People Discuss The Coolest Revenge They've Gotten
14. Eat My Food? Have The Dog's Too
“The year was 2006. I was a young, dumb girl that had gone and gotten myself married to someone completely wrong for me.
He refused to work, and as a result of the financial difficulties of us both being in school and only me working, we found ourselves living with his mom. Let me tell you, that is every newlywed’s DREAM.
Over the course of us living with her, any time I would buy myself a food treat, my mother-in-law would eat it.
It didn’t matter what it was or where I hid it; she was a bloodhound for sniffing out things that I bought just for me.
The final straw was one night when we had gone out to dinner at the Cheesecake Factory. I had taken my slice to-go and put it in the fridge.
I was gonna have it after work the next day.
The next day at work is absolute garbage, and THE ONLY thing getting me through my shift is the small luxury I had at home waiting for me – a slice of cheesecake I know is in my fridge.
I go home and pop the lid off the container, and it doesn’t look right.
There are freaking fork marks all around the outside perimeter of my cheesecake, like she could just sneak some off all around, and I wouldn’t notice. I was livid.
I went and handed it to her and told her she may as well eat the rest of it.
Fast forward a few days, and I am at the pet store picking up some dog food. I’m standing in line waiting to check out, and they have these little boxes of dog treats that look like the little red boxes of animal crackers you can buy for little kids.
Now, it very clearly says on the front “Circus Animals For Dogs.”
About this time, I’ve got the little devil sitting on my shoulder whispering in my ear, “Do it.” And then the angel pops onto my other shoulder and screams, “FREAKING DO IT!!!” So, they magically end up with the stuff I am buying.
I drive home and leave everything in a bag altogether on the kitchen counter.
Several hours later, she comes into our room and says, “I think there was something wrong with those animal crackers. They were the most awful ones I’ve ever eaten. I had to eat a whole thing of frosting with them just to finish them.”
All I said was, “Huh” and shrugged my shoulders.”
13. Try To Steal My Technique? I'll Keep You In Your Lane
“So, years and years back, I worked at an art gallery, where I also sold these super cute little origami crane earrings I hand-lacquered. I’d perfected my technique over many months of trial and error.
Some other shops sold origami earrings, but they were usually just paper (which would fall apart if they got even a little damp) or only superficially coated with something (which wasn’t much better). I had artistic pride in presenting unique and beautiful pieces with real staying power.
Part of what I did as an employee involved teaching classes, which I enjoyed. I taught watercolor, creative writing, paper crafts, jewelry making, and origami. Usually, I came in with a specific project in mind for my students, who ranged in age but were mainly in the 30 to 60-year-old age group.
I was well-known at the gallery, so people knew what to expect, and my watercolor classes sometimes had so many people attending that we had to turn people away.
One of the students who came in for classes once in a while (let’s call her K, age about 65) also consigned work with our gallery.
Her pieces were cute but overpriced. (Nice beads, but $60-100 for a single-strand bracelet in our town was pretty steep.) My earrings flew off the shelves at $14 a pair while she made maybe one or two sales a quarter. I think that’s where K got the idea to start making my earrings.
She thought she was being subtle, but I saw her earlier in the day standing next to my earrings with this certain look on her face. When my paper crafting class started, K immediately asked if I could teach her how to fold a crane, and her eyes darted over to my earring stand.
I took a deep breath. I only had a few students that day, so I got the other ones started on some paper quilling with the objective of making a flower (they all had at least a little prior experience), answered all their questions, made sure they were going strong, and sat down next to K.
Now, when I teach origami, it’s usually a class full of students all doing the same thing, and we start small. A flower. A ladybug. A leaf. Little things that help them learn the basic folds. I also start them on large paper–six inches, or for those who struggle with that, 8.5.
I usually go one fold at a time, make sure all the students have that fold down, then move to the net fold. I correct their folds. I have diagrams. I show them the finished pieces they’re working towards at the start. We move on to more complex pieces as their ability grows.
Not with K that day, though. First, she wants to learn my techniques to make her own earrings to sell, and then she wants to interrupt my class? Fine.
I pulled out my three-inch paper, a sheet for me and one for K. I went through the folds quickly–not so fast that it seemed like I was leaving her behind on purpose but fast enough that she finished a fold just to see me beginning the next before she had her bearings again.
I didn’t go out of my way to check her folds. I didn’t correct her when a fold went askew. I corrected major issues that wouldn’t lead to anything like a crane so she wouldn’t think I was sabotaging her, but no more than that.
At the end, I had a beautiful, crisp crane sitting in front of me. She had a squashed-looking malformed duck with one huge wing. She sort of frowned at it.
“You know,” I said, “cranes are exponentially harder to fold the smaller you go.”
“What size paper did we just use?”
“Three-inch.”
“What size do you use for your earrings?” She jerked her head in the direction of my display.
“One-point-two-five.”
K never bothered trying to make my earrings after that.”
Another User Comments:
“If she had somehow miraculously learned your proper style and began selling them as direct competition, you could have returned the favor by crafting nicer bracelets and selling at lower prices.” HunterDavidsonED
12. Expect Us To Serve Your Large Party During A Busy Day? We'll Stall Bringing Out Your Food
What part of, “We can’t do that” does Karen not understand?
“So this happened a couple of years back in a pub I was working at. I worked the bar at this pub which was pretty popular especially on sunny days as we had a lot of outdoor seating and a pretty huge beer garden.
Now the story takes place on one exceptionally hot summer Sunday. For those of you who have the joy of not being all that familiar with our tea and crumpets society, I’ll enlighten you as to why this is a pain for working in a pub.
Firstly, the moment the sun blesses our sodden gray land with its presence, we British come out of our thatched caves to bask in its glow like the lizard people our royal family is. This subsequently also means everyone had the exact same thought of, “Let’s go have a pint at the pub and sit in the sun.” Yay for bartending.
The other noteworthy point here is that on Sunday, a roast is had. Beef, lamb, chicken, or pork with roasted potatoes veggies, gravy, and Yorkshire puddings. All of which is wonderful unless you have to spend 2 hours cooking it.
With that out of the way, this particular Sunday, we were full, and I mean full.
Bar 4 or 5 people deep, the 100+ tables all double-booked for turn over, and I found myself without a moment’s respite between pouring drinks and telling people we were fully booked. During this manic rush, I spot a bit of a commotion outside and see a group of roughly 30-35 people including screaming kids walking through the courtyard ignoring everyone and into the beer garden.
Once my colleague and I had thinned down the numbers at the bar substantially, I told him I was going to walk past to see what the huge group was doing. Anyone that’s worked with real-life people, of course, knows that people suck, hence why I just wanted to walk past and avoid interaction.
Also, it’s a pet peeve of mine when people just sit themselves down ignoring all the staff and expecting us to accommodate them without even the courtesy of mentioning to someone that they’re here.
So I take a step past the threshold of the bar (always dangerous and that day a choice I regretted) and walk through the beer garden collecting empty glasses as I go.
As I near the area the group has settled in, as far away from the building as possible I might add, I avoid eye contact at all costs. You’re not going to come to say hi, then I can’t see you. Walking past the group, I am spotted by a very angry woman, the alpha Karen if you will.
Snapping her fingers at me to try and get my attention, as I tried to get away. She stormed up to me and stared me dead in the face.
“Excuse me, we’ve been waiting here for the last 15 minutes, and no one has come to give us menus; what are you all doing?” I’ll admit I was momentarily in shock as the group had to walk through the courtyard and must have seen the crowds of people and stressed waiters everywhere.
“I’m sorry, madam, but I had no idea you were here. Did you speak with anyone to let us know?” Then what I saw was a rage build just below her plasticized skin. “Yes, I… I spoke with the redhead!” (No one that worked there was a redhead.) “Well, anyway, I want some menus; we’re STARVING!” I looked past her and asked how many they were.
“We’re 36 people. That’s not a problem, is it?” She said without so much as a hint of understanding why this was ridiculous. “Well, yes, actually; that’s quite a lot for a walk-in, and as you probably saw on your way in, we’re extremely busy. I’m afraid we have no tables available, and we don’t serve food in the beer garden.
You’ll have to try your luck at getting a table in the courtyard, but I can’t imagine you’ll be able to find enough seating for the 36 of you, and I simply can’t hold tables for you turning other guests away.” The reality is that I could but simply didn’t want to.
She stared at me for a moment then said, “You don’t serve food in the beer garden, or YOU won’t serve me food in the beer garden?” “No, madam, the establishment does not serve food in the beer garden.” “Ugh! Fine, look, can we just have chips then?
For the kids? They’re starving.”
I thought about it for a moment deciding if I was really willing to put up with this or if I should just say no and send them on their way. Against my better judgment, I said ok, but they would have to sit in the courtyard once the tables were available and asked roughly how many portions of chips they would be wanting.
She replied 6, and I said that’s probably fine, but she’ll have to go inside to order. This did not sit well with her, and she started to get very cross. On my way back in, I swung by the kitchen to let them know what’s up and to expect 6 chip orders but not to rush them because the woman was an enormous pain.
I get back to the bar, and it’s busy again, 3-4 people deep, so I immediately jump in and start pouring pints. A few minutes later, I hear, “Oh for God’s sake; this is ridiculous!” and immediately know who it is as this tiny angry woman pushes her way through the crowd and snaps her fingers at me to get my attention.
“You, I want to order my chips. And hurry it up; the kids are hungry.” “Ok, I’ll put them on now. 6 portions, correct?” “No, 17.” Sufficient to say, I was bewildered. “Madam, that’s not what we discussed; I’ll have to see if the kitchen can even do that.
We’re very busy.” “Well, go on then. Run along to the kitchen,” she barked. As I was about to, I hear, “Actually, can you make it 35?” “Madam, I’ll be honest with you. There’s no way you’ll get them all at once; it’s simply too many for the fryer.
It’ll have to be in batches, and it’s going to take a while as there are more pressing orders ahead of you. You will also need to pay upfront.” “I don’t care; bring them one by one if you have to. As soon as one is ready, bring it out.” Bingo.
I went and spoke to the chef explaining what was going on: rude woman, many chips, one by one. He laughed, and we decided to do exactly as she asked. Bring on the MC. So, despite being very, very busy, as soon as one portion of chips was ready, I took it out — one portion, only one.
She was not pleased. “What is this? I said 35 portions, not one.” “As I explained to you inside, madam, 35 portions are simply far too many for our fryers to handle, and there is a substantial number of other orders ahead of you.” I had to try very hard to hide my poop-eating grin at this point.
“But… But… What do you expect me to do with this?” “Perhaps you could have one chip each per portion?” And I swiftly turned and walked away. Following this every 10-15 minutes, I would take out one more and only one more portion of chips to the group.
By about portion 12, they had been there several hours and were fed up. They tried to complain to the manager, but she was so rude and disrespectful to me, my manager, and other staff members that he dismissed her stating that I had explained clearly to her that we were very busy, and she herself had told me to bring them out one portion at a time if need be.
They left very angry, and we had 23 portions of chips paid for that staff got to enjoy later on.”
Another User Comments:
“Why would any person, at any time, at any pub think a 35 person walk-in would be just fine and dandy?” RobertGA23
I'm SO glad that you and your Co workers messed with them. I was laughing all the way through.
11. Think You're Entitled To A Cut In Line? No Muffins For You
If you would’ve just played it fair, it wouldn’t have had to be this way.
“So, this happened today. Just now, actually.
I’m doing my elderly neighbor’s shopping every so often, and they needed stuff from a couple of shops today as it’s been a while, and they needed a good amount of shopping done.
I’d been out for a couple of hours by this point. I was tired, and my feet were really hurting, and I was pretty much done with the outside world (very much an indoor kind of girl; don’t go out if I can help it for months on end).
So, I was at the last shop I needed and the closest to home. I’d already dealt with multiple grumpy/entitled/moronic people already, and as I said above, I. Was. Done.
This random woman (I’ll call her RW) comes barging past me in the cart corral, and whilst I’m walking towards it to get myself a cart, she pushes me out of the way to get her own.
Okay, I think to myself, she’s just in a hurry.
Deep breaths and continue. So, I did.
I walk past her as she’s browsing the flower section, and I head towards the in-store bakery and wait in the orderly line that’s already there.
Three people in front of me, two are a couple, so it’s no big deal that I have to wait a few moments for a couple of blueberry muffins.
Then in comes the RW. She tries to push in front of the couple and solo shopper in front of me.
The person at the very front said he was in line for the bakery. She tried to stand behind him but in front of the couple. They politely say they’re in a line. Then she stands in front of me.
I nicely tell her I’ve also joined the line, and I think it’s just behind me by now to save her trying to jump in just behind me.
She then looks at me, sighs, stamps her foot, and this ensues.
RW: “I’m only here for a couple of them purple muffins. Can I just go ahead? I’m not going to take long.” (as she’s trying to step back in front of me)
Me: (moving forward a tiny bit to make clear she’s not getting in) “Actually, that’s all I’m here for too, so I think your best bet is just joining the line; it’s not long at all.”
RW: (sighs loudly and rolls her eyes at me, clearly getting fed up, starts walking) “For God’s sake: 2 freaking muffins.”
In my head: I get it lady, trust me.
I’m standing here with sore feet in uncomfortable shoes trying my best too.
She eventually goes off to the back but is tapping her feet, tapping her toes, etc., grumbling about wasting time waiting for a couple of muffins.
So, I then get to the muffins. They have a ton of chocolate but only 4 blueberry. After seeing the 4, I was only going to get 2 for the neighbors so as to share, but I wanted 2 for me, and neighbors wrote 2 on their list (the reason I was in that shop in the first place.) I really do enjoy the blueberry muffins and usually, always buy myself 2 when I’m in there.
And given the stress of the morning already, I felt I deserved a treat as it’s been months.
But given that she made the two people in line behind me leave the bakery line (one looked like he wanted to cry) because of her behavior, I decided I would like my 2 usual muffins.
She saw I had 4, 2 in 2 bags, and her jaw hit the floor when she saw none left in the basket. I was going to leave the 2 for me behind until she decided to continue the awful behavior after the cart incident. She asked the store colleague if they had any more because some selfish woman had just taken the last ones.
(He saw me take them. I’ve been shopping in there for 5 years, and most of the colleagues know my face by now.) He looked at me; I shrugged.
He said to her that they only had what was put out all ready for the day.
So, she tutted and went about gathering multiple bakery bags and getting some other stuff. I continued on with my neighbor’s shopping and didn’t see or hear her again.
And then!
At checkout, we’re being asked to wait in the aisle near the checkout until we’re called up to the register.
So, I stood there, clearly watching the cashier lady, and then comes RW. She looks at me, walks past me, and dumps her cart (with about 7 bakery bags, one with chocolate muffins, so clearly didn’t just want 2 muffins), and started loading.
The cashier lady looked at me as if to say something, but I’m not the confrontation type, and after today, it just didn’t need to be said.
But RW looked at me, clearly waiting for an argument.
So, I simply said, after looking behind me to make sure she wasn’t about to inconvenience anyone else, ‘No, you’re okay. You go ahead. I’m not in a hurry. I’ve got the muffins I needed; a couple of extra minutes wait won’t hurt me.’
And her face turned bright red. I’m sure I could see the steam coming from her ears. But, she got herself sorted and went on her way. I made sure to pack my cart at the opposite end of the packing area. I purposely went slowly until she left; I didn’t need a round 3.
Luckily by the time I was packed, she seemed long gone. I put my cart back and came home.
The neighbors are happy, and I’m enjoying my blueberry muffins with my sore feet up. They said they’ll enjoy theirs even more after hearing my story.
Now, I’m the first person to let people in front of me when they say they’re in a hurry or even look like they’re in a hurry. I’m definitely socially awkward, and I beyond hate being out, least of all alone, but if I don’t shop for the neighbors, they’ll have no food, especially having no kids themselves.
And after nearly being knocked off my feet, so she could get a cart first and saying nothing, I wasn’t about to be bossed around a second time.”
10. But I Thought "Real Men" Like A Lot Of Salt?
“When I was 11, my dad would meet up with his mate John at John’s farm for drinks and catch-ups once a week or two. Sometimes he’d bring me and my brother, and we’d explore around the paddocks or the sheep shed, etc. Sometimes John would have food for all of us to eat, and sometimes John would have other friends around who’d drink and joke/catch up with Dad.
One of them, Vic, was a jerk to me. He’d offer me a pack of chips, then when I took them, they’d be empty, and he’d laugh at me; he’d hide my drink when I wasn’t looking and laugh as I tried to find it, and he’d ask me questions I didn’t understand then laugh when I was confused by them.
Real juvenile, yet annoying stuff.
One time John had made lamb chops for me, my brother, Dad, another friend who’s not integral to the story, and Vic. Vic was being a jerk again and decided to mock me for not massively salting my lamb chops.
He’d chuckle at me and say, “Y’know, real men like lots of salt on their meals, builds muscle.” or “Come on kid! You’re supposed to salt it not sprinkle it!” I don’t know, he was weird?
Having had enough of his insistence on salting food, I took the salt shaker when he wasn’t looking and poured a decent amount of it into his beer bottle, then unscrewed the top and left it by where he put his plate of food usually.
Sure enough, he saw my chops and started scoffing at the lack of salt on them before sitting down and burying his chops in salt. Vic, Dad, the other guy, and John all stared at Vic’s salt pile garnished with lamb chops in disbelief.
Unable to hold back the biggest poop-eating grin, I innocently asked him, “I thought real men liked lots of salt on their food?” Everybody except Vic burst out laughing at him for getting dunked on by an (at the time) 11-year-old.
He grumbled something under his breath then took a hearty swig of his beer, before coughing and rushing out the door to spit it out. Again I asked him, “Don’t like salt after all? Guess you’re not a real man then…” By now, everyone but Vic was red in the face laughing and barely staying in their seats.
Vic wasn’t happy but swallowed his pride and ignored me the rest of the day. Every time food was made and Vic was there, he was watching his plate like a vulture and once he tried to pull the salt shaker lid trick on me (didn’t work, I tested the lid before salting my food which resulted in mocking laughs from Dad and John about how he was aping my own prank and failed too).
After that, he showed up less frequently to the weekly drinks, and when he did, he was polite but unengaged with me from then on.”
Another User Comments:
“Bullies can dish it out but can’t take it in return.” Leebelle3
9. Won't Stop Punching Me? Get Ketchup'd From Head To Toe
How did this girl not get fired?!
“Let me set the scene… this was eons ago.
I had a sweet deal with my parents that they’d pay for my apartment as long as I was in school and worked part-time for utilities. Stupid me went through some boy drama and dropped out of college.
So, obviously, parents pulled their financing, and rightly so. Desperate to not move back in with them, I went out and got some jobs. I had 4 total, all part-time. One of which was at the Golden Arches in our local mall. (Hopefully, you guys remember malls.)
Our grunt uniforms were black pants and turquoise t-shirts with the list of ingredients for a particular item we sold. I’m sure, in your lifetime, you’ve heard the songs they’ve made with the ingredients. The managers had blouses (yes, they were all female) with these derpy bow tie-like things.
The manager in training (MIT) also had a blouse/derp tie, just in a different color. This is relevant.
At 19, busting my butt as much as I could at all of my jobs that I didn’t care about, I just kept my head down and worked. I didn’t really talk to that many people at any of my jobs (except for my cousin and Manager 1); I went in, did my job, went home.
Working at night at GA was fine. The people were more laid back, M1 was the closer, and we all just did our thing. Plus, there was a candy shop in the mall we traded with. We’d load up GA bags and run downstairs and get pounds of Jelly Bellys.
This was, by far, the best perk.
During the day was a whole different story. People actually fought to work breakfast and lunch because it was a better schedule for them. I was a floater as I had to try to eek in as many hours as I could.
Manager 2, being uber corporate was just a tough cookie. I, again, didn’t care that much about the job. She started hating me after I refused to be an MIT. I had no desire to do their training program and become what she was.
Enter MIT.
She’s 16. She was always really chipper and bubbly (cheerleader at the local high school) to the managers but a complete witch to the rest of us hamburger grunts. Put the fries in the fryer too fast? Threat of a write-up. Didn’t dash out to clean tables as soon as they were empty because there was a rush?
Threat of a write-up. Didn’t have your obnoxious turquoise hat that no one looked good in at the right angle? Threat of a write-up. See where I’m going with this? You’ve never seen such a power trip. The best part is, she had no actual authority over us.
To the other managers, she was one of us grunts in prettier clothes.
MIT had this absolutely awful habit of socking you in the arm before she talked to you. Not a polite tap… no, full-on punch. As you can imagine, I got hit a lot as I was always there.
It got to the point that I started to get bruises. Obviously, I went to the managers after asking her to simply stop didn’t work. They said, “Oh, she’s just like that. Just ignore it.”
After a month solid of “ignoring it,” I’d had enough.
I talked to M1 about it at closing and showed her my arms. She agreed something had to be done, but as she was (A.) Not there when it happened (God forbid you just take someone’s word about abuse at GA), and (B.) The lowest manager other than MIT there, it was really out of her hands.
The Wednesday I worked next (yes, I remember the day of the week), MIT came in, and when she finally came around and punched me again. I bent down and got in her pimply braced-out face (she was shorter than me by 5″) and told her very calmly that this last punch was the last punch.
An hour… just a mere 60 minutes went by. She came up to me while I was making hamburgers and punched me again.
If you’re unfamiliar with the workings of GA in the backend where we make the food… we had these squirters (I’m sure they have a term for it, but I don’t care that much) for ketchup and mustard that squirt a very precise amount of each condiment onto your burger.
It held about a liter of condiment (give or take, I don’t do measurements well) and they were both recently filled.
Anyway, when she punched me, I had the ketchup squirter in hand. I whipped around to face MIT, told her, “I warned you.” And proceeded to empty the ketchup on her from head to toe.
It was in her hair, running down her face, IN her blouse, just… a mess.
She started screaming at me that I ruined her blouse, and she’s a manager, how dare I, and on and on. Then she starts crying and runs to the bathroom.
The other misfits started giggling, then chuckling, then full-out fall-over guffawing. M2 happened to be there and raced to check on MIT as all she saw was a flying red disaster when she went to the bathroom. I turned back to my ketchup squirter, refilled it, and waited.
20 minutes later, M2 pulled me aside to get my story. I told her I’d tried to ignore her and warned her not to do it again. I didn’t get a writeup… funny enough, they couldn’t figure out a way to word it where ketchup would sound… abusive?
The aftermath: MIT got a new uniform shirt as the one she had could not be saved. Her parents tried to come after GA because their precious angel had been assaulted, but the main store manager who was really never there told them off. They made sure to not schedule us at the same time.
I was switched mainly to closing (yay, more candy). I quit a few weeks after that. It didn’t have anything to do with the situation above. I just couldn’t handle coming home greasy every day. I ended up moving back home to my parents shortly after.”
8. Don't Need Me To Train My Replacement Before I Leave? Okay...
“I used to work as the dedicated inventory guy for a tire and wheel store that dealt in ONLY that. Big chain. All their guys wear black (not by choice), even on the most blistering of days.
Nearly ten years working there, and I was the only one handling their 5000 to 7500 tires, along with several hundred wheels, nuts, bolts, tire lube, replacement parts.
Basically, I organized the entire store in terms of what was bought, sold, used. I received most shipments, whether a single tire by FedEx… or our two times a week shipment of 400-800 units.
Not something I knew for a long time, but my technical “job” was listed as a three-person rotating task.
I did it all myself. The manager I worked with for most of those ten years was very happy and supportive of me, trying to make sure I was taken care of if I needed help.
Unfortunately, the company underwent plenty of “Bleh” changes after the owner of the whole chain died. It shifted from a family thing to a profit and micromanagement thing.
My great manager was stressed and went from great to not so great. I won’t deny I got pretty upset with a few things from him, but it was just the situation didn’t favor him.
Ultimately, he was transferred to an administrative position to finish out till retirement, and we got a new manager and lots of extra salary salesmen.
I was left on inventory, as everyone confirmed I was the only guy for the job that knew ANYTHING. They tried giving me newbies to “learn the ropes,” but I only got a couple of days with them before they were pulled for more “important” things.
Eventually, they gave up caring and figured I would do inventory for the foreseeable future.
Well… the end of 2018 came with me looking for other opportunities. It wasn’t entirely because of the shift at work, but doing a three-person job after ten years was starting to take its toll on my back.
I started at about 20 and was getting close to 30. I can’t deny I was getting kinda scared I would do something irreparable to my back that would stick with me forever.
They pulled equipment I needed to do better without straining myself more, made the process of pulling inventory more bureaucratic and lengthy without need for it, and would keep trying to limit my time doing things but expect the same results.
They also kept resisting my plans to reorganize stock because brands don’t always need the same amount of space. That major brand that did really well three years ago and took up 1000 tires worth of space only takes up 400 now. But hey! I have this brand that did an overhaul and we used to carry barely 250 for them.
Now? We are ordering hundreds of them weekly with a need for 750 units of space, so there’s stock unable to fit in one place, but a huge gap in another, I can fill.
I’m sure some of you can understand you don’t just start shoving items from the wrong brand into a gap because “there’s space there… use it.”
As I’m in the final weeks of my lovely tenure there (I’ve been training for the new job for about six weeks. They had plenty of warning to replace my position), I reminded them they should find someone I can give the rundown to before it’s too late.
My new management, as well as two salesmen I never liked, tell me in very businessy and ‘polite’ terms… “Just do your job and let us worry about it.”
I tried to be nice about it because while I don’t get on well with the salesmen (except one.
he was always great), I love my fellow service techs in the back getting dirty on every car, through the heat of summer, and getting our legs turned almost blue when working in the freezing snow and slush of the winter.
I then realized that it really is their problem… not mine.
Cue the malicious compliance.
I found a lovely time when all three of my most concerning resistors were away. Two were on meetings with corporate for two to three days. One was on vacation for the rest of the week.
This was great as it was my last week as well.
I hauled all kinds of butt that week. I reorganized the whole place to my specs. I wanted everything to fit. I wanted everything perfectly presentable. I did it my way and got EVERYTHING in.
To note: some years, especially in peak winter with lots coming in, we got so overstocked, we couldn’t fit everything all at once (which also was because of them not letting me deal with it efficiently).
I took care of that overstock and fit it ALL in. Brands were moved and notes were left. I let all my favorite co-workers who pulled my inventory the most know what’s up. They adapted instantly because it’s really not that hard. Just remember the salt is in the pantry now, not next to the stove.
I was commended on my effort and thanked for doing that before leaving.
However, I knew what was coming. No… not from the guys who didn’t want my organization methods.
By not replacing me or at least covering what’ve been doing for ten years… well… imagine it like giving someone a nice clean and well-working car that they never maintain because it was always taken care of…
Yeah…
I started my new job and got paid almost double.
A couple of months in, and I start getting calls from former co-workers. Apparently, they never really tried to replace me at all. Things fell apart. Tires were shoved into the racks with no regard for where they belonged. If there was space, “fill it!” After three months, I heard three longtime employees walked out because the lack of organization was killing their bay times for dealing with cars, leading to a domino fall of stressful work environment stuff.
It took an average of 15 minutes at our store to deal with most things on one car.
However, I was told it was taking that long just to find the units needed after pulling the car in. Heck! Sometimes they gave up and tried to huff it to another nearby store to find their tires, thinking they had an inventory error.
Obviously, that level of delay and inefficiency made the managers angry at those they blamed. Service techs usually got the heat.
I wish I could say there were more juicy details about the aftermath… but at a certain point, all my ears in that store left. I feel like that’s enough said in and of itself.
One bit that came about the four or five-month mark after I left, one of the managers called me on my personal phone. They asked how I was doing and wondered if my new job was working out.
I was very happy and energetically told them how great I felt in my new job.
He inquired whether I might be interested in helping out at the store again. I declined.
Now I’m not the best at reading people but this person seemed so lost in their tone that I can only guess they had so little luck in finding a replacement for what I did.
I’m far more appreciated now in my new job.
The thing that made me feel a little bad, but also good-ish, is that my former coworkers agreed that when I left was when things started to get terrible. It probably didn’t hurt that I was the insatiable goof of the store, too, who told sooooo many bad puns.”
Another User Comments:
“You did the right thing. Too many companies get a kick of it just doing things to do them and not having any sense of longevity with their strategies. I worked at a place where we developed systems of organization, and management hated them because they couldn’t be bothered to take a bit and learn how we did it.
Management alone can make or break an employment experience.” MySonPorygon137
7. Speed Through A Residential Area? Your Car's Gonna Be Destroyed
“So, this was quite a few years ago.
One day, my kids were skating in a quarter pipe when this truck comes around the corner with a bubba driving, and he sees my daughter come off the quarter pipe, and instead of slowing down, he floors it and rips past my house still accelerating while yelling something about, ‘Leap out of the road, jerks.’ I yelled also: ‘Slow down!’
The following weekend, I’m out mowing my lawn, and I see this guy coming, so I walk out to the edge and try to wave him down to talk, and the bubba floors it again laughing like a maniac as he goes flying by with his engine redlining.
This guy is a nut.
So, I go to the hardware store and pick up three of those 3-foot orange safety cones, and I put a sign on each one of them: slow down, residential neighborhood, kids at play.
A few days later, I come outside and find the cones have been run over.
I already know who did it. I’m pretty angry. Like really angry. And in that anger, I came up with my most brilliant plan.
I went to the hardware store and purchased 3 new cones, along with cement and steel rebar. I filled those things with rebar and cement and let them set.
After the cones were ready, I put them back out on the side of the street by my house with the same three signs as before. It didn’t take long. Two days later, I’m in my garage tinkering, and I hear that darn truck engine revving up as the bubba goes pedal to the metal.
I look up just in time to see his truck steer towards the shoulder to run over the cones.
Darn, it was a beautiful sight like none I’ve ever seen before. He hit the first cone with his bumper, and the cone fell forward and rotated the base up towards his engine block and actually lifted the front of his truck upwards as his front passenger wheel made a direct connection with the second cone and launched his truck up even higher in the air.
The third cone also made a direct hit on his right tire suspension as his truck came down to a screeching halt. There were fluids running out from under his truck, and his passenger tire was angled inwards at a 90-degree angle.
Bubba was angry and started screaming about how I wrecked his truck and how I’m gonna pay.
I yelled back and said, ‘Well, then let’s call the cops and get them out here to make a report, and you can tell them how you were racing down the road and intentionally ran over the safety cones, or I can call you a tow truck.
Which will it be?’
We called a tow truck. I never did see Bubba drive down my street anymore after that incident. I was worried he’d try to get revenge, but nothing ever happened, and we moved out a couple of years later.
For those of you talking about the legality of what I did and getting busted or sued, let me clarify some things here.
First of all, this happened a long time ago. The legal time limit has expired for anyone to do anything about it in any legal capacity.
Also, I consider myself sharper than the average bear, and I didn’t enact my plan without thinking it through and thinking about the consequences of my actions.
I know a thing or two about how the law works. If Bubba wanted to call the cops, I’d have gone inside my home and locked the door. If the police arrived, I’d tell them through my locked security screen that I don’t answer questions, and my only statement would be that I only speak through my attorney.
At that point, police would make their report and run it up the chain of command.
If the state or local prosecutor wanted to conduct an investigation, I’d go with an attorney and deny any involvement. They’d have to, at that point, decide how much time they have to try and investigate this matter and what is the likelihood of a conviction.
Since I lived in a big city, I’m sure they had a lot worse stuff happening that would be taking up their caseload.”
6. Power Tripping Police Officer Gets A Taste Of His Own Medicine
“My woman inherited a house and land and begged me to move there. It was somewhere I knew wouldn’t have anything in either of my fields for employment (physical security specialist and force-on-force analytics and planning), but she got a job offer in her field (wildlife management) at a salary that matched what we were currently making combined, along with an employment contract (rare in the US), control of her own team, and insanely good benefits.
Since we have no children, and I am the adaptable type, and I could see this meant a lot to her, I agreed. We put our house up for sale, and we moved there sight unseen.
While I am used to and even fond of it now, this place was the land that time forgot (literally horse and buggy country), and it quickly became clear that for a while, she would have to be sole income while I brought our new property into the modern era.
The house literally had no plumbing; there was an outhouse and a manual well pump outside! We decided to buy a used house trailer, place it on the southernmost part of the property, and live in it while I worked on the house. I am not from this area.
And the culture shock was intense! My partner had family from there and would spend a few summers as a child with relatives, so she understood the people better than me, and being the same height and skin tone, she was quickly accepted. Meanwhile, standing 8″ minimum above everyone else and being so white I show up from outer space, I had a bit of a harder time but managed to make some friends eventually.
After some time getting everything updated, we came in way under budget since I had decided to learn the skills and do all the work myself.
It quickly became clear that while our immediate area was lovely with good people and trusting neighbors, the surrounding counties had developed a substance problem, and with all the industries being strict on substance testing once hard substances came into the scene, people were starting to make their way to our area for break-ins, carjackings, and even a few cases of kidnapping for ransom.
A couple of senior citizens just outside of town were broken into just for maybe $300 worth of jewelry, a couple of old firearms, and their pain meds.
Seeing a need in my community. I used the leftover funds we had, and I bought land in the middle of nowhere deemed unfit for development at a steal (soil lead levels were too high for housing/farming and too remote for commercial), and after getting permits/certifications and almost a year of doing all the building and earthworks myself while working a part-time hospital security job a county over, I started a security, self/home defense and firearms training company.
I created local jobs in the nearby counties by training armed guards beyond state standards, helping people develop a neighborhood watch program, offering neighborhood security patrols at cost, making sure local shops got cameras and had plans and training in place in case of a robbery, and worked with individual households to develop their own home defense strategies — along with offering concealed carry training, advanced firearm training, OC spray, trauma, and first aid training and other things.
Somehow without meaning to, I managed to wedge myself into a unique position where I not only trained everyday people, but I got certified to be the guy that all police agencies in the region send their officers to for state recertification and further training.
Turns out that before I came along, they had to send their officers almost six hours north to a state facility, which meant that they also had to pay for a hotel room for anyone that went up there, as well as two meals and mileage if they didn’t drive a squad car.
Not to mention that the tactics taught didn’t always translate well to our area. I offered to do it for a bit less, and given my location, no hotels or anything else was needed. For the first time in my life, I feel like my work really matters, that I am making a positive difference for real people, and I look forward to going into my job!
In my line of work, I have ended up knowing a lot of the police in my area pretty well and can say that I even consider a few of them to be friends. The departments I work with get quite a few officers who are new or transfers from other areas as this region of my state has a pretty median average pay grade, and a lot of officers use it as a stepping stone to get to the bigger paying areas or to get their first bit of experience and head to another state.
Now, the ones who have made a life here and decided to stay learned a long time ago that the locals here don’t take crap that isn’t fair, lightly. The people here DEMAND justice.
Now, onto the story!
I was doing an armed guard gig during a night shift filling in for one of my employees who had a family emergency mid-shift when a police car spotted me on perimeter check and pulled into the lot to see who I was (I wasn’t wearing a uniform), and the place I was guarding receives a lot of raw metals that they then melt into various alloys to be shipped off for use.
It’s a dream looting spot with the way scrap prices can be for some of the materials there. After figuring out it was me, they decided to sit and hang for a bit. While talking with these officers, I listened to them share about a new hire who transferred from a larger city, and they just know is going to cause trouble with the locals.
They mention how he has that I-know-better-than-you attitude and thinks that the piece of metal on his chest means that he IS the law.
Apparently, he had already raised a bit of a stink because he writes citations for things that no other officer in the department has.
(Driving with one hand, burnt out fog light, plastic being taped over a broken back window in a car, headlights not on in the middle, or the day and it’s raining. He even tried to give a guy a DUI even though he was sitting in the car ON BLOCKS in his driveway, and it had no rear axel.) Apparently, he speaks aggressively to anyone who dares to interact with him if they aren’t a police officer and overall just acts like a power-tripping jerk.
The other officers have noticed that the locals have changed their demeanor towards them and seem more distrusting since this guy started and they were genuinely worried that he would turn everyone against them. In the words of one of these officers, “With everything in the news these days, and the whole nation already being distrusting of us, I hope we can find something to set the idiot straight before he ruins the rep we work so hard to keep here.
I like that people here will just come up and talk to me; it’s the main reason I stayed here.” We brainstormed for a while about how to get through to Officer Jerk and make him change his ways (or career) but eventually came up with nothing legal and had to go back to doing our respective jobs like adults.
Two weeks or so after having this chat, and hearing similar things from other officers I know, I get my first interaction with Officer Jerk.
I don’t advertise my business on my work vehicle, and it is completely unremarkable, but all the officers I know can spot it somehow, so I’ve gotten in the habit of waving anytime I pass a squad car.
On my way to speak with a prospective client about a consultation for their home defense plan, this moron pulled me over for waving at him when we passed each other on a two-lane highway. He slammed his brakes on, whipped around in the middle of the road, and came flying up behind me so close, I can’t see his headlights with flashing lights on and siren blaring.
After enduring his frankly insulting lines of questioning with his hand ON his pistol grip about why I “felt the need to carry a firearm” (in my state it is required by law that anyone with a CCW/CCL has to inform the officer) and him sharing his doubts that “99% of people probably wouldn’t even know how or be able to use it,” the loser wrote me a citation for “reckless operation of a vehicle,” stating that he was justified in doing so because he saw me remove my hand from the wheel.
Trying to be diplomatic I said, “I just figured that you would appreciate a friendly gesture from someone today; I know I like when someone gives me a friendly wave.” This absolute insult to humanity blows his freaking gasket, gets in my face yelling at me, and threatening to “haul my smart butt downtown and see how friendly I am when I am hooked up in the back of his car,” says that if he felt like it, he could “cost me more in impound fees and lost wages than I would make in a month” (he has no clue what I do or where I work), then asked what I “thought about that.”
At this point, I have an internal battle with myself wanting to slam him to the ground and beat his skull open on the asphalt to see exactly how empty it was inside, but saner thoughts prevail, and I simply handed him my lawyer’s business card and stated that any further interactions we had would have to go through her.
He looked at the card, called me a loser, and told me to get out of his sight. Once I got moving in my car, I realized exactly how angry he had made me. I have spent years learning to keep my emotions to a minimum since it could cost someone dearly in my line of work, and this moron was able to boil my b***d in just a few minutes.
He wasn’t a big guy even for the area, and he didn’t carry himself like someone who was confident in their skills. Being that aggressive and having his hand on his pistol grip for most of our interaction spoke volumes as to what kind of person he was.
What would happen if he pulled over someone who didn’t have my level of control and acted like that or worse? I decided that the officers I had talked to were defiantly not exaggerating, and this guy was going to end up getting himself or someone else killed or hurt, and something needed to be done about it.
First, I went to court and showed my dashcam video which got my citation dismissed. I took the rest of the audio and video to the Sherriff of the county he works for and showed it to him, then we had a long conversation. He agreed with my assessment of this guy but said that he couldn’t really do much but reprimand him for it and admitted that he would love to just toss him out on his butt; however, he knew that the union would fight to prevent that, and at best, he would only be gone a few days to get some training that would most likely go entirely ignored. He even cautioned me against filing against him because he figured the guy was the type to take it personally, and he didn’t want to see anything happen to me.
He promised he would do what he could to get rid of the moron but in most ways, his hands were tied. I could tell he hoped that the guy would just move on and become someone else’s problem when his two years were up.
I couldn’t help thinking that if he’s causing this kind of trouble already, it is only a matter of time before someone around here loses it on this guy and swings at him. Then even though the guy deserves to eat his own teeth at least, some poor guy will end up with his life ruined or worse.
All because officer jerk has a badge.
Feeling as though there was nothing more I could do, I went about my business as usual the next couple of days. Then, guess who came through my door to schedule with me for their recertification?! He didn’t know me and just swaggered about like he owned the place and whined about this “being a waste of his time” and a “bunch of bureaucratic nonsense.” I had a real Kodak moment when I reminded him of our last interaction!
He tried to excuse it as just being “by the book” and claimed that his “hands were tied” when it came to the citation, and he only acted that way because I had a firearm and he “was nervous about that firearm, so he needed to assert his authority over the situation.” By now, I had had a large portion of the people that live in my area come through for training, and most of them carried daily.
Moron just confirmed my fears for me, and I was going to do what only I could to lay those fears to rest.
Already forming a plan, I told him that I understood completely and that I “operate that way as well.” Not even processing how that could affect him, the guy seemed glad to hear that, and we sat down to get his paperwork started. The whole time we are doing this he is bragging and talking about how good a shot he is and that he “looks forward to the day someone wants to mess around and find out” with him.
(Hearing the ways he thinks made me both sick and angry. Yes, I carry a firearm for self-defense, but I hope that I never have to use it. I spent years learning other techniques to lessen that chance after having to draw it once, and built a career teaching others what I have learned.) After getting all the paperwork sorted and scheduling a time and date, he asked if he could use my range to get some practice shots in.
I even waved my range fee just to see this jerk shoot. After going over the range rules, I ran him out at target at 10 yards and signaled the lane hot. He fired all 17 rounds out of his mag at a RAPID pace, and only managed to hit 5 on the target, only one of which was center mass!
He repeated this FOUR more times at varying distances, and his best score ended up being at 5 yards out with only 10 shots on target of which 4 were center mass. I suggested he slow up his cadence a bit and asked if he wanted my advice.
He told me he’s “forgot more than I ever knew and to shut my mouth,” so I did. Then he proceeded to run it out to 10 yards and shoot one at a time at a slow pace I usually only see from first-timers and didn’t get a SINGLE hit center mass!
After seeing the 13-year-old girl a few lanes down from him load up and absolutely DRILL headshots at 15 yards with my Rangemaster instructing her, he made some excuse about needing his sights adjusted, then packed up, and the brainless loser left thinking we were all buddy-buddy a few minutes later.
The state certifications are a bit simple, so when I started doing this, I met with local union lawyers, training officers, and some reps for our area, and we came up with a standard that surpasses the minimum state requirements, which they in turn used to negotiate better benefits, so everyone wins!
The standards we decided on not only test for accuracy but also introduce a bit of real-world problems that the officers have to contend with. The first is done in full-duty gear with both hands on the firearm at 10 yards. After running 25 yards, within two minutes, you have to be able to draw your firearm from crouched cover, fire ten rounds, reload a magazine loaded by me with a false round randomly placed in it to cause a “malfunction,” clear that malfunction and get 10 more rounds on target from standing cover.
The second is the same drill in reverse but done with only one hand on the firearm and in under three minutes. In both of these drills, 15 of the 20 shots must be within the #8 ring of the target and all rounds must hit the target.
And the third is a dot torture drill that must be cleared at 90% within 10 minutes, and you have 3 attempts at it. It doesn’t sound too tough if you are an avid shooter, but trust me, under pressure, with your job in the balance, it can be rough.
See, the policy around here is that the county pays for your first test, and if an officer fails to recertify, then they either choose two weeks unpaid leave or sit at the office and do paperwork at reduced pay for two weeks, then they have to pay out of pocket to try again.
Of course, it is encouraged that they come to me for help, but being that I am not a charity some choose to practice on their own, which is fine. If they fail a second time, the Sheriff can cut them loose without any issues from the union, and the officer has to wait one year to even be considered for rehire or relocate to a different area that doesn’t have these standards or the Sheriff orders them to come to my training, and I work with them until we KNOW they will pass.
After that second failure, the officer’s job lies entirely in the hands of their boss. Being that these tests are a bit tasking for most shooters, and even though I log WAY more range time than any officer I know (helps when you own the range) and can still occasionally fail the dot torture drill, I will show mercy for most of them if they seem like a decent person who is just out of practice or nervous and not be a butt when it comes to scoring if they are close to a failing score.
(Counting line breaks as hits when I don’t have to, “forgetting” to hit the stopwatch button if their cadence is just a second or two slow). I decided the moment he signed the papers that there would be no such mercy for this moron!
I fully expected for him to burn through ammo practicing at home after his last performance, and while I doubted anything was actually wrong with his sights, I wasn’t willing to risk being wrong there when I had such a golden opportunity to do some true community service!
I even bought a new set of digital calipers deciding that if he was so much as one-tenth of an inch off on any shot placements at the line, I would mark them as a miss and prove I was just going “by the book.” My mind was made up that since I couldn’t get this guy off the force completely.
I would go “by the book” and at least get him off of any that were close to the people around me, and he would have to perform like an absolute pro to avoid it.
The day finally comes where he is to test, and he shows up wearing shorts and a TapOut tee shirt with only his firearm and duty belt emptied of everything else.
No vest, no range bag, no radio, no eye or ear protection, no cuffs, OC spray, or taser. Not a darn thing that he knew he was supposed to have. After pointing these issues out, he huffs and says, “I brought everything that is important; let’s just get this over with.” Mind you, I could have failed him right then and there for noncompliance.
I had a copy of his signature on the paperwork stating he owned all required gear and would bring it with him for the test and that he would be dressed to listed standards on testing day. But that just wouldn’t have been satisfying enough for me.
I wanted to make absolutely sure that anyone who looked into it would see that he himself was the failure. That this loud-mouthed bolstering loser wasn’t fit to the standards of his peers. Not that he failed due to circumstantial or bureaucratic nonsense beyond his control.
I let the clothing slide and loaned him some rental safety gear, which he whined about wearing but eventually put on. After getting it all sorted, and noting all this in his chart, I let him take his test, and darn it, am I glad that I did!
If he hadn’t made me see him for the piece of trash he is, I would have felt sad for him. As it stands, I worried I may develop muscle issues from holding back my grin! He failed the first test immediately due to sheer ineptitude!
When the buzzer sounded, first he tripped over his own feet and ate the ground face first. Full scorpion! Then after getting up and continuing while drawing from crouch, he somehow managed to catch his front sight or barrel on his holster opening and sent his firearm tumbling through the dirt, then fell over when he tried to lean over to get it.
Losing control of the firearm is an instant test stop, so I sounded the buzzer. Holding back laughter (and putting on my plate carrier instead of just a level 3 vest in case the fool fired a random round my way), I gave him a second chance even though I already had what I needed. (mostly because I wanted to have irrefutable proof he failed on his skills and not on accidental circumstances).
While he managed to keep hold of it this time, he struggled to clear the misfire costing him too much time for his slow cadence earlier, and only two shots were in the #8, and four completely missed the target! For the first time ever for me, someone had failed the first test on all three metrics!
I have had people come to me for the first time they held a firearm or with a legitimate fear of firearms who could outperform this arrogant person! After listening to him try to make excuses, whine demand, and then beg for me to give him another chance, I told him that I couldn’t and he failed. That my report was getting sent in, and he would have to talk to his training officer and we could go from there.
He EXPLODED in anger and started calling me anything he could think of. Claiming I was only doing this because of the ticket he gave me (part of why I wanted so much proof). And cursing me in some honestly creative ways while slamming his fist into my wall like a petulant tween and telling me that he was going to “make sure you all regret this” while pointing at me and my staff in the other room.
By now a couple of my regulars, my Rangemaster, and the local brass goblin have all made it over to watch through the window and listen to the exchange. Knowing I have him on camera with audio punching a hole in my wall, and I have witnesses, a new thought came to me when I heard him say this.
And I decided to steer him just the way I wanted him to go.
All I had to do was ask if what he said was a threat, and the moron responded with. “You bet your freaking butt it is!” and, to my surprise, reached out to give me a shove!
I side-stepped him, and he stumbled past, which angered him even further. I told him then and there to “get the flip off my property” and that he wasn’t welcome back. I looked this sack of trash straight in the eye and informed him that he “just sealed his fate since now he would have to BEG to be sent to the other facility, and I would make certain my report recommended he never work as an officer again, and should they ignore my advice, I would be raising my prices to better reflect the training they get here.” He then decides to spit at me and swing a punch this time!
Not one to miss an opportunity, and easily outweighing him by 50-60lbs, I raised my guard, and the moment his arm made contact with my mine, I used his momentum and my muscle to send him over my shoulder and directly into the ground with all I could muster!
I channeled my ancestors and the ancient gods of their homeland into that throw fully intending to leave a Wile E. Coyote-esque crater in my floor. Rolling him to his back and sitting atop him in full mount position I watched a wanna-be bad boy try to remember how to breathe after meeting the ground that hard and immediately cry like a baby begging for his life when he looked past me to see my Rangemaster (310lb, 6’6″ tatted-up retired Marine-turned bodybuilder) with our less-lethal training firearm (it is BRIGHT green, kinda unmistakable as less-lethal) in one hand leveled to officer jerk’s head and his phone in the other already talking to the moron’s boss.
Apparently, my Rangemaster had been watching everything from his office on the security feed, and when Officer Jerk started punching the walls, my boy immediately picked up the phone and called the sheriff grabbing the firearm on his way out the door to us. When all was said and done, I got to watch him get hauled off my property by his boss, in cuffs and read his rights since, yes, I will be pressing charges.
He assaulted me, threatened me and my employees, and damaged my property. And I had all the evidence I need to prove it!
Later, when I asked my Rangemaster why he had brought the firearm into play since the guy wasn’t really a threat, he reluctantly told me he had brought it for me!
Apparently, in all the time we had known each other, he had never seen me actually come unglued like that. He said, “Boss, you are the kindest and quietest man I know. And in my experience, when a man like you gets that angry, even the devil himself would pee his pants to get away.” He admitted that his plan was to nail me with a beanbag or two if he needed it and try to turn my attention to him!
Not going to lie, I wasn’t happy to know I had made my friend feel that way, but it did feel good in an odd way to have a certified bad boy feel like he needed that tool to stand against me. I gave the man a raise for his honesty and willingness to protect others, no matter the cost to himself.
After all, that’s a rare quality anymore, and it should be rewarded. And to this day, I refuse to spar with him because I never want him to 100% know he could take me without it!
Despite all the evidence and testimony against him, Officer Jerk ended up getting a pretty good plea deal, but he will never be able to be a police officer or legally own a firearm again, so I consider it a win.
His partner filed for divorce for domestic violence while he was awaiting his court date, and thankfully they had no children together, so it was granted without issue, and he has no rights to see her son. He moved away immediately after his hearing, and last I had heard, he makes minimum wage working at a gas station somewhere up north.”
5. I'll Give It To You Spicy, Alright
“So this happened to my partner about 3 or 4 years ago. I asked her again about it last night because I just thought it was funny.
My partner is from Thailand, and she used to be a manager at a Thai restaurant. One night as the restaurant was close to closing, some guy, 40ish, who I’ll call Spicy Guy, walks in with a younger lady.
Already, my partner and her co-worker are annoyed, but whatever; she remains professional and seats them. Her co-worker waits on the table, and the couple orders. I don’t know what the lady ordered, but Spicy Guy orders red curry and specifically asks it to be spicy… like really spicy.
My partner is already used to dealing with these types. Their way of flexing is to show how much spice they can eat, and in the case with this guy, also to impress his girl. So, fine. They make it spicy. His curry comes out, he takes a spoonful, and he sends it back because it still is not spicy enough.
What might have been a mild annoyance at any other time of the day is a serious aggravation because:
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He came in when it was already close to closing time.
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He’s sending his food back even though it was made to his specifications,
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The main reason he’s doing this is because he wants to impress his girl.
(I don’t understand that.)
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Again, my partner knows these types, and he’s also probably doing this to impress the staff. Like my partner and her co-workers are going to think, “Wow! That white guy can really eat some spice!” (That never happens.)
So, my partner talks to Spicy Guy and tells him that it is going to be REALLY spicy.
He says he’s cool with that in a “totally-bro” type way. He specifically tells her, “Do it like how you eat.” Again, my partner is Thai.
Before she herself remakes his dish, she asks him to pay in advance, which he does.
She takes the curry back and adds 2 HEAPING spoonfuls of freshly ground Thai chiles.
This, in a bowl that is relatively small. But, it is indeed how she eats.
She takes the curry back, and Spicy Guy looks satisfied. There are no other customers, and all the checks, receipts, and money have been counted, so she just sits and watches.
Spicy Guy then takes a spoonful of curry… My partner sees his face and then clearly notices the look of pain as well as the look of knowing there is more pain to follow.
By this point, he’s made such a big show in front of his girl, and my partner and her co-worker of how much spice he can eat, so to save face, he eats every… last…
spoonful of the curry. He and his lady leave.
Since they were done with closing duties, Spicy Guy and his girl notwithstanding, my partner and her co-worker close the restaurant right after. When the doors are locked, my partner and her co-worker head to Kroger, which is across the street, because they both need to do a little shopping.
As they are entering the parking lot, they see Spicy Guy right in front of them. Her co-worker saw him first. “Hey, isn’t that the guy?”
Sure enough, Spicy Guy had immediately left the restaurant, gone to Kroger, and rushed to the bathroom where he presumably blew it up.
My partner never saw him, nor his girl, again. But who knows, maybe Spicy Guy and his girl are still together. Hopefully, though, they’ll just stick with steak and potatoes.”
4. Bully Me In Highschool? Everyone Will Find Out About Your Illegal Dental Work
“Way back in 2006 during my first year in high school, I was bullied by this new guy in class.
Let’s call him BB (BigBully). BB was somewhat what other people would call “cool.” He’s got the looks, the height, and most importantly, the manipulative personality.
This guy tormented me throughout my 4 years of high school through daily bullying. Calling names, threatening me with physical contact, humiliating me in front of other people, and spreading false rumors about me are just some of the things I went through.
Reason being? I don’t know, probably never had a dog in his life.
Fast forward, we finished our high school career, and I moved to another city to study for college. BB, I don’t know what happened to this guy, and I didn’t really care.
I went from a shy, introverted guy to an outgoing, everyone-is-my-friend type of person during college where I finished my degree in dental medicine in 2016. I became really active regarding my profession (through community works and civic actions) and had expanded my connections.
After a year, my high school was about to reach its 50th founding anniversary, and the alumni association was planning for a grand reunion.
I was added to the group regarding this event on social media, and there I saw BB’s profile.
He didn’t make it great in life. He was regularly changing jobs, most of the time unemployed, and had a partner engaging in illegal activities in which he takes part.
Now, the illegal activities I mentioned here are performing dental work without a license for a very cheap price. They do install braces for around $60 to curious teenagers and adults alike.
I cannot even describe the feeling I got when I remembered the nightmare I was in in high school, and now I have the chance of revenge.
In our country, one law states that if you do dental works without a license, you’ll be imprisoned for at least 2 to 5 years and must pay fines costing ~$4,000 to $10,000.
This guy didn’t attend college. This guy didn’t have a license. This guy is in no position to do dental work.
Having sworn to uphold my profession and prevent harm to others, I did what any licensed dentist here would do if they knew someone practicing illegally. So, I called up some people within our local dental chapter, so they can connect me to the other chapters and do some kind of entrapment operation within BB’s area.
A cop went undercover and had him avail of the dental braces. Other cops went in as BB’s partner was putting the brackets in the cop’s mouth. Both of them went to prison.
BB never knew that it was me behind his imprisonment.
He and his partner are still in jail, and the verdict is yet to come.
It’s a bailable offense, but I doubt BB saved enough for the two of them. The justice system here sucks, so it would probably take some happy time in jail while the case is in process.”
3. This Is Why You Don't Try To Steal My Work
“The following events took place two years ago.
I used to go to this really cheap school. Their budget was so low that they couldn’t afford substitute teachers, although sometimes they had the funds for events and/or trips.
Before I start the story, I have to tell you about the quality of the teachers. It was held kind of low, but it had some high highs and some very low lows. Some of my teachers began giving preferential treatment to the girls, as in the girls would be treated as if they could do nothing wrong, and the boys would be treated as potential criminals.
This led to some of the girls in my class antagonizing the boys and stealing their work.
The story: this all took place at an event called “lego league.” The aim of the event is to find a problem and theorize and market a product that can solve it and then build a robot.
This time it was themed after space.
During this, you are put into groups of 12, and then the groups are sectioned into 3 parts. The 3 parts are: 3 people in the marketing section (they market the product and create a marketing strategy), 4 people in the project section (they show off the product), and 5 people are sent to the robotics section (they’d build a cool robot).
I landed in the marketing section with one of the worst of the previously mentioned girls (henceforth Jess) and one dude who slacked off and did not contribute anything, but he didn’t get in the way.
I was appointed as the “boss of the marketing branch,” and Jess didn’t take nicely to that, got mad, and told the teacher.
She was then appointed as the “boss.” It didn’t take long for me to realize that I would have all the work dumped onto me, and the project was going to be a trainwreck.
After a week, I was right. I had to find the combined cost of the project in real life.
This was hard as I had to find the right fuel, the right engines, the cost of workers, the layout of the insides, the combined weight of the structure, the places we get our materials from, and who our demographic is. Jess also decided to dump the 5-page essay onto me, which we were supposed to do together.
After long and painful weeks of doing all of the above and more, she told the teacher that:
“She was doing it all and would appreciate if I would pitch in a little.”
I was shocked when I heard it. I tried proving my case, but my teacher wasn’t having it and sent me to detention.
The revenge: I had had enough and was burnt out after all the work I had to do, so I ended up getting really sick and was out of school for 3 weeks. I did also do another vital part of the project which included a 2 page part on a report of the entire project, and I knew that I still had a chance to screw everything up for her because I knew that she would pass that off as hers and that she was too lazy to check it.
So I rewrote the 5 essay page of all of the above to make it seem too ambitious and made it sound unreasonable. I also started crediting everything I wrote to her, so she would end up in trouble as the sole reason the project failed.
I wrote a small script that we were supposed to present to the event judges, but I made what they were supposed to say heavily dependent on the essay.
The day comes, and I hand my group mates the script, but during the day, all computers and personal electronics were banned unless it’s an emergency.
I start off by saying what I was supposed to, and then it came to the slacker. He mumbled something I couldn’t hear, and I had to step in to “save” his performance. Now it’s Jess’s turn and she utters this marvelous sentence:
“The thing works by extending another thing and grabbing trash. (loud sigh of anger) Don’t ask me; he wrote it.” (She points at me)
“Huh? That’s weird. I thought you wrote the essay,” I said it in a confused tone like I didn’t plan it for weeks.
“B-b-but but but but,” She sputtered like a broken record.
I still finished the presentation, and Jess left the building in tears.
The aftermath: I was questioned by the teacher who organized the event and told him about what happened.
Needless to say, I got a written apology from the teacher and from Jess, but for Jess.
Her integrity: Ruined
Her grade: Down
Her friends: Gone
I switched schools a year later and as a small goodbye note, I threw a wet, soapy sponge in her face on my last day.”
2. Email You Each Time I Leave The Office Before 5pm? Of Course!
“I used to work for a company that had a 15-minute clock in/out rule. Basically, you could clock in up to 15 minutes late or clock out up to 15 minutes early, and you didn’t have to tell anyone or get it approved. If you were going to be later than 15 minutes or needed to leave more than 15 minutes early, you had to tell your manager.
If you were an hourly employee, you still had to make sure you were working 40 hours a week. This was a really helpful rule because the office was located in an isolated city with mountains on one side and the ocean on the other and most of the workers commuted over a tricky mountain pass to get to work.
When this happened, I lived in the mountains outside of town, and my spouse and I only had 1 car, so I was using the 15 minutes more than usual.
One day, my manager told me she had to talk to me about my timesheets. She told me that she was worried because the previous Wednesday I’d clocked out at 4:55 instead of 5 and that I’d only worked 7 hours and 55 minutes instead of my full 8-hour shift (we did not do shift work).
I was confused because I’d come in 20 minutes early the next day to make up for it. I asked her if I’d worked less than 40 hours that week, and she said no; I’d worked 43 (we were allowed 3 hours of overtime a week).
She said I wasn’t allowed to leave the office before 5. I asked if they’d done away with the 15-minute rule, and she said no. I was still really confused. My manager told me that from now on, I had to email her every time I left before 5 pm (even if I’d already worked 8 hours).
I was really annoyed by this for a number of reasons: first, I was consistently working 40+ hour weeks despite occasionally leaving before 5. Second, if I left early, it was usually under 5 minutes, and if it was more, I would tell my manager (even if it was less than 15 minutes).
Third, my manager ended her day at 4, so it’s not like she stayed until 5, either. Fourth, why even have the 15-minute rule in the employee handbook if it didn’t apply to everyone?
I went to HR and told them what my manager said and asked if they had or were planning on eliminating the 15-minute rule.
They said no but that I should just humor my manager for a week or two. They also told me to BCC their office every time I had to email my manager about leaving before 5.
By this point, I was angry but decided to play along.
For the next week, I got to work 10 minutes early and only took a 30-minute lunch. This meant I could technically leave at 4:50. Instead, I would schedule an email to be sent to my manager (and HR) between 4:55 and :59 each day telling her that I had to leave before the end of my shift. Then I would clock out at those times.
At my next 1:1, I got chewed out for going to HR behind my manager’s back and was told I didn’t need to email her about leaving before 5 anymore.”
1. Make Me Hourly Instead Of Salary? Oh, You'll Regret This
“Years ago, I was an “inside sales” rep for a simultaneously large and tiny company in a niche market.
The quotes are because it was at least equally outside sales; I just didn’t go outside except to smoke (I’ve since quit). They had about 50 branches across the country of various sizes. The smallest was literally one guy who processed local orders and used hot shots for delivery, and the largest had about 50 employees.
I made 6 for my branch.
I was literally the first salesman with a background in anything resembling sales that my branch had ever hired (they’d always hired the least socially awkward industry professionals they could prior to me), and they’d had their CSR doing the selling for over a year until I came on, so expectations were high.
When they hired me, we had somewhat heated negotiations over the comp plan. It was a $42k base salary + commission with a $56k OTE and $65k cap. I asked what I was meant to do after I hit the cap, to which they replied, “Continue to do your job?” as if I wasn’t going to have a problem with generating new business for free.
I said that I was gonna need a bonus structure beyond the cap if they wanted me to do any more hunting after that point. I made it clear that I’d service my accounts when they called, but I wanted to be clear that they were going to be disappointed if they expected me to make outbound calls looking for new business after I’d maxed my comp plan and that I’d definitely enjoy the extra time at home with my family over the holidays.
They said they understood, and we went through the onboarding.
I worked almost exactly 40 hours for almost 2 months (early October – early December) before I had jury duty and missed a day. My check was about $150 light compared to what it had been, so I complained to payroll (benefits kicked in at 90 days).
That’s when I found out I was making $21 an hour and was not, in fact, pulling a salary. Presumably, this was to force me into the office, as we didn’t have remote access to the local network that logged our hours, just the ordering/inventory software.
I didn’t get even a prorated Christmas bonus because that counts as “benefits,” and you have to work 90 days to receive those.
Cue malicious compliance.
I discovered that if I left the house 30 minutes earlier, my 80-minute commute would take less than 25, so instead of showing up around 8:30 and chilling in my car for a bit so I was working at 9, I was there at 7 with the warehouse guy, sending emails.
I started working through lunch as I ate at my desk as opposed to burning an hour off-campus or in the break room. (I didn’t even realize I was losing an hour a day to lunch.)
I also discovered that if I stayed until 6:30, I’d get home by 7, as opposed to leaving a little after 5 and getting home around 6:30.
So, I spent an extra 5 hours a week away from home and worked an extra 22 compared to the 35 I was getting paid for before I figured it out.
With the OT, I was clocking north of $2k more than intended every month, and oddly enough, no one even noticed until the internal auditor verified W2’s and noticed that I made significantly more than the branch manager.
I didn’t hit my commission cap until late November, so I spent the rest of the year “training” with the tech and/or warehouse guy.
They tried to put me on the same salaried comp plan I’d originally agreed to, but it was enough of a pay cut to qualify for constructive dismissal, so I got to quit and still collect unemployment for a month before I found another gig.”
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