

It took about 4 minutes to explain it to him.

As I was about to hand him more, he held up a hand to stop me. He then asks how long I had planned this with a smirk. I told him, “Oh, about a week.” He gave me a look of disbelief but moved on. He then asked me if I threatened Karen. I just played back the recording to him, and at the end, he said, “Nothing seems outta place here.

You are free to go.” I stopped him and asked if I could file a complaint for HOA harassment through him. He said no and that the city clerk office is the correct place, but he would document harassment by the two of them and file the report for me.

In my state, it’s illegal to be harassed by the HOA; it comes with the jail of a few months, fines as high as $5k, and immediate removal from the board, and the possibility of recovery of damages.

I settled for them both being removed from the board instead of filing a complaint.

I waved to Karen every day I grill or showed her my leash if I had O.” judis697734

8. Be A Discriminatory Manager? Get Deported

“I worked at a fairly well-known restaurant in a small, northern New England city as an assistant manager.

The owners were very successful restaurateurs with several successful (non-chain) establishments and spent maybe a day or two a month in our location.

The rest of the time there was a general manager in charge, her name was Jan.
Jan was about as ‘type A as they come. She was a middle-aged woman, but beautiful and petite and she always looked put together and primped. Jan had started with the owners a decade earlier in their first restaurant as a server and had worked her way up to general manager over the years.

At first, I just thought she had extremely high standards which I respected.

I have high standards as well and take pride in my work. I had been impressed by how the kitchens were spotless, the staff was immaculate (like run a white-gloved hand under the back of the oven and it comes back white kind of clean) and the food was always top quality. I had frequently been a customer and was thrilled that I got the job there. I had been in the business for a decade and that restaurant was THE place in our area.

I was so excited. Unfortunately, I quickly learned why everything is so shining and perfect.

Jan was a tyrant. She was the kind of boss who soured the mood of the entire staff like a storm cloud hovering over us that never went away. Nothing was ever good enough and the standards changed from day to day. On a good day, she would shut herself up in the office and then leave early. Good days were very rare and could turn into bad days at the drop of a dime.

On bad days you couldn’t be perfect enough and she would come up with new rules and regulations just to punish people.

If a host called out sick (they were literal children), she would berate them on the phone and make them cry. If a cook made a mistake on a plate, she would humiliate them in front of the staff, accusing them of doing it on purpose and then give us all the silent treatment for hours after (seriously).

If someone’s cash-out was off, even by a few cents, she would accuse them of theft and force me to cut down their hours.
As a fellow manager, I was mostly spared her awful behavior, though I had to hear about her treatment from my staff almost every day.

All of this was just run-of-the-mill bad boss stuff until it came time for our yearly staff evaluation meetings. This is where Raoul enters the story.

Raoul was a hard-working dishwasher who had moved to our state from Puerto Rico a few years earlier and spoke English with some difficulty.

Whenever I had to go over anything official with him, we would have a coworker translate between us to be sure we were both communicating clearly. Jan refused this courtesy to Raoul. This made his evaluation pretty difficult. Raoul managed to communicate to us that due to recent cuts in his hours, he would be forced to get a second job to pay the bills.

Something about this absolutely set Jan off. She told him she would fire him if he dared.

I could see plainly on the intake paperwork in front of me that Raoul had been hired with the understanding that it would be a full-time position, so I pointed that out. Jan was furious, but agreed through gritted teeth that if Raoul agreed not to get a second job, she would bump his hours up to “at least 35 hours a week”. It was stated as clear as day and I documented it in my daily manager log book.

Work went on as usual after that and I didn’t think much of this meeting again for a few months.
Another time a while later, while filing out information for tax returns, Jan called me into the office. I could tell she had pulled the tiny room apart looking for something. “All the information about our Puerto Rican employees is gone!” she told me with a mixture of panic and suspicion. I looked at the files in question and they all seemed to be in order, so I was confused and told her I couldn’t help.

A few minutes later I walked back in the office to find her arguing with “Rosa”, our most talented chef and a Puerto Rican native. Rosa was perfectly fluent in English.
‘Noooo Rooosaa.’ Jan was speaking to Rosa as though she were hard of hearing or mentally slow. ‘Where. is. your. green. card?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Rosa was confused.

‘Are you an illegal or something? Is that why one of you broke in here? To hide the proof?’ Jan wasn’t yelling, but her eyes were cold and flashing with rage.

‘WHAT?!?’ Rosa was starting to get angry now.

It suddenly clicked for me, so I interrupted.

‘Jan… uh… You do realize that Puerto Rico is a United States territory, right?’

‘Of course, I know that!’ Jan snapped back.

‘Okay, so you know that Rosa has a social security number like any other American native.’
‘Oh. Right. Never mind Rosa, you can go back to work.’ Jan did not apologize for accusing Rosa of theft. I was so done with this place after that.

Jan did all kinds of little things like that and she never apologized. I had already gotten a job offer for a place closer to my house when the final straw came.

I was the closing manager one day and got in just before the dinner rush to see Raoul storming out the back door. He didn’t speak much English, but his ‘****** ****’ was very clear. Jan had lied about raising his hours to 35 per week, so Raoul had gotten the second job he talked about.

When Jan found out, she fired him, but not before saying something about how ‘all you illegals are the same.’ She was really fixated on these American citizens being illegal aliens for some reason. ¯_(ツ)_/¯ By this point, I ****** hate this woman too.

(She once told me my clothing made me look poor in front of the whole staff. I was wearing what she made me wear. Meanwhile, she wore open-toed shoes behind the line which is against the health codes, and once her fake nail fell off into the coleslaw and she wouldn’t let anyone toss it out after she retrieved it.

This is just the tip of the iceberg, but I have a life to live). Since I knew I would be leaving soon anyway, I told Raoul he should go after our boss for wrongful termination since I had documented proof (with Jan’s signature!) that he had been promised more hours and that Jan had broken the agreement, not Raoul.

The last time I saw Jan was on my way out of Raoul’s lawyer’s office after giving a deposition about several labor laws she had violated.

At least the ones that I knew about. Apparently, there were many others she had broken in front of other employees. She couldn’t even look me in the eye. The best part? At my deposition, I learned that Jan was actually the one who was illegally in the country. Her green card had recently expired. She was Canadian. She ended up being sent back to Canada as a result of this case and no one has heard from her since.

Raoul was granted six months of unemployment pay, plus the restaurant had to pay his legal fees. They closed that location not long after. Maybe they should hire their managers more carefully next time?
Jan, if you’re reading this, I hope you got your *** together. I also hope you learned to wear closed-toe shoes behind the line. You wouldn’t want to end up a huge, gigantic *** up due to your own negligence, now would you?” FalseRip9

7. Get Mad At Me For Being With My Mom At The Hospital? Here Are My Two Weeks

Priorities were instantly set.

“Me: me…of course

I used to work as the residential manager of a house for people with special needs. I had previously worked in direct care and managed a house with a different agency but moved to this new agency for a variety of different reasons. I’ve always worked in this field – I still do – and consider it my calling. It’s very difficult to work managing the house, as not only do you have to remember everything about each of the residents (referred to as “the guys”), but you ALSO have to set the staffing schedule.

Now, according to Karen (my boss Dan’s Boss), I had been hired to “fix this house up.” For a bit of background on the house, it had only been opened for about a year, and the guys had just met when they moved in, so they didn’t know each other very well and were constantly making each other angry. Most staff members weren’t sure how to work with them due to the lack of training and lack of understanding of their unique personalities, so they just kinda let the guys do whatever they wanted.

Beyond that, there was NO accountability…for example, there was a house credit card that was to be used for food and another to be used for items like soap and cleaners. There was NO way to keep track of purchases because staff hadn’t been trained on how to sign the cards in and out, how to store receipts, and what to do with the card logs. Needless to say, the house was a MESS from a managerial standpoint when I got there, and they had gone through 6 managers in the one year they had been open.

As soon as I took the position, I began learning everything I could about the guys (from parents, old documentation, and contacts with their previous staff) and subsequently training my staff on what I learned. I also set concrete processes of documenting money spent, med administration, and training logs (because, yes…Karen hadn’t instituted ANY training logs…so there was no proof that training had even happened). All of this work helped the house a LOT and set us up in a good place…but it came at the price of almost all of my free time; between all of the work I put in setting up systems in the house and all of the forced overtime I had to work (when someone calls out or doesn’t show, someone else needs to stay to fill that spot), I ended up routinely working between 70 and 100 hours every week…without ANY overtime pay.

Karen said that she would be there to step in if Dan and I needed something, but never ONCE helped. This is important.

Now all of that was basically just to say that I put in WORK for that job. Here’s where Karen comes in…it’s gonna start weird, but it circles around so bear with me.

I want to start by saying that Karen is beautiful…like REALLY beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that her boyfriend in corporate just HAD to give her a director’s position as SOON as they started dating…that’s a different story, though.

ANYWAY, Karen had a habit of flirting and making it VERY obvious that she was doing so. She would drop things on the ground while speaking with me and then bend down slowly in front of me to pick it up while wearing short skirts with tight thongs…I never complained, but it did seem a bit unprofessional. At first, I thought she was being overly friendly, then I realized that she was hitting on me and using her ********* to get me to do more work around the job.

I’m used to that kinda thing happening in this field, but Karen is by far the worst offender. It kinda came to a head one day when she made a comment about bigger guys “being her type.” Being a bigger guy, I picked up on it and made a comment about the girl I had just started dating the time. She laughed it off and said that “there was no title involved” in my relationship, so she didn’t care, but I said that I did…she backed off, but she was never really friendly with me again.

Things started to go downhill once she realized that she couldn’t control me like that, which was fine with me.

Things were calm and the house was running smoothly (with normal hiccups), but fate likes to strike at the worst times…I got a call from my mom basically as soon as I got to work one day at like 8 am, saying that she had tripped over my ridiculously hyper dog and fell, and she was having a hard time breathing.

I called Karen to tell her I was leaving and then rushed home. You’d think that someone would respond with empathy, but I was met with a cold, “You’d better be back later today.” Ok, whatever, she’s probably having a bad morning.

I take my mom to the walk-in orthopedic clinic about a half-hour away, and after a two-hour wait, they finally saw her and ordered x-rays…problem is that they don’t do x-rays on site, so we had to go to another orthopedic clinic to get them done and read.

I called Karen en route to the second clinic and filled her in…she told me that I had work to do and that I’d better get back as soon as I could. After another half-hour long drive and another two hours waiting for the x-rays to be done, we sit and wait for them to call us back in to have them read. This is where it goes south.

Karen calls me and I run outside to take the call.

Here’s an approximation of the conversation.

Karen: Where the heck are you?

Me: I’m at the doctor with my mom…waiting for x-rays to be-

Karen, cutting me off: You said you would be quick.

Me: I had no idea it would take this long, I-

Karen: Save it, you’re probably just trying to get a free day off! You really have to get your priorities straight; you have no idea how lazy you look!

Me, yelling now: So…I work 90 hour weeks, and I’m lazy? I fix the mess you allowed to build up and can’t take my **** mother to the doctor for an emergency without being yelled at?

Karen: Don’t you-

Me, cutting her off: Nah, I think you’re right, I have to prioritize.

Consider this my two-week notice.

Karen: But I-

Me: *click*

I was shaking, but it felt great! She wanted me to prioritize…so I did. The job was suddenly MUCH less important to me. I then found out that my mom had cracked her sternum and bruised a rib…less great.

In speaking with Dan about the situation recently, I found out some fun things:

– My replacement has no idea what they’re doing. They show up inebriated and have no idea how to relate to the guys, and the staff don’t respect them at all.

– My replacement’s incompetence cost Dan his job…all of the work I had done to set up the systems for money management and medication administration was just tossed because the replacement didn’t want to keep up with it…so EVERYTHING is back to the way it was before I got there.

– Half of the staff left, and the new staff has no idea what they’re doing because there is – once again – no training for them.

It’s gratifying to know that the work I was doing was so necessary, but I do feel bad about the guys and think about them often.” AetherNugget

6. Demand My Passport To Illegally Get Into A Party? Feel My Fist

“Okay. I have two older brothers.

Eldest is a good person. The middle is a monster. He is a drug-addled felon. He has tortured my family for 20 years and I have taken the brunt of the assault as the only person willing to openly challenge him.

He stole my mother’s wedding rings, my grandmother’s car, and my tv – to name a few things. My family has decided to try again to welcome him back into their lives, so I followed suit.
It’s Christmas 2013 – the best holiday celebrations I could never imagine. All is well. – Middle brother walks in the door to collect presents two days after celebrations – Strike one.

The middle brother drops a bag of ***** when he walks in the door – Strike two.

My middle brother criticizes the eldest brother’s renovations and tells my grandmother she wasted her money. – Strike three.

In the car on the way home. Decide it is best to go back into town together, so it saves someone a trip. Middle brother asks me for my passport. I say, “No, I can’t do that.” Middle brother concocts a magical story where I have borrowed his ID to get into clubs when I was a teenager.

Lies. I did not and would not. He says he needs it to get into a party.

He’s 300lbs and 35 and would never be carded under any circumstances.
Middle brother differs from his standard method of persuasion and starts yelling and is getting increasingly loud and argumentative. I tell him that it is illegal and that it would be very bad for him if he gets caught.

There’s a line somewhere between asking and demanding something of someone – he crosses it.

My heart races like it used to when I was a boy. When he used to follow my friends and I and beat the crap out of us with his friends. I remember him pulling me out of a lake where I almost drowned.

But it’s not him anymore. The brother I knew is gone, and there’s a total stranger directly behind me demanding the symbol of my liberty. Strike ****** four. I tell him that if he mentions my passport again on the ride home, I will crane the steering wheel into a snowbank and beat him within an inch of his life.

I hear, ‘Give me your passport’ in the voice of a man I don’t know, from a face I don’t recognize. ***** and adrenaline surge from my heart faster and more rapidly than I have ever felt. We pull into a parking lot, I open my door and wait patiently until that a** works up the courage to fight me.

He steps out and yells something I don’t hear. I tell him that I’ll give him one more chance to get back in the car without saying a word about my passport ever again.

He says ‘passport’ with a wily grin and expects me to be the same cowering boy that I used to be. The same kid who loved him and adored him and wanted nothing else but to be just like him.
I connect the quickest and hardest fist I’ve ever thrown against another person directly onto his chin. ***** spurts out of his mouth with the second blow. He hits me twice above and below my right eye.

I completely lose my crap and wail on the left side of his face until it is a broken and ****** ruin.

If you’re reading this, middle brother – *** you.” Reddit user

5. Cut 200 People In Line? Wait Again

Next time, just play by the rules.

“EM = Entitled Mother, EK = Entitled Kid, GF = Girlfriend, Me = Yours truly

I was at an amusement park earlier this year. A brand new ride had just opened so of course there was a huge line for it.

I had taken my girlfriend that day and bought us Fast Passes to skip the lines. Fast passes cost nearly three times as much as a regular pass there.

It was around noon, on a hot day, and my gf and I head over to the new ride. We circled it and weren’t able to see any fast pass lines. But we both wanted to go on the new attraction so we just got into the regular line, the signs said we were about 45 mins from the front.

Immediately behind us was a large lady [EM], with her son [EK] who was about ten.
My girlfriend then spots some people entering a different cue wearing purple wristbands (fast passes).

So we go past the boy and his mom, exit the line and enter the new line. Since it had just opened I guess they hadn’t made an official sign for it yet, but there was a little gate with a paper taped on to it that read FAST PASS & Wheelchairs.

We go through, and there are about 20 people in front of us now.

After about a minute, we see the EM and EK behind us again. I didn’t make much of it, they probably hadn’t seen the entrance just as we had. But my girlfriend whispers in my ear they don’t have fast passes.

I look at their wrists, and she’s right. Their wristbands are green, the regular ones. She asks me if maybe we should say something so they don’t waste their time.

Poor kid, I think to myself, he probably wants to get on the ride as quickly as possible, they’re just gonna send them back when they reach the front.

So I tap on EM’s shoulder, and say, ‘Excuse me, this line is for purple wristbands only. They won’t let you go through here. You can go back -‘

‘They’ll let me through, they always do!’ She exclaims.

My girlfriend and I look at each other like ***.

‘Okay, sorry!’ I reply.

About three mins go by, and I guess we had been distracted for a little bit, cuz I see there’s about a 5-foot gap in the line in front of us. So we turn to move forward. And EM shoves passed us, her son right behind her.

I open my mouth to say something but decide against it. They’re not gonna get on the ride anyway, so there’s really no point. The staff is really strict about the wristbands.

We finally reach the front of the line, and the ride operator asks to see EK and EM’s wristbands. They were clearly trying to hide them by keeping their hands behind their back.

EM quickly shows her wristband, runs past the attendant and immediately starts getting on the ride. Her son does the exact same. The ride operator tells her that this is the Fast Pass Line and that she has to go back to the end of the regular line.

‘Okay, next time I will. I didn’t know,’ EM responds.

‘No, you’re gonna go, exit the ride, and go to the back of the line.’

She lowers her son’s harness, and then hers.

‘I already lowered the harness, I’ll use the normal line next time. Promise!’

The ride operator turns around and lets me and my gf through.

There weren’t any seats available on the ride anymore so I knew they were gonna get kicked off.

The ride operator walks to her station on the other side of the platform, presses a button on the console, and all the harnesses goes up.

She walks towards us again and gives EM a dirty look. EM looks p*ssed, like a demon from a horror movie p*ssed. She violently gets up and out of the platform cursing the operator with her son right behind her.

Once off the ride, the EK looks back and spits on the seat.

The ride operator goes to get some Lysol wipes and cleans off the seat.

My gf and I sit on the ride and lower the harnesses, the ride operator leans in to make sure they’re tight.

‘They’re really p*ssed,’ I jokingly tell the ride operator.

‘They will be when they find out he isn’t tall enough.’ She replies.” AnotherTargayen

4. Cheating On Me? I’ll Get You Blacklisted In Your Field Of Work

“So this little story begins with me and my wife happily married. We had 2 wonderful daughters, 13 and 10, and a pretty healthy relationship. Or so I thought. Anyways, at some point, things started to appear off. She got very clingy to her phone all of a sudden, made sure to delete the saved password feature on our common PC, stated having phone calls that suddenly ended when I came into the house/room.

You can probably guess what it was. Now having 15 years of marriage behind us, I was hoping it wasn’t what it obviously seemed to be.

So one day when she told me she was going to spend some time with “the girls,” I decided to follow her. Sure enough, I find her driving to a hotel to meet with… Let’s just call him P*nis. To say it was a gut punch was an understatement. I literally cried for an hour straight.

After I was done with my self wallowing phase, I decided the best course was getting even. I thought of several scenarios that may or may not have involved me beating P*nis into a ****** pulp. Eventually, I decided to do things more civilly and more importantly legally but only just.

So the first part of the plan was gathering evidence. I could have just gotten a PI, but I had something better in mind. So one day when my wife was at her job and the kids at school, I installed some small secret cameras and microphones I had bought.

Due to the setup of our bedroom, I even managed to get one perfectly overlooking the bed. I didn’t however use them while I was at home.

So a couple of days pass when I propose to my wife that the second to next weekend I should take the girls on a trip to [a land site that I will not reveal] and stay a night too. At this point, I should also mention that due to her job being pretty demanding and frequently exhausting her, and just due to our various passions and talents, I was always the main caregiver.

I more often than not was the one cooking. I took a far more active role in raising the girls and showed them a lot more patience and attention (I didn’t spoil them or anything like that). So me going alone with the girls on a trip wasn’t that weird. This part will also be very important later.

So 2 weeks pass, in which time I get my affairs in order and contact a lawyer to write up a separation agreement that would involve me keeping residence and custody.

I go on the trip, try to not give anything away to the girls, and wait and see if P*nis and my wife fall into the trap.

When I returned I checked the recordings of the weekend, and sure enough, it’s a 36 hours *** fest. When they weren’t ******, the dialogue was something even better. I found out that P*nis had a wife, though more on her later. But even worse, they also talked about me.

And besides the obvious ****** character assassination that I expected about how small my *** was, how I didn’t satisfy her, etc., etc., there was some really hurtful stuff, like her telling P*nis some of my deepest secrets and shameful stories that I had only told her about, just so they could have a laugh.

So at this point, I didn’t have any doubts about what to do. The next day when the kids left, but before my wife left, I confronted her with the video and told her that either she signs the separation agreement and leaves the house or the girls are going to receive an in-depth explanation of all the orifices mommy got f*cked in.

I wasn’t gonna do that; just to be clear, I love my daughters too much, but I put the threat there, and she was too emotional to realize my bluff. She went through all the stages, denying everything, trying to bargain, threatening me, and getting angry. I let it go through all that stuff. Eventually, she signed the paper, and she departed that very evening after she told her goodbye to the girls.

I didn’t show or tell the girls anything graphic.

I was always very honest with them, which is another reason why I was always the favorite parent, so I just said that mommy had been unfaithful. The younger took some time figuring it out, but that was made up by my older getting mightily upset. She had just gotten her first “boyfriend” as I’m not sure the term really applies at that age, but she knew enough of the world to get p*ssed off big time.

This would be important at a would-be custody battle, as though she did for the moment agree to give over custody I feared, and I was right to fear, that she would try and fight me for the kids.

What I didn’t expect was for her to use her visitation rights to talk *** about me. Basically, she started telling my younger about how it was all my fault for not forgiving her. Her lawyer even started demanding she receives custody (there was no way for her to receive money or the house as she was caught cheating and in my state; that means quite a lot in divorce proceedings).

So I finally activated my nuclear revenge plan.

Enter trip to South Carolina. Why South Carolina? Simple. Fort Sumpter. I really wanted my daughters to see it. I definitely did not go there because it is one of the last places where revenge p*rn isn’t illegal and where I could upload my wife and P*nis’s escapades with no worries on P*rnhub and other such sites as you cannot be prosecuted for crimes that weren’t illegal when and where they were committed.

I sent the links to my wife’s employer, her clients, and everybody in her line of work just to be sure, to P*nis’s wife, and to his firm. P*nis soon got a divorce. I feel sorry for his wife as she was an innocent victim in all of this, but I think it’s better that she found out. As for my wife, this was the end of any chance to get custody. She soon got fired from her job of 8 years.

And while the revenge p*rn part was a real *** move that did count in court, it is done in South Carolina, it wasn’t illegal or prosecutable, so it could only be used as a minus about my personality, but with my wife unemployed and practically being blacklisted in her profession due to being on adult websites as well as the girls (or to put it better, my younger being told what to do by my older) stating they wanted to stay with me, there was no question on who would get the custody.

Yes, due to her being unemployed, I got no alimony, but honestly, I make enough money to sustain both me and the girls, so I don’t care, and I’m good enough at caring for them, and they are old enough to allow me to have a full-time job.

Several months later, my wife is still unemployed, though I do not know if it’s from the p*rn or from the virus. The girls are growing up just fine and don’t seem to mind not seeing their **** mother.

The last time I communicated with my ex-wife was on Facebook where she told me how I ruined her life and her relation to her daughters, but honestly, I think she earned it.” ThrowawayMacThrowy

Another UsersComments:

“The only thing missing from the plot is you hooking up with P*nis’s wife. Now that would be something.” claycam6

Reply:

“Why though? It wouldn’t really achieve anything against either my wife or P*nis, besides maybe making P*nis jealous. Plus, I think the poor woman suffered enough from learning that her husband was a lying piece of ***.

I’ve gotten my bellyful of vengeance. I don’t see any reason to *** up a life even more just for the sake of some petty vengeance.” ThrowawayMacThrowy

3. Trick Me Out Of My Laptop? Give Me Your Car

“13 years ago, I was in my late teens, living on my own, and really struggling to live financially. One of the few possessions I had was an old laptop.

My laptop had stopped working properly, and while I’m fairly proficient in using a computer, I had no idea about fixing them.

I did a bit of searching on the internet but couldn’t get it working, so I ask my stepdad to take a look. He has a quick look and says it’s ***ed, but he’ll take it off my hands if I don’t want it, so I said sure. If it’s broken, then it’s no good to me.

10 minutes later, I walk into the room, and he’s using it. I asked if he fixed it, and he says, “Yeah, thanks for the laptop.”

I was obviously p*ssed.

My mom says she wasn’t getting involved, and his only response was that he did a quick internet search to find the fix, and I could have done the same.

I was broke, and he took one of my only possessions even though he had a pc and a laptop already.

A few months later, I was visiting my mom and stepdad when I had an idea.

While I am useless with computers, I’m very competent with mechanics, specifically Audis, and my stepdad had a 2001 Audi A3.

Before coming into the house, I went under his car and unplugged the oil level sensor and a vac line for the turbo.

Later on that day, he went to go to the shop or something, and when he started the car, it threw up oil warning lights on the dash and wouldn’t boost, so he turned it off and had a look of concern on his face. I went out to ask him what’s up, and he said that something went majorly wrong.

He says something along the lines of catastrophic turbo failure or engine failure. He’s already spent quite a bit on repairs and didn’t want to spend any more money on it so spoke to my mom about just cutting his losses and scrapping it.

I asked how much it’s worth at the scrapyard, and he says around $130, so I ever so graciously offer $150 to take it off his hands to maybe part it out, which he accepts.

He signed over the logbook (title) and wrote me a receipt of purchase and handed the keys over.

I walked outside, lifted the bonnet, pretended to look at my phone for a minute, went under the car, and plugged the vac line and oil sensor back in, fired it straight up, and drove around the block. When I got back, I gave him the thumbs up and said it’s all fine now.

His mouth was wide open, and he was mega p*ssed, and my reply was, “You could have found the solution too with a quick internet search.”

He tried arguing that it wasn’t fair, and if it’s working, then I can’t just take his car, but I just said he didn’t have a problem tricking me out of my laptop and that he’s already signed the car over to me, so tough luck.

My mom kinda laughed and said she’s not getting involved and that it was his own fault. I still have the car to this day, and it’s practically in showroom condition and runs sweet.” thekungfupanda

2. Get Me Fired? I’ll Take Your Job And Salary

All they had to do was release your secret.

“I was hired by a company as an assistant manager, a job I was well qualified for. The owner is rarely on-site as he owns several businesses.

The company is run by a GM, who hired me, but who works mostly second shift and who I, therefore, would have little daily contact with since I was hired for the first shift.

I was assigned to Eva for training. Eva was a manager and had been with the company for five years. I trained with her for a few days and then I was on my own, though she and I had overlapping shifts and would see each other a few days a week.

We were friendly but not close. After a few months, I was doing well at my job and had even gotten some new procedures adopted to help boost sales.

Eva began to act resentful. She would correct me for small things and took any opportunity to remind me that she had trained me. It didn’t matter to me – she wasn’t my boss; I reported to the general manager (GM). So, I mostly just ignored her. What I didn’t know was that Eva was not just tight with the GM, but they had worked together at another place for 10 years before this one.

One day at shift end, GM asks to talk. They tell me it’s not working out and says I’m still making mistakes at six months that I shouldn’t be. I ask for examples. A few of them were petty matters Eva had mentioned, but most of them were just not true. I tried to argue, but it was clear that I was set up.

I decided to reach out to the owner since I had nothing to lose.

He was sympathetic but said he relies on GM to run the business and had to support her decision. Then he mentioned that if things hadn’t been so bad between me and Eva, it probably could have been worked out. That’s when I knew she was behind me being fired from a job I needed, really liked, and was making great money…and I vowed to get revenge.

I started searching for her online info. In less than an hour, I had uncovered gold thanks to one of those payment services.

About three months prior, Eva was arrested and charged with DWI in a neighboring state. The court records showed she had a hearing coming up in a few weeks. That was enough to get her fired. It affects a professional license she and I had to have as management. Per state law, license holders must report criminal charges to the licensing board, and in the case of a DWI arrest, licenses are typically suspended pending trial.

I called the owner and told him what I discovered. It was news to him. I guess since it was out of state; Eva was keeping it secret. Maybe she was hoping to get let off the charges.

The next day, the owner called and said Eva was fired. He thanked me for telling him about her DWI, apologized for how I was fired, and offered me Eva’s position and salary. He asked me to come in the next morning to meet with him and to cover Eva’s shift.

I accepted.

That alone was sweetly satisfying revenge, but what happened next was the icing on the cake. I got to work extra early, met with the owner and GM, and we all agreed to start fresh. Cool. It was still an hour before opening, and I was in the back of the place when I heard the front door chime. When I came out a few minutes later, Eva was there, tears flowing, begging the owner for her job back.

She obviously didn’t know I was there because when she saw me, her whole body seized, and her shocked expression was priceless. I walked right by her, staring her down with a sh*tty grin, and went outside.

Eva came out a minute later and wouldn’t make eye contact. As she walked away I said, “Good luck on the 23rd.” That was her court date.” merk35802

Another User Comments:

“Sense of inferiority among other things. Eva knew OP was probably better than her at the job which is why she used every opportunity to point out a flaw.

That combined with her pending DWI made it so she wanted to make sure that nobody could take her place.

The funny thing about that, though, is if she had just kept her head down, she’d probably still have her job.” katebex

1. Belittle Me As An Employee? I’ll Let Your Girlfriend Know About Your Dirty Little Secret

“So I used to work for a phone repair store in the UK, and on many occasions, we have people that come in for repairs to their phone – from software reboots to full technical repairs.

We had a guy that came with an older Samsung phone asking for a repair on their phone. We’ll call this guy Sam (for the Samsung phone).

So I greet him and ask him what the issue is with his phone.

He starts to explain that certain parts of his phone’s screen are inactive and not working with pressure. A quick check shows that indeed the phone’s screen has issues, and I begin to ask some simple questions.

Me – ‘So, how long have you had the phone for?’

Sam – ‘Does it matter? You’re a repair shop, you can fix it.’

Me – ‘I need to ask as if we need to repair the phone we can do it in warranty. If not you’d have to pay for the parts.’

Sam looks like I’ve literally asked him to sacrifice his firstborn child.

Sam – ‘Why the eff would I pay for an issue when it’s clearly a technical issue?’

I start to explain that some phones have a warranty to cover certain parts over a period of time.

He isn’t having it.

Sam – ‘I don’t know but as a customer of Samsung for 10 years, I think I should have this done for free.’

Me – ‘I’m really sorry but it doesn’t work that way. Looking up it on the system, your phone is just outside of the warranty, so to repair the screen it would cost $xx.’
I’ve done it now. The guy starts up and starts bellowing at the top of his voice. Customers in the shop stop and stare and all I can do is look on as this guy starts to tear into me.

Me – ‘Listen to me, you’re going to repair my phone you fat ***** (I am a slightly larger built guy – it’s a regular thing that gets thrown my way).

I’ve been with Samsung for years and they would be disgusted at your customer service. I want your manager. I want to talk to someone who isn’t an arrogant little ***.”

I wave over the manager and sit and listen while this guy explains to how rude and belittling I was to this guy, how I was overcharging him for a repair when it should be free.

The manager knows this isn’t me and tries to explain the procedure. This guy full on screams at the manager, and causes such a scene that other customer’s turn and walk straight out. This guy is going to cause us to have no customers left.

The manager calls the Head Office and explains the situation. As a goodwill gesture, they will allow us to repair the phone for free. The manager lets the customer know and he sits downs happy with himself.

I have to sit and watch Sam smugly sit with my manager as he tells him how they should employ better customer service employees while booking in the phone. I’m on the verge of tears and begin to serve the other shocked customers in the store.

My manager asks the guy if he’s backed up the phone, as part of the policy for repairs, customers are required to clear their phone before handing it over. I brace myself as Sam suddenly roars up again.

Sam – ‘That’s disgraceful! I haven’t backed anything up and I have a hundred of important contacts on that phone. If they are removed I will sue you and that (pointing at me again) over there for everything you have.’
So before this guy has an aneurysm in the store, and to prevent another explosion, my manager sighs and starts to back up the phone on the system (on the rare occasion we can back it up – for nice people.

I always do it for an older person, as they are always nice to me).

We get the guy to sign the paperwork and explain the repair procedure.

20 minutes later it’s done and he meets his girlfriend outside the store. This lady is younger than Sam and very pretty. Blonde hair, tall and slim – this will become relevant later. He starts to talk to her in the store and she looks in and laughs.

An hour later, I get a call from the head office.

Apparently, this guy called them and explained the way I ‘acted’ to this guy (all lies about me being rude and threatening to him). Even with back up from my manager, head office wanted to have an informal meeting with me as they wanted to retrain me on my customer service.

I was hurt. My manager was apologetic and knew that it wasn’t my fault but there was nothing I could do.

I’m not a person who is malicious or angry – but this was just unfair.

When I left the repair shop, my manager explained that this guy told a lot of bullcrap about what I said to him, and his wife backed him up despite not being there (there are no cameras in the shop part were I work so they couldn’t verify if the woman had been there).

So I needed to ensure that this guy got some payback.
A few days later, the guy’s phone needed a screen replacement as well as a logic board, so the phone was cleared of all its data.

Part of our testing is to ensure that the software and some testing data is put onto the phone in case an issue comes up. I start the process and begin to back up the phone as well as update the data. I thought to ensure that it wasn’t something on his phone which caused the issue, I would restore the phone to test.

Now, this guy isn’t very smart. As his data streams onto the phone, you can see the file names and small thumbnails of the images as they upload.

There are some standard photos – holidays, pictures of his wife, drinks (the typical middle-age ‘I’ve got a camera so I’ll take photos of everything’ type of thing).

Then some rather ‘adult-orientated’ ones come up. This is normal when looking through people’s phones.

As I begin to minimize as I don’t really fancy seeing what this guy gets up to, several photos of this guy come up with a woman. But this woman isn’t his wife. This is was of someone very different.

This woman was black-haired and in a rather unflattering position with this guy ‘involving’ himself with this woman.

Then another woman, a darker-skinned lady flashes up again in a similar position. I minimize this as I don’t want to see anymore, but I know I’ve got my payback.

This is my chance. I stop the process and clear the phone of data. I use the spare data, complete the checks, and get the phone ready for collection.

I don’t condone what I did, nor do I recommend it.

But you have to understand that once in a lifetime, the nice guy has a dark moment. And this was mine.

So I call the guy and explain that his phone is repaired. “About ****** time’ was the response. He explains that he will be at the store in an hour (just before we close). I explain to my manager about this guy coming in, and due to being short-staffed, he said I’d have to deal with him.

He was worried this guy would start again on me. However, I wanted to help him with his phone.

So Sam sits down at my desk, with his girlfriend beside him. I politely begin to explain the repairs but this guy doesn’t give a crap about the words out of my mouth. He just looks at me in a condescending way – like I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’ve done this so much that I know more than you.

When I finish, I explain I need to put his data back on the phone. I hear a ‘Hurry up will you, I’ve got to be somewhere to be other than sitting here with you.’ This came from the girlfriend this time.

So she was just as rude as he was.

Without another word, I plug the phone in and begin the restoring process. Now, our front desks have fairly large monitors at an angle so both customers and staff can see them as we do training with customers on new handsets, show them images of the repair, etc.

Normally, I would minimize the software for the sake of the privacy of the customer. Not this guy. I full screen the software and ensure that the preview image is big enough for them both to see.

The shop is empty at this point, so I know no unsuspecting children are about to see this show.

The guy sits back and the girlfriend huffs, crosses her legs and sits back in the seat. The images begin to flash up.

They talk about their dogs and the time they went for a weekend away. They comment on how nice Portugal was as a holiday when a picture of a sunny veranda flashes up and that they should go back this weekend.

I sit back and bite my lip. I’m worried that I’m being too petty.

‘Shame people like this guy won’t be able to afford first class. Shame.’ ****. I smile politely at this woman looking at me with sympathy.

‘I suppose I won’t.’ I know that this is needed to knock them down a peg.

Then it happens. The lady with the black hair pops up, and immediately the guy knows he’s about to be rumbled. His girlfriend suddenly freezes, her mouth left open.

‘Is that xxx…?’

More images start to flash up on the phone. This guy knows he’s in deep trouble. She turns in her chair to look at Sam. She looks disgusted

I’ve never been so happy to see this guy sink into his seat.

She starts to tear into him. Everything is spilling out about this guy and I’m happy to have front row seats.

My manager comes around the corner as well as some of the technicians from downstairs from the shouting.

My manager looks at me, to them, and then to the screen where a rather unflattering image of this guy on a bed with more varieties of women around him pop up. My manager bites his lip to stop laughing and rests against the wall.

This woman has full-on gone now. She’s slapped Sam and is screaming anything she can at him. She runs from the shop screaming how it was over and she couldn’t face her friends now (turns out some of the women in the photos were personal friends of hers).

He gets up to leave and yanks his phone from the cable on the desk (this is going to cause issues later, as he could corrupt his data yanking it out – the CHERRY ON TOP).

He looks at me and I manage to poker face long enough that he doesn’t suspect anything. He doesn’t know what to say. He just goldfishes at me.

He runs from the store after her shouting for her to come back. I don’t see them again. My manager comes over and while laughing, tells me not to do that again. The techs are laughing too at the show.” AnonPhoneWorker

Nobody expects a person to be perfect, but at the very least, it’d be nice if everyone could be decent.

Oh, how I would love it if everyone could all just get along and that there’d be no dama! But then again, we wouldn’t have delicious revenge stories like these.