People Educate Us On How They Executed Their Best Malicious Compliance
21. Police Officer Doesn't Get Physics
“I’m a paramedic. A few months ago, we’re coming back from a routine patient transfer when at an intersection about four blocks from the base, I notice a woman sitting on the side of the road with her arms wrapped around herself and her head down.
I nudge my partner who’s driving, and we flip on the lights, and I see her head come up real fast, and she looks terrified. I get out, and she relaxes when she sees the ambulance. After I approach, I notice bruising on her wrists and other similar signs of domestic violence.
She seems hesitant to get up off the curb and into the ambulance, so I decided that I would at least pull the cot out of the back and give her something a little more comfortable than concrete to sit on.
Now, a few important details.
All the cots in my service are Stryker-powered cots. You’ve almost certainly seen these before. They’re bright yellow with black handles and side panels. These cots have a motor and battery built-in to allow us to raise and lower the cot at the touch of a button instead of throwing out our backs having to physically lift the cot up after loading someone.
They’re usually paired with an automatic loading system built into the ambulance that lifts the cot up to the right height to be pushed inside and also secures the cot when loaded. There’s a little red tab at the end of the track, just inside the doors, that you press down to free the cot and allow it to slide out.
When you press this tab, it simply releases the cot and the loading carriage it’s connected to and it’s up to you to keep it under control until it reaches the unload position and locks into place again. This can be problematic because these cots weigh about 125 pounds, about 55kg.
As soon as I hit the release tab for the cot, I hear lights and sirens behind me. It’s a city police car. Which is weird because we had not yet requested police, and we were outside the city, in the sheriff’s department jurisdiction. We merely informed dispatch that we were stopping to check on a woman at such and such intersection.
The woman says something along the lines of, “Oh God, he’s here” and moves faster than me seeing free food being distributed at base. She dashes past me and pretty much hurls herself into the ambulance, sitting on the bench seat. The cop is approaching, and he’s angry.
I put two and two together and slam the ambulance doors shut. Let’s call this officer Police Officer Steve, or POS for short.
POS: Is she in there?!
Me: Who?
POS: You know darn well who I am talking about.
Me: You mean my patient?
I’m afraid I haven’t gotten a name yet.
POS: Open those doors. I need to talk to her.
Me: You’re not using my rig as an interview room. You can talk to her at the hospital.
We go back and forth like this for a few minutes.
My partner at some point came back to see what the hold-up was but overhead my stonewalling and went back to the cab to call our chief. I continue my routine of deny and delay until a pair of deputies (likely specifically requested for this by the chief) arrive.
Oh good, now I have witnesses.
See, we had stopped on an upwards incline. I had hit the release tab on the cot, and it wanted to slide back. I had to close the doors so swiftly; I didn’t bother pushing the cot back against the stops and locking it in place.
Emboldened by the presence of two deputies, he gets in my face. “Get out of my way, or I’m gonna have to charge with obstruction!” Okay. I step out of his way, and he opens the double doors. Between the cot, the monitor, and the jump bag, I’d say there was probably close to 160 pounds contained by those doors.
All of which comes barreling out and hits POS square in the chest. He goes backward and falls on his behind. One of the deputies laughs aloud. The other walks up and kneels down beside the guy. He says, “Your shift captain is going be here in five.
I wouldn’t be here then if I were you.” POS gathers himself up and scowls at me, then stomps off.
There is a limited amount that I can say about the aftermath as the trial is not settled yet, but we all know how well charges stick to cops.
The woman is now living elsewhere, the cop is still a cop, and I have been getting pulled over at least twice a week ever since then. But the video footage of him getting bodychecked by that cot remains one of the best things I have seen.”
20. Manager Wants Everything I Did During The Workday To Be Written Down Since I'm "Lazy?" Let's Go
“Some context. Working in an outsourcing company. Before I joined the job, there were 2 people doing my job, and both left before I joined. I was alone doing the job of 2 people. Weekly reports being sent to the client “head,” and the client would visit the job site once a year.
So here goes. As a means of control and reporting, there’s a general mailbox to where the client should send all requests that needed to be addressed. Had to deal with 30 to 40 different people from the client-side plus the client “head.” They didn’t care about said mailbox and would always email my inbox, ignoring said general one almost always.
Since I was alone doing the work of 2 people, I was almost always behind on the workload and would get the idiots on the other side constantly complaining to the client “head.” Who in turn would complain to my managers. How is it possible that OP can’t deal with 7 or 8 daily emails and be behind on his work?
The weekly report stated I was only getting 7/8 emails from the client a day, completely ignoring the flipping phone, personal inbox, and Skype chat which were the ways people were contacting me every day.
So client “head” complains to managers and escalates me for being a lazy idiot who can’t even handle a handful of emails a day.
Managers set up a meeting to grill me. ‘OP, you always look so busy, and you’re only getting a handful of emails a day and constantly behind on your work. How is this possible? The client isn’t happy, and you either improve dramatically, or the client wants us to replace you.’ I explained that the general mailbox wasn’t the only thing I did, mentioning all other means through which client idiots were requesting things.
So, the solution to show the client “head” what was being done, I was told I needed to register on an Excel sheet everything, EVERYTHING I did during the day. I asked for clarification, you mean emails and calls, right? No, no EVERYTHING. And email the excel at the end of the workday.
So here goes my malicious compliance. I did exactly what I was told, wrote down everything I did during the workday, even including bathroom, smoke, and coffee breaks. Client writes on Skype. I write down timestamp when the client asks for something and the timestamp of each and every reply, all adding to an Excel at around 500 lines every day with my personal favorite of adding a line at the end, “Time wasted to fill-in sheet, 1 hour.”
One manager laughs when he sees my full compliance, and the other one not so much but knows they can’t do anything because I did what I was told. A few months later when the client “head” visits, he tells me he freaking loved it.
Was told to stop doing it on the third day. They were now aware of what I did during the day.”
Another User Comments:
“I did something similar recently. I was leaving a job and the boss wanted me to draft a “how-to” document for my job duties.
It ended up being a 40 or so page document titled “The Book of Secrets.”” Yoko_Kittytrain
19. Make A Big Deal About I.D.s? Let's See Yours
“When I was in college I used to work for my local movie theatre. The job was amazing most of the time. You had a lot of freedom from the managers if you did your job right.
On a busy night, this was the situation: I was working behind the bar. We had a system where we would sell tickets and concessions at the same registers. Most of the time this would work just fine, but on a busy Saturday night, it would take a lot of time to take tickets orders, discuss seating in the theatre and get all the food and drinks.
This evening everything was running smoothly. It was a buddy night, but the team was well prepared and we had everything under control.
I was taking an order from a longtime customer (let’s call her Linda). Linda was a nice woman and we always had a nice chat with her.
She was 25 and had a subscription at our theatre. This would mean it would show her picture on the app with her date of birth and a QR code. This way we could see that the person was old enough to see the movie.
Linda was ordering some nachos and two drinks.
Now I know that Linda is well above the legal drinking age (in my county 18) and had already scanned her QR code (you would get points for free stuff when you bought drinks and food). I already knew her age was alright. So no reason to ask for any form of ID.
So I’m here getting the order ready and when I say the total to Linda a lady behind her (let’s call her Karen for obvious reasons) starts yelling.
Karen: “You didn’t check her ID!” Linda looks over her shoulder probably wondering why this woman is meddling and turns back to me: “Do you really need to see my ID?
I could grab it if you want to?”
So I’m here thinking: Karen should shut up and mind her own business. Me: “No, need to, Linda. I know you’re older than 18 and it also says so on the app.”
Karen: “No, you need to check it!
You need to check everyone who buys booze!”
Me: “Miss, I already verified her age and…”
Karen: “NO! Only a legal ID or passport is good to verify age!”
Sure, this is the case in a normal situation. But when a customer has a subscription at our theatre they already have to verify their age and name with a legal ID.
So we accept the app as a legal form of verification.
At this point, I’m already losing my patience. Why is Karen meddling in this situation when Linda is clearly over the age of 18?
Me: “Miss, thanks for bringing this to my attention but this woman is a loyal customer and we already know her age because…”
Karen: “NO! This is unacceptable and you should check her ID!”
I’m really starting to get annoyed and Linda is noticing as well. Luckily, Linda is a chill woman and smiles at me while grabbing her ID.
Linda: “Here it is, all good right?”
Me: “Sorry about this and thanks for showing. It’s still not necessary though.”
Linda: “No problem at all and good luck with her,” she says while smiling and giving me a wink.
I finalize the purchase and get ready to enjoy serving Karen. Karen has a major attitude and the order takes ages.
She doesn’t like the seats and changes them a couple of times. She also demands a student discount (which we don’t have on Saturdays and she is clearly older).
Finally, she orders her food, and last but not least she orders booze.
This triggers me instantly.
I’m standing there with a big smile on my face like a kid in a candy store. You all see where this is going.
I grab the drink and put it on the counter. Then I say with my most polite voice.
Me: “Can I see your ID, miss?”
Karen: “Excuse me?”
Me: “Well miss, as you pointed out to me I should check everyone for ID.”
Karen: “Well I’m obviously older than 18!”
Sure Karen wasn’t looking anywhere near 18. But she didn’t hit prime Karen age either. I would say she was early thirties, but with all that plaster on her face, she could pass for a 25-year-old.
Me: “Miss, the woman I asked before you was well over the age of 18. You insisted I follow the rules. If you don’t have your ID with you I can’t sell you the booze.”
Karen: “Preposterous! I demand to speak to the manager!”
Me: “Sure, I will get him.”
Now the manager this evening was Bob. Bob hated types like Karen and I knew he would stand by my side.
So I go grab Bob and inform him of the whole situation. When I explained it all Bob smiled at me with a huge grin on his face.
Bob: “Let’s go have some fun.”
So Bob walks with me to the registers and Karen yelled the whole story. Bob listens carefully and then reminds her of the rules and she needs to have some ID or she won’t get her drink.
Karen is done with the situation, I could clearly tell. The previews already started so she grabs her wallet and pulls out a public transport card.
Karen: “Here you go! It states I’m old enough!”
Bob: “Sorry, miss. This isn’t a legal form of ID.”
Karen at this point is bright red and I thought she would burst out in anger.
Karen: “I DEMAND YOU SELL ME THIS DRINK! THIS IS RIDICULOUS AND I’M ABOUT TO MISS THE MOVIE!”
Bob: “Nothing I can do for you without ID miss.
I should also note that when the previews are over (usually after 15 minutes after starting time) we can’t let you go inside the theatre because this will cause a disturbance for the other visitor.”
At this point, I wish I could have taken a picture of Karen’s face.
The utter face of defeat was amazing to see.
Karen: “Fine! Just keep the drink! I’m going to see the movie and then I’m never coming back here!”
Bob: “That’s a shame miss. That will be XXX please.”
After the whole incident, I got a compliment from Bob for sticking to the rules and for defeating a Karen at her own game.”
18. Not A Fan About What This Couple Does Behind Closed Doors? They'll Marry And Keep Doing It
“My (oldest) daughter met her forever partner shortly after they both graduated high school through her sister’s (daughter #2) partner at that time. Both are pretty shy, but they hit it off immediately (lots of common interests and just plain ol’ chemistry).
This would have been around 2013 or so.
A couple of years later, both were going to community college, and the classes were closer to our house, so we talked to our first daughter’s partner and asked him if he would be interested in sharing rides, to which the answer was yes because that would save him (and his parents) lots of money, time, and effort, but he was having issues trying to figure out logistics (getting to our house on time, given his parents work schedules, etc.).
We eventually asked him if he just wanted to move in with us, to make life easier (daughter’s idea). His parents were not big on the idea at all (pretty religious and not big on pre-marital anything), but we assured them that he would not be sharing a room with her.
Fast forward a few months, and they somehow figure out that they were not, in fact, in separate bedrooms, but rather sharing a bed (must have come to pick him up for a visit or something and saw the arrangements). Now we did not just tell them one thing and turn around and do something else.
The relationship developed, and eventually, it was just time-and space-saving to have them share a room. Plus, our family is not religious and has no problems with what two people in love do, as long as they do things correctly, which they did (i.e., protection).
His parents were not happy. At all. And they let him know it, too (not us, him). His father (very active in their church as an elder or so) basically told him that he didn’t appreciate his son “disrespecting” another man (me) by sleeping with his daughter before marriage in his house.
They insisted that he move back in with them, no matter how inconvenient it might be to everyone with regard to classes. He asked them if he could finish out the week and go back “home” with them on the weekend. They reluctantly agreed, since that actually made sense for everyone’s schedule (reason, for once).
By the end of the week? They had eloped. And his parents were even more unhappy at that point. But, there was pretty much nothing they could do. Our son-in-law and daughter had addressed their issue.
To top things off, yes, people make mistakes in life, but the main complainant was his dad.
As I said, he was very active in the church, but we didn’t find out until later that he actually has a son from an affair years earlier. So… Yeah.”
17. The Customer Didn't Want To Believe Us, So We Just Did What He Said
“I’ve been working with logistics for about 17 years now and gained a bunch of experience. My main occupation has been in a port loading and discharging RORO vessels. Most of those have a ramp in the aft which all loading/discharging goes through, unlike passenger ferries where you can open a hatch in the fore since it’s easier to drive on and then drive off.
Some 12-13 years ago, a VIP customer for a truck manufacturer called our office (I got the call) and informed me he had gotten the number from the agency because he had certain instructions for the loading of a special truck. Ok, so I hear him out.
Turns out, this truck is going on exhibition somewhere on the continent and is a bit late from the factory. To save some time, he had hired a photographer who would take some photos of the truck when it rolled off the vessel in the receiving port.
He was very insistent that we load it first, so it would come off first.
Now in the business, we have a term for express cargo that is LOFO. ‘Last on, first off. This means we load the unit last on deck and so that it will be first off.
And this I explained to him, but he insisted we load it first. Probably thinking we operated passenger ferries, while in fact, we operated cargo vessels. So I once again tried to explain, but he would not listen. I finally just gave in and said, ‘Ok, I’ll load it first!’, thinking I will load it last to make sure it comes off first thing.
We hang up. So I thought that was it. Now I can plan the rest of the operation and mind my own business.
Moments later, the agency called and told me the customer had called them being very concerned his unit won’t be loaded first. Now I know the people at the agency very well since we talk several times on a daily basis, and they know me also.
And they also know how the vessels are designed and in which order operations go. So they also tried to explain, but the customer still insisted. Now I also got some additional information about the photographer in the receiving port. He was hired by the hour, so it was important he does not need to wait in vain.
So we agree that we load the truck according to LOFO principle for the sake of the customer. He does not need to know.
Time passes, the vessel arrives, and we start operation. The truck also enters the port. It looked kind of cool, kitted with everything extra you could think of.
Also, the customer calls and asks why we have not loaded the truck yet. See, there is a GPS unit in it that will let the customer know of any movements. So I explain we are still discharging and can’t load it yet. Customer: But the vessel arrived an hour ago!
I see no point in trying to explain since he’s all railed up, so I just tell him we’re going to start loading soon. He hangs up. Moments later, the agency calls again. Obviously, he has been bugging them, and they just want to let off some steam.
So we laugh a bit about it and then we decide to move the truck onto the vessel so that his darn GPS will make a ping.
Right after we hung up, the customer calls again and demands we load the truck now! NOOOOW!!!!! Ok, ok.
We will load it now, I tell him, and I hang up, somewhat annoyed by now. I’m used to this behavior. In logistics, it seems that the one making the most noise gets their way. I never take it personally, and I don’t really care.
I always try to make the best solution for everyone. Anyhow. Now the manager for the agency calls me and wants to know why the customer is so railed up. So I explain to him, and he’s like okay with the explanation. He knows me and knows that what I’m saying is correct but asks me to hurry up with the loading.
So I radio one of the stevedores to put the truck somewhere on the main deck where it won’t be in the way. We will move it later so that it is well-positioned as one of the first units off.
The customer calls a few minutes later since the GPS probably reported movement and goes something like this: “Now this was not so hard was it?
I should not have to call managers to get stuff done around here should I?” I simply reply with a dry: “You’re welcome” and hang up. Now I’m actually annoyed for real.
Sometime later, the stevedores let me know they’ve emptied the lower hold (the part that takes the longest to discharge but is the quickest to load).
So I tell them to put the truck in the deepest corner of the lower hold. Customers should be satisfied with it being loaded first. As per request.
So, we fill the rest of the vessel. I send a report to my manager and the agency about what happened and go home.
36 hours later, the vessel arrives at the receiving port. The photographer is in place, and also, the customer I got told about later on. I can only imagine how boring the wait must have been. A week later, the agency received a written complaint from the customer that he had to pay the photographer for the waiting.
But it felt kind of low effort. Not a word on loaded first. I think the customer finally understood and learned his lesson.
Years later, I actually met the customer in person, and he turned out to be a really nice person. We’ve had many dealings with each other since then.
I even asked if he remembered the truck incident. He did. It was his first big assignment, and he was so stressed out about it. Go figure. Anyway, we have a good relationship between us, agency, port, and customer now.”
16. Don't Interrupt You When I'm Just Trying To Help? Fine, Get Scammed Then
“So, I was working at a locally owned cell phone repair store and although I was the only person at this location who had any knowledge of phones, the owner’s sister had been given the title of manager.
A little background on the owner’s sister (let’s call her Meg).
She was 37 at the time and had never moved out of her parent’s house. I had talked to her about this before and it goes way beyond what you might be thinking… she had never done her own laundry, she didn’t know how to cook, she had only just got her license to drive a couple of years prior.
The idea of moving out stressed her out because she didn’t know how bills worked or who to call if she got hurt. You get the idea right? She had been fired from every job she’d ever had for being on her phone at work.
Despite being a manager at a cell phone repair store she could not tell an iPhone 4 from an iPhone 8. This woman made rocks look smart.
Anyways, on to the malicious compliance. She often made mistakes when giving people quotes or information on the phone and I would do my best to quietly give her the correct info.
Sometimes she was grateful for the help and other times she would “shush” me. Well, one day it was really bad and she kept giving out inaccurate information which was costing us repairs because people would drive to the store and I would give them the actual price which was different than what they had heard on the phone.
They assumed bait and switch but really it was just ignorance on Meg’s part. I admit I was probably a little frustrated with her and that may have come across in my tone despite how patient I was trying to be. I corrected her once again on the info she was giving over the phone and she snapped at me to never interrupt her again.
About half an hour later she got a phone call on her cell phone. She looked confused but that was nothing new. I wasn’t concerned until I saw her rummaging through her purse while talking to this person.
She pulled out her social security card and gave them the number!
I tried to get her attention but she just glared daggers at me so I sat back down and shut up. This phone call lasted close to half an hour. She gave them her current and past addresses, her credit card number, her password, her pin, she spelled out her name for them (it’s very long and very Greek) and even gave them her home phone number.
I quietly sat through all of this and just kept working on the phone I was repairing.
When she finally got off the phone she turns to me and says, “That was the weirdest phone call… AT&T needed to verify my information.”
I said to her, “Why is that weird?”
She said, “Well, I have T-Mobile.”
My jaw dropped.
Like I knew she was stupid but this was the moment I really understood that.
I then told her she needed to call her brother because her identity had just been given away on a silver platter.
Now crying, she says to me, “He’s going to be so upset… my identity has already been stolen twice this year!”
15. Pool Guy Only Wants To Maintain The Water? Oh, We'll Give You Water To Maintain
“So, my partner and I have a pool company that comes to our house once a week. He happens to be related to my man’s best friend, but we still pay him his rate because we wanted to support his business. He’s been maintaining our pool for, I want to say, a little over a year now, and we haven’t had any issues.
He actually helped us get the parts we needed to fix a lot of things in our pool for just above at-cost, and he’s been an all-around awesome guy.
I’m not sure what’s changed, but the last couple of months, I’ve noticed if I don’t sit outside and converse with him, he generally will come in, skim the pool, empty the basket, throw some chlorine tabs in the float and leave in a matter of minutes.
And this would be fine, however, now that we are getting deeper into the hot summer, we’ve noticed a slow growth of black algae growing in some of the cracks and along the tile.
Granted, our pool is a little on the older side and is definitely overdue for a resurfacing, but the algae can easily be scrubbed off when it starts to get noticed. You would think that the pool guy would do this at some point; he has not.
I’ve noticed these last couple of months, he’s been doing the absolute bare minimum to maintain the water, and because of the algae, by the sixth day after, the pool is already starting to get green and cloudy, and then he just puts more chlorine in it to clear the water and then goes on his way.
Well, my daughter’s birthday is coming up soon, and we intend to have a pool party, but even at its clearest, this pool had so much black algae built up that neither of the kids even want to swim in it anymore.
So with two more ‘pool guy days’ to go before the party, I decide the day beforehand to scrub the absolute life out of the tiles, the walls, and all the cracks, which lifts it all off the surface and floats it into the water.
About 30 minutes in, the water is so green, gross, and cloudy, you can’t even see the bottom. By the next day (which was yesterday, when he was scheduled to come to do his weekly drop-by), the pool almost looked like a swamp.
I watched him through the window when he arrived and saw the absolute disappointment as he shook his head and began to skim the surface (which I had already done, so there wasn’t much) and then proceeded to dump in the chemicals.
The number of different chemicals I watched him pour in probably cost him more than what we pay him for the whole month.
And now, here I am, the next morning, and I am sitting happily beside the clear pool drinking my coffee planning where I’m going to put the decorations for the party.”
Another User Comments:
“No water testing done? Just guess and toss in some chorine blocks? Sorry, he is having a hard time, but he needs to do tests and needs to start doing it correctly, or I would find someone else. After all, it is your pool he is pretty much ignoring.
Who is going to pay for the repairs from neglect when the time comes? Your pool guy or you?” Psychoticrider
14. My House Has To Have Uniform Appearance? Say No More
“So this happened in the early 2000s, I had a chance meeting with an old friend who reminded me of the story.
Just for clarification’s sake, I had an accident that left me on a long road to recovering personal mobility, and at the time, I lived in a 3rd story Victorian Era apartment, so I bought a ranch-style house that was better suited to my recovery.
The house was a 3 bed 2.5 bath, detached garage, and in my opinion, a rather ugly shade of yellow. My partner at the time took the opportunity to move in with me. Beyond family, I had two regular visitors: a personal trainer and an aide.
So for argument’s sake, I can’t say that everything leading up to the malicious compliance was brought on by one single neighbor, but at this very least, if I had a fire, she was pouring gasoline on it.
I quite quickly met two of my neighbors upon moving in. The two couldn’t be any more opposite if they tried. One neighbor, AL, an old biker whom everyone should have a neighbor like at least once in their lives. And the other Wilma, nosey neighbor extraordinaire.
The rest of the neighborhood was a great blend of ages, ethnicities, families, and whatnot. Just good people doing the best they could.
Things started off on the wrong foot – errr more appropriately – wheel with Wilma. Right off the bat, she made it clear that she was the type of person to personally inspect anything you did to your house.
And she did not mind telling you if something wasn’t up to her standards, which included my old 69 chevy truck, she clearly thought was ugly. (Note: throughout this story, I was not able to drive it as I was mostly wheelchair-bound; however, I kept it registered and ready).
Though for some reason, Wilma loved my girl and would talk at length to her. My girl did not share the same feelings for Wilma. AL, on the other hand, being a gear head, quickly decided that I was his new best friend. Looking back, I’m glad AL was there.
I’m not sure I ever told him, but he definitely had a way to pick me up on even my worst days. Anyways.
Problems mounted fairly quickly, I had hired a contractor to make some modifications to the house, and we were nearly constantly hit with inspections and stop-work orders.
It was clear that someone was complaining, and more often than not, Wilma seemed to be in the know about what the inspection was for. I remember one day my contractor calling the police because she was constantly on site and butting in. After that day, she’d stand on the sidewalk watching everything.
Shortly after construction ended came rumors that I was being unfaithful. Nikki, my aide, was by most accounts a very attractive woman, but I wasn’t her type. To be blunt, no guy was. Then came rumors that I was seeing a man behind my partner’s back.
To be frank, I don’t know who my trainer/physical therapy guy was into. I do know he enjoyed bending me into a pretzel and telling me that I wasn’t trying hard enough. Nice guy outside that. Of course, the gay rumors spurred the local church fliers and occasional visits to attempt to “save me.” Nikki tried to put on a good face, but she was clearly bothered by it, and that angered all of us.
Come one day, AL had had enough and confronted the church member as they were walking up to the house. It wasn’t anything physical, but it was loud enough with open windows to hear AL let them know we all had had enough. Wilma called the cops, but at least that harassment stopped.
From that day on it seems like I either had the city or the police knocking on my door all the time. If AL took me for a ride in my pickup, cops were called. If my truck wasn’t parked, by whoever I let drive it, in my garage at night, the city was called. If my grass was a touch shaggy, the city was called. If I was in my garage and dropped a wrench after 10 pm, the cops were called. If we had friends over, and we were boisterous after dark, the cops were called. Nikki’s partner came over and planted some flowers for me (she was a sweetheart like that).
Yep, the city came and visited, and I had to have my yard rearranged (so much for a low maintenance yard, sigh). All the while, somehow, Wilma seemed to know everything about what was going on.
One evening, we had a bad storm. In the storm, a large branch fell off the oak in my yard and ripped off several rows of siding.
Sure enough, the city came knocking as my contractor is cleaning up the branches. I ended up with a notice to repair the siding on the house or face penalties. Now we couldn’t get the same siding, and to be honest, I was a bit excited to get rid of the ugly yellow at least on the front of the house.
My contractor made some emergency patches to the siding while we were supposed to decide what to do. Of course, this brought Wilma out who informed us that the city code required a “uniform appearance” of the house. And Wilma was not a fan of my stating that I was thinking the house would look good in a tan color.
She was trying to steer me back to yellow, because my second choice white, would have been too many white houses in a row in her opinion.
I confirmed with the city that, yes, the house had to have a uniform appearance. Which meant that I would have to at least paint the rest of the house to match the front.
And that was really the only restriction. Somehow during this time, I had found out that Wilma absolutely hated the color fuchsia. So I proceeded to tell my contractor to paint the house fuchsia.
It just so happened that Wilma was away the week that my house was repaired and painted. So upon her return, she wasted no time coming over to demand we paint it a different color.
My girl looked her straight in the eye and said something to the effect of, “It’s such a lovely color and certainly wakes up the neighborhood.” Wilma stormed off.
That was more or less the end of our direct conversations with Wilma. She did call the city who came out and gave us the blessing to keep the color.
And she did complain about the “hideous house” across the street to our neighbors. The officers were also more or less done with her harassment towards us. I’m not sure what they said or if they said anything, but there was a definite reduction in visits.
About a year later, Wilma suffered a heart attack, which she survived but decided to move closer to her children. I moved out a year after that, and I found out via said friend that the house is still fuchsia.
As a little update, yes, I’ve recovered and can walk again.
It was a long journey due to nerve damage from the extent of my injuries. Even though it seemed like every day, and to be frank, I had a terrible sense of time at the time. The events retold here occurred over several months (late winter to early fall).
It was in a small city trying to keep its small-town charm amidst the greater metropolis area. Nothing the city asked us to do was beyond a reasonable request. It was the number of complaints coupled with a knowledgeable neighbor, Wilma, that was the issue, and many complaints ended up being nothing more than apologies for the waste of my time.
There were several officers who lived in the subdivision, so perhaps responding was an easy way to head home early, or for lunch, or whatever. I took comfort knowing that if I needed help, I was sure it would arrive quickly.
I looked on Google for the house.
There is a large box/moving style truck in front of the house, the visible parts of the home are shaded by the tree, and it appears much more raspberry in color. I have asked if said friend would swing by for a picture on his travels home.
Hopefully, he will. Maybe he just remembered it being a funky color, and it still is a funky color, so he thought it was the same? I don’t know. I haven’t been back since I sold it a few years after moving out. I do know the people I sold it to, well at least the lady loved the color (I don’t believe they still own it).
As for AL. We continued to remain in contact even though we both moved several times. We met up through the years, and he never stopped being that awesome friend I needed. I would call him up for a visit anytime “I was in town,” and he’d do the same when in my town.
Though his physical visits became less over the years due to his age and own health issues. Sometimes I think he visited just because he wanted the excuse to go for a ride.
So little side story. AL created many things to help me gain some freedom back.
One day shortly after that storm, Al and a couple of his friends showed up to show off his Harley’s new paint job. I didn’t really want to see it because I couldn’t drive a car let alone a motorcycle to join him on rides.
Frankly, I was just plain jealous. Little did I know what he really wanted to show me was the sidecar he built, just so that I could join on rides. Yes, AL was just that awesome and so were his friends. They took me all over the county that day, stopping at all of their favorite spots.
They would stop all dismount, quickly get my chair set up, and carefully lift me between the two… Unlike others I had to rely on to get myself up and down, the group was able to perfect this awkward task in such a skilled and dignified way, that I almost didn’t mind I couldn’t do it myself.
Truth be told, I was just happy to have the wind back in my hair and some good friends to share it with.
Anyways, side story over. About a decade ago AL went radio silent. Yes, I did try to find anyone who could help locate him, but to no avail; he simply vanished. His online accounts I know of went inactive around the same time, should he ever log back in (or a relative of his), there is now a pm with a link to this post. Unfortunately, though, I believe that AL has taken that great ride in the sky.”
I was at the hospital Thursday waiting for my daughter's CAT scan when my older daughter calls in tears as there was a town official at the door responding to a complaint the trash was blowing all over the neighborhood. (It wasn't, flooded remember? Everything we tossed was waterlogged).
My across the street neighbor had called in a complaint.
I called city hall and explained the situation and they backed off quickly, meanwhile horrid neighbor left the State before I got home to move in with her daughter 2000 miles away. She just decided on a final hateful f__ you on her way out.
Good riddance!
13. More Fuel, You Say? You Got It!
Gasoline is a type of fuel, you know.
“When I was younger, my cousins and I would always go and hang out at each other’s places. All of our parents were in very rural areas. To give you an idea of how rural, our nearest neighbor was over a mile away. For my cousin, this was elevated to about 10 miles.
We did what any other teenage boys would do in the woods: whatever we wanted to.
For this story, I was at my cousin’s place, and we were having a bonfire. It was a little damp as it had just rained, but his dad was fairly stubborn and had decided that he was going to burn some brush regardless of how long it was going to take him and that we (my cousin and I) were just there to help him.
Neither of us wanted to be out there, but my uncle insisted that we couldn’t do anything else until all the brush was burned, and we helped him put away all his equipment (chainsaw, log splitter, etc.). He tried to start the fire, and after about 30 minutes, finally got it to start.
We tended the fire and got it to where it wasn’t going to die before he decided to leave us in charge before going to go get more brush.
To keep the fire manageable, he had the foresight to separate all the brush in that area into multiple separate piles no bigger than about 2 feet high and about 3 feet wide.
As he didn’t want the fire to die, he told us that if it started to burn down to “add more fuel to the fire to keep it going.”
As he walked away, my cousin eyed the 10-gallon red plastic canister full of gasoline before returning a wicked little grin at me.
I just smiled back because naive little me had no clue what he was thinking.
After a little while, the fire had burned down a little to where we could add more branches, but instead, my cousin grabbed the whole canister of gas and chucked it (more like dropped it) into the middle of the fire.
I stared wide-eyed as my cousin came back and said, “We should back up.”
Me: “What are you-”
Cousin: “He said to add more fuel, so I did.”
I looked at the canister (still sealed) and watched as the flames danced as they ignited the residual gasoline around the pour spout.
Part of me thought, “I should pull that out,” but another part of me thought “This is going to be awesome!”
As I tried to figure out what to do, I heard the screen door to the house slam shut and realized my cousin had left me.
I thought, “Oh no, if my uncle comes back, he’s going to blame me for this!”
I didn’t have to think about it for long. I heard the screen door slam again and my cousin emerged from the house with a .22 rifle.
He walked up next to me, aimed at the canister, and said, “This is going to be amazing” before squeezing the trigger.
The bullet flew and pierced the canister on the highest part of it to allow the fumes to escape.
For those who have never seen a fireball that comes from an exploding canister of gasoline, it is absolutely glorious for those who are standing back far enough, which, we were not.
I was only able to watch for a very minimal amount of time before the heat and force of the blast caused me to step back and trip over the chainsaw and land smack on my back in a pile of brush. My cousin ended up tripping and rolling down the hill about 30 feet before ending up in a lake at the bottom.
It was hard to tell how high the fireball made it, but it was at least 100 feet because no sooner did my cousin drag his soaking-wet butt with the rifle back to the top of the hill than his dad (my uncle) flew down the little trail on the quad screaming at us.
Uncle: “WHAT WAS THAT!?”
Cousin: “I threw on more fuel like you told me to,” pointing to the exploded (and still on fire) shrapnel that used to be the gasoline canister.
Uncle: “I DIDN’T TELL YOU TO USE GASOLINE!”
Cousin: “You said FUEL! I used FUEL!”
Uncle: “Get out of here! Both of you!”
So we went inside. My cousin changed, I pulled prickles out of my clothes, and we started playing video games. Apparently, my uncle had called my grandparents to come to get me though because no longer than an hour had passed after we blew up the fire, then they showed up to take me home.
On the way home, my grandpa asked me how it was. I said that it was cool. And he told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was never to do that at his place.
Fallout: I was never allowed back over to their house ever again.”
12. Fire Me Mid-Work Day? Guess I Won't Be Finishing All Of This Important Paperwork For You
And don’t get mad that I didn’t finish it.
“I’m a nurse. I work in nursing homes (rehabs, old folks home etcetera). I do the paperwork that is sent to Medicare. That paperwork has to be submitted in a timely manner or the facility goes from $700/day to $200/day (just tossing numbers out.
Don’t remember the amount) This is important in a second.
I worked for a facility that I loved. The people were wonderful. It was like a huge family. The staff ate their meals with patients, the independent people visited often, and our bosses were easy to approach.
Then the bosses retired. At the same time.
Our board then decided that maybe we would make more moolah if we hired a management company. All of these changes happened within weeks of each other.
They hired a traveling nurse to head up the skilled nursing unit for a year.
We didn’t react well to her. She never smiled, she would just look at you if you asked a question, and she decided that new rules (that didn’t apply to her) were needed.
Shortly after her hiring, she began firing everybody. It was like a war zone had erupted on the floor!
Nobody smiled, no laughter, no visitors, no family meals, and loads of stress.
I was the last one fired. Oh, I had been written up (zero write-ups when she walked in) for things like a cell phone on the floor (my pocket), drink on my desk in my office (water), and filling a certification form late (doctor signed it the day it was due but they photocopied it before I had left for the doctor’s office).
So they had their three write-ups.
At 1500 on Friday the administrator calls me into his office. I’m informed that I’ve been terminated. I’m floored. I work my butt off. I am actually great at my job! I’ve been there for seven years.
I’m escorted to my office to gather my stuff. They have turned off my computer, asked for my passwords, and escorted me from the building.
Here’s where malicious compliance comes in.
They called me in to fire me just as I was creating the packet to send to Medicare.
I was never able to send it. They never asked if things were situated since it was Friday. I volunteered no information.
Remember that timely manner? Well, that Friday was the very last day to submit about 30 different forms. Most were 14-day assessments that literally covered 14 days!
Billing (friend) called and let me know that the default cost over $100,000 by the time they figured everything out.”
11. Won't Take Generic Medication Thinking It's "Harmful?" Fine, Then Don't Take Any At All
“I work as a receptionist for a pretty popular doctor in my area, so I have my fair share of stories to tell of entitled and/or stupid people, but this by far is only one I’ve complied maliciously for because I generally go by “not my business; I’m just doing my job.”
The doctor I work for recently got injured and has been unable to work, so I work on a system with pharmacies and health insurance companies where I and the clinic nurse make and stamp any prescriptions and referrals to specialists, and they tend to the patient’s needs while we get the paperwork signed by the doctor from his home.
This particular patient has always been difficult since I started working. He always seems like a nice old man, then he starts yelling about how he knows better than everyone else.
On this day, the patient came in to pick up a prescription for his monthly medication instead of letting us send it to a pharmacy for him to pick up there and was all smiles until he read the paper.
Gasp, the nurse had used a generic name for a medication instead of the branded one that he liked. He then began insisting that the brand meds and the generic meds were not the same and that the generic medication was harmful because it was cheaper.
I, of course, insisted that it was the same medication, and explained to him how patents and medication branding worked but he refused to listen. The nurse then stepped in and tried to explain with her nursing degree and 10 years of experience under her belt that even the specialist who initially prescribed it to him had put the generic in his file.
Once again he refused to listen and raised his voice at the experienced nurse that he knew better.
In his exact words: “I’m not taking any freaking medication if it’s generic.”
I smiled and knowing that pharmacies no longer stock most branded medications for non-cash payment clients due to it being easier to approve generic medications on our country’s free healthcare system and private insurances, so I told the nurse to just reprint it with the branded name because he’s a grown adult that knows the consequences of not taking his medication.
Fifteen minutes later, I get a call from a pharmacy we work with a lot, with the Ph.D. holding pharmacist telling me that one of the patients from our clinic yelled at her that she didn’t know anything about medicine because they couldn’t give him his branded medication.
She told me that he said he wasn’t going to take it and left.
I thought that would be the end of it and that he’d learn his lesson after visiting 7+ pharmacies to no avail.
But no.
Guess who walked into the clinic this morning holding a report from the ER and requesting a referral letter for the national health insurance to cover his trip to the same specialist from before, only now his condition was irreparable and extremely uncomfortable?
Sure, I feel bad, but stupid always loses.”
Another User Comments:
“You shouldn’t feel bad. Most of the time, the original brand adds nothing to the medication. Sometimes, however, like for Concerta, their brand pill uses a special osmotic pump that delivers the medication in a very even curve throughout the day.
The therapeutic plateau is better with it than generic brands that don’t use the pump.
As an ER nurse and a future NP, I can tell you that some patients are irredeemable. You just do your best and let them face the consequences of their own decisions.
They’re adults.” Doumtabarnack
10. Only Mustard And Pickle, You Say? Okay
“Back in my days of working at everyone’s least favorite fast food place featuring a pair of arches that happen to be “gold,” I had more than a few witchy customers.
This one woman, in particular, comes to mind. Condescending attitude, all but threw her at the cashier, and gave us all a contemptuous look when I saw her through the window.
She came in through the drive-thru and ordered a quarter pounder, only mustard and pickle, extra mustard and pickle.
For those not in the know, McPlace has specially designed “guns” that dispense a specific amount of ketchup and mustard. The standard operating procedure for “extra” is two shots instead of one and one extra pickle slice.
I gave her 3 shots of mustard and a total of 4 pickle slices (two extra), as that’s all she wanted on it. Cheese, beef, boxed and sent and life continues on.
Not two minutes later, the woman returns, irate and yelling about how she didn’t get enough mustard and pickle…
Had she been polite, she would not have been hit with what followed.
I had earned something of a reputation as a vindictive jerk. The shift manager looked me in the eye and nodded. That was all the encouragement I needed.
I began remaking this woman’s sandwich.
I grabbed the mustard dispenser, grasped it firmly, braced myself, and began beating on the dispense button. By the time I stopped, the mustard had spilled over the side of the bun, and there was a solid ring of mustard around it in the box.
Next came the pickles. I reached into the tub and pulled out the biggest handful of pickles I could manage and plopped it in the mustard puddle, spilling more into the box. And then I grabbed another. And another. There was a tower of pickle 4 inches high on this poor bun.
Cheese, beef, squeeeeeeeezzze into the box and sent.
Never heard from her again. She was either pleased or decided it wasn’t worth the fight.
I hated that job.
Moral of the story: don’t be a jerk. Especially not to the people who handle your food.”
9. Want A New Truck? Well, It's Not "New," But It's New For You
“My friend tells me that at the company he works for everyone is loaned a company truck. They are responsible for making sure that the truck is OK and that everything operates smoothly.
When repairs are needed you take it to the company mechanic and they take care of things.
The supervisor handed everyone a key to their new truck and it went like this.
Supervisor: “Hey everybody I’m sure as you saw today our new trucks came in so everybody line up and get a key to your truck.”
Everyone gets their key and goes forward with the work week. THEN Burt came to the mechanic with his truck and he said, “It’s feeling sluggish.” The mechanic said to Burt 25 minutes later:
Mechanic: “Well, we figured what is wrong with your truck.”
Burt: “What’s going on?”
Mechanic: “Apparently, you damaged the driveshaft.”
Burt: “Oh wow, I wonder how that happened?”
Now Mechanic in his report said that there was a lot of dirt under the bay of the truck. Since they are new, Mechanic made the assumption that he likely went off-roading and damaged it.
The company had had two new spare trucks. Burt apparently came into the supervisor’s office and said:
Burt: “I need a new truck!”
Supervisor: “Wait! What happened to yours?”
Burt: “The driveshaft is damaged.”
Supervisor: “Ok… Well, we have another truck you can borrow until yours is fixed. Just be more careful..”
Burt with an unappreciative tone said “FINE” and later drove off. Three days later, a Triple-A flatbed delivered his loaner to the yard. He apparently snapped the front left axle and sustained some bumper damage to the truck. The supervisor is ANGRY! Burt then comes into the office and tells Supervisor.
(Cue the malicious compliance.)
Burt: “I need I new truck!”
Supervisor: “Yeah I see (pointing to the flatbed with the truck on it.)”
So Supervisor gives him A “New” truck as he asked for. A 1989 Ford F-150.
Burt: “This truck isn’t NEW!”
Supervisor: “Yeah, it’s new to you.”
Burt: “Why can’t I have a newer one?”
Supervisor: “Well you’ve damaged your first two. You are extremely liable for us right now, just be happy that we are giving you something.”
Burt looking dissatisfied says “FINE!” and drives away. Five days later the clutch was SHOT on the 89 pickup, the thing is the clutch on the truck was fine.
It was inspected BEFORE it was given to Burt. So now Mechanic and Supervisor were suspicious. Burt then came to the supervisor’s office and said…..
Burt: “I NEED A NEW TRUCK!!!!!!”
Supervisor: “Yeah I heard.”
Burt walks over to the last new truck on the lot.
Supervisor: “Follow me to the backlot.”
Burt follows. The supervisor then proceeds to take a tarp off a 1977 Ford F-150.
The Supervisor says to Burt:
Supervisor: “Here is your “NEW” Truck…..”
Burt looked disgusted but he had to take it because Supervisor wouldn’t let him have one of the new trucks until his was fixed, and the clutch on the 1989 truck was paid for.
Needless to say, Burt NEVER broke his truck again! As the yard had an even OLDER 1969 Ford-F100. Burt probably realized that if he didn’t shape up his driving that he would once again… get a “new “truck.
Also, Burt had a lot of experience in construction, so that is one of the reasons why he wasn’t fired until 2 years later.”
8. If You Tell Me To Do Something Very Specific, I'm Going To Do It
“I work as a paramedic in a tiered EMS system, where ALS (Advanced Life Support, paramedics) is separate from BLS (Basic life support, EMTs) ambulances, and response is in non-transport chase vehicles. We have multiple platoons, each with an alphabetical designation, A, B, C, etc. During a shift, each medic unit is supposed to use their call signs followed by their platoon identifier, as in “Medic 1A, Medic 1B, etc.” This is really only important around shift change when you might have two medic units of any given number in service at the same time due to late calls, etc. Additionally, we have two paramedics assigned to every unit.
When we transport a noncritical patient, usually only one paramedic treats the patient, and the other one goes to the hospital in the medic truck but becomes available as a single medic responder, identified via their assigned number, such as “Paramedic 123,” which is unique and is never used by anyone else, even on another shift.
This incident happened to me several years ago, when I was still fairly new and had only been at the agency for a few years. I was working a TON of overtime at the time, averaging over 80 hours per week, and I was also a relief person on my platoon, which meant that I was a fill-in for callouts or people on vacation, so I was constantly working different units.
This meant that I was also constantly forgetting which unit or shift I was on and would often get it wrong (i.e., working Medic 1A but say Medic 1D on the radio). And often, I would have to pause to make sure I got the unit number right as well, so my transmission might go something like, “Medic… (pause while my brain tries to catch up) 1 (pause again) A arrival.” Hence, I would often just use the numeric identifier and leave off the alphabetic one since I tripped up over it or got it wrong a lot of the time.
This caused some frustration for a new supervisor who was assigned to our shift, and for some reason, seemed to really not like me. The supervisor was making a big push to have people use the alphabetic identifier on their transmissions, and he took it next level.
One day, we’re out running our butts off, and I get a message from him in all capital letters, “YOU MUST USE YOUR PLATOON IDENTIFIER ON ALL RADIO TRANSMISSIONS!” So, on our next call, my partner takes a patient to the hospital, and I went “Paramedic 123…B available.” Once I arrived at the ER, the other crews all had a good laugh and then told me I had to call the supervisor’s phone.
He yelled at me to meet him at the fueling station, so after transferring patient care and restocking, we headed over there. We pull up to the fuel pumps, and my partner starts fueling the truck while I start walking across the parking lot to his truck.
He jumps out and hurls a wad of trash at me before going on a rant about me being a “smart jerk on the radio” etc., etc. He’s going on about only using the alphabetic identifier when I’m transmitting my full unit number, not my single responder number, and things like, “Don’t make a pause between your unit number and your letter because it sounds like you’re being disrespectful,” etc., etc.
I wait until I can get a word in edgewise and then explain the situation of my OT and changing units every day, and his response was just, “Well, get it right the first time.” So I asked if I should correct it if I make a mistake, and he responded with the same statement.
He then jumped in his truck and left. I turned around and headed back to our truck (after I picked up his trash and discarded it properly) to find my partner doubled over laughing. He says, “You’re the only person I know who can ruin a supervisor’s whole day with one letter of the alphabet and do it with class.” We’ve had a lot of laughs about it since then.
And just for fairness’ sake, the supervisor did actually get a lot better and became a pretty decent guy. We got along well by the time he was transferred to another platoon a few years later. ”
7. Won't Leave When We Close? Stay Then, But We're Going To Have To Lock You In
“I used to work at a drive-up storage facility. We had pretty cheap prices and a few deals so we got 3 types of people renting:
-Normal people
-Business people
-Homeless/jobless people who try to live out of the storage units and stay in the facility most of the day “rearranging” their storage unit so they had an excuse to stay.
Now our story begins with the normal people.
Unfortunately…
Most normal people are normal, as you would think. They are moving, need a place to store stuff. Most of the time they aren’t happy with moving and that makes sense. I try to be patient and kind.
One facility rule the owners had me enforce was that we need to kick everyone out of the facility at 8 sharp. No exceptions. The office closes before then and my job was to drive back at 8 every night and check the whole facility. (By the way, I’m not on the clock for time.
I’m supposed to just do a security check).
Enter a family with an older lady and her daughter renting a unit. They were easy to work with. I respect elders a lot so I usually try to be extra friendly to older people.
Move-in day.
They had a big ole truck full of stuff. It looked like a lot of stuff was gonna be stacked in the unit. Of course, when I come back later that night they are still there unloading stuff. They had a bunch of guys helping them.
I drive up and remind them of the rules. They must be out by 8.
“But we are almost done we can get more in just need a few minutes.”
Hmm. With previous experience, I knew how this was gonna go. I repeated the rules and told them they also signed a contract that they’d obey these rules, but I said I’d check the rest of the facility first so they could wrap up, they said thank you.
I finish and drive to the front and of course, they aren’t there. I get out of my car and walk over to them. And they are still going strong unloading… So I decided to pressure a little and walk over and let them know once again the facility is closed. I stand next to them for 30 min.
They finally decide they aren’t gonna finish tonight and pack up. 50 minutes after the facility closed I let them out of the locked gate and went home at 9.
Now my boss caught wind of this. My boss was a real stickler for rules and stuff.
He kinda had a notion that people would follow contract rules if they were enforced. But I knew people would just push our limits. My boss told me that we needed to keep the gate locked after closing time and we can’t have people staying late.
I didn’t want to stay that late either.
The next day they came back. Late. They got there as the office was closing in the evening to continue unloading. I really hoped they got the message the first time but lo and behold when I came for the security check they were there unloading what seemed to be a new load.
I wasn’t as patient with them this time. I wasn’t rude, but I was definitely being blunter with how I talked to them. I let them know again that they needed to leave immediately.
“Okay, we are just finishing up.” I had heard that one before.
This time I circled the unit block they were at and every time I passed I let them know I was done with the rest of the facility. They seemed to get the picture but the clock still was ticking and by the time they closed the unit and I tailgated their truck out of there it had already been another 40 minutes past.
I was tired of getting lectured by my boss on how we needed to enforce these rules. For some reason, he had a mindset that I was letting them stay and being nice. No. The first time I was nice. But I wasn’t letting them stay and I can’t physically force these people out.
MC time baby!
The third day they were finishing the unloading. While onsite I saw them and went up to them and just gave them a pass by a reminder that they need to wrap up before 8…
Later that night I check and yep they are still there.
I’m getting a bit peeved at this point so I check the facility quickly then I decide to drive out. The front gate has a code lock that denies codes after 8:10 (yeah there was even a grace period!!!) Since they had me let them out every time they didn’t know their code wouldn’t work.
At least since they didn’t seem to know the rules they definitely didn’t read that in bold highlighted in our contract.
So as per my boss’s order, I left the gate locked and left. I lived close so I went home. Got a snack.
Watched a couple of shows, then about 9:40 went back to the facility to find them stuck at the gate.
They were not happy but as I let them out I said to them “the facility closes at 8 sharp and this gate locks, we aren’t always around to let you out that’s why we post the closed times everywhere” (a lie since I checked it every day but I didn’t want them to think they could get away with it anymore).
They just angrily left but I didn’t have a problem with them again. I do feel bad for that older lady, but I don’t know, they just weren’t listening.”
6. Have To Have Naturally-Colored Hair? Silver Technically Is Natural
“So, this is just me venting about something that happened to me a few years ago while having unnaturally colored hair… I could go on and on about how it sucks that companies won’t hire you just because you have unnaturally colored hair (it doesn’t matter how good your resume is!) But that’s a story for another day.
Right now I’m going with the worst instance of this being an issue with an employer I had.
When I was brought in for an interview for a hardware store, I had most of the front of my hair dyed a bright lilac color.
The interview went smoothly and the main boss of the place even complimented my hair. They went so far as to ask if I dye it often, to which I said yes, I change it every few months and was planning on going with a pink color next month for spring.
So they were fully aware of the fact that I had no intention of changing it to a natural color before hiring me. I was brought onto the team and put into the garden department and I was the only one on staff that had unnaturally colored hair.
I, of course, would change the color every few months, and life went on. I got nothing but compliments from customers and staff alike.
I worked there for about a year with no issue. Though a few other staff members over that year offhandedly told me that other employees quit prior to my employment because of the hair policy the store had.
I was confused by this since nobody had said anything to me when I was hired nor in the almost year I worked there. So I shrugged it off – that is until I was brought into the boss’s area and he asked me why my hair was dyed blue as it was against store dress code and I needed to have it changed by my next shift….which again…this is the guy who hired me….with purple hair.
I was so dumbfounded that I even pointed that out to him.
He kinda sputtered and said that there was a “change in policy” and stated that it needed to be changed by tomorrow.
What made me mad about this was that I had just purchased my next dye kit as the blue color was finally starting to show signs of fading…I asked if I could have more time as it would take a while to bleach the color out of my hair safely without damaging it…..his solution: Dye my whole head of hair black.
Now….let’s just say I have many problems with that. I spent years and quite a bit of safely bleaching my hair in the front to be able to color it whatever I like. Especially since my natural color is a dark auburn and it is almost impossible for any dye to take to it..as well as to bleach it white enough to take color…it took me forever and quite a few salon visits to make it this way in the first place…so half of my hair was bright blue..and half of it was a dark purplish-red……for anybody who knows about coloring hair..reds and blues are the two worst colors to get out of hair and just dying over it won’t exactly work…trust me I’ve tried to do similar methods on coloring mistakes.
Dying over bright neon colors with a darker color won’t always work, if the dye doesn’t take it can just fade after a few washes and reveal the neon color underneath (at least that’s what has happened to me quite a few times.) Plus, one day I wanted to dye my whole head because I hate dark colors for my hair!
Why else would I color it such bright pretty colors in the first place?!
So, I politely mentioned that it would just fade and be blue/red again after a few weeks if I did what he was asking. He scoffed, suggested dying it over a couple more times, and finally just said to fix it as soon as possible.
Which I did, I turned my hair silver over the course of a week.
I used as much color remover and bleach as I could, (safely of course!) and did many oil and repair treatments on my hair in between. He couldn’t do anything cuz then the older staff would also have to get in trouble for having silver/white hair.
I ended up quitting a month later though when a better job came up.”
5. Carry Broken Glass Throughout The Restaurant? You Got It, Boss
“So slight backstory, I was working as a manager in a student pub.
The new owner and I haaaated each other, it was actually scary just how deep that hatred ran. However, I was his fastest bartender and simply too popular amongst the other employees to just fire, so instead, he would always belittle me in front of clients or other staff members and find ways to make my job more insufferable; I’m guessing, in hopes that I would simply quit.
So the bar was at the front of the store, the exit was right by the front entrance which leads through a caged-off alley and then leads to the alley where we dumped all the garbage from the bar and restaurant. We had always carried the refuse out that way, it was easy, effective and we didn’t have to walk through the restaurant carrying garbage bags.
So, obviously, the new owner made the rational decision to start locking that way off, forbidding us from using it. This meant we now had to walk through the restaurant, where people were eating, up a mini stairwell, and through the kitchen.
I don’t even know how many health and safety regulations this was violating.
I had protested this at several staff meetings, explaining to him that us not being allowed to go that way doubled the trip, which left the bar a man short for double the time, it was also double the time for the bags to tear, considering they were usually filled with heavy and sometimes broken bottles and mostly, it was just unsanitary walking through the restaurant and kitchen with bags that were usually dripping fluids…so, obviously, he refused and said we will continue doing it his way.
Cut forward a few nights later and the place was packed, likely to overcapacity, but in case it wasn’t clear…safety concerns weren’t much of a priority for this jerk.
I should also point out that the bar only had one garbage bin, which had filled up several bottles ago.
The other bartenders had been ignoring it because if you’re carrying out garbage bags, then you’re not serving customers and if you’re not serving customers, you’re not making tips.
So, I decided to take this task upon myself and to venture out of the bar…I felt like Frodo carrying the ring to Mordor.
As I mentioned, the bag was already over its recommended weight capacity, so I had to get through this crowd fast because I could feel it was going to tear quickly.
Some of the glass had broken inside the bag too and had started cutting into me as I tried carrying the bag from the bottom to keep it from tearing open, all the while fighting my way through a crowd of intoxicated students.
I finally made it to the mini-stairwell by the kitchen, where the intoxicated owner and a random intoxicated girl were sitting on the stairs. The bag was now super close to tearing, and my hands were covered in b***d from getting cut by the glass.
I tried getting the stupid boss’ attention, begging him to move so I could get past. The boss ignored me; I’ll say that the first time it was entirely possible that he may not have heard me over the crowd and the loud music.
So, I tried again…this time he looked straight at me, and then continued to ignore me anyway.
Cue the malicious compliance as I lifted the bag right over him and the girl…just for it to tear open right above them, drowning them both in dripping bottles of booze and pieces of shattered glass.
I felt bad for the girl, she had not deserved this…as for the owner, screw him.
The kitchen staff had heard the crash and screams and ran out to clean the mess; I tried helping but they told me to go back to the bar.
A few seconds later, the owner came storming into the bar, screaming at me and asking me what possessed me to try and lift a garbage bag over the head of him and a customer?
I, innocently, said that I wouldn’t have had to if he had just let us go through the alley.
The owner gave me the biggest death glare I had ever gotten, then took the alley key off his key ring, threw it at me, and stormed out of the bar…so even though I had been forced to cover a girl in glass to get my point across, I still walked out of this battle victorious.
For those of you upset about me endangering the girl; I agree, I think I literally said that in the first sentence of the story that I felt bad about it and I still do to this day, but she wasn’t injured (neither was my stupid boss, unfortunately) and this was 12 years ago, I was a barely older than 19 and we all did things in our younger years that we weren’t proud of.
Lastly, it actually just annoys me that I have to add this, but I am not from the US, the legal drinking age in my country is 18, not 21, therefore I was legally allowed to serve booze before turning 21.”
Another User Comments:
“I don’t think carrying trash through a dining room is a violation in most places (though really gross), but putting broken glass in a bag that can rip definitely IS a safety violation in most places.
Could have easily gotten the restaurant in trouble for that if this was the U.S.” MikeyTheGuy
Reply:
“Lol, I think if this was the US, that place would have been shut down years ago. At the end of the night, after the kitchen was closed, and we were doing final duties, I would start rattling my keys very loudly before entering the kitchen, to chase away all the rats.
The most I ever counted at one time was 15. To this day, I have such a rat phobia from that place that I actually struggle going into pet shops.” Reddit User
4. Don't Want Your Neighbor To Build A Second Story Onto Their House? They'll Go For Three Instead!
I’m pretty sure they can build whatever they want as long as it’s approved by the city and up to code.
“So, to establish some things, the parents of my father own a couple of apartment complexes in this big city (Germany).
They as well as me and my parents all live in this one house, but in different apartments.
My father grew up in this house and never moved away. I will probably one day move to another floor (I’m 19 y/o) but don’t intend to leave this house.
My grandpa just told me that in the early 80s, it used to be just one story high (so really just a very long but super short house, if that makes any sense). I’m living on the third floor at the moment so I asked how this came to pass.
What he told me was absolutely hilarious.
Ok, now the story. My grandparents wanted to add another floor/story to this very long and flat house. So they obviously contacted the authorities and got all the paperwork done. Everything was fine.
Then their neighbor found out about this and got really mad.
He owned and still owns some other apartment complexes in this same area and on the same street. He inherited those complexes from his father.
My grandparents reminded the neighbor, that they had a deal with the neighbor’s father, that if my grandparents wanted to add more floors to their houses, then the neighbor would comply as long as he also could add more floors.
All the neighbor had to say to this was “Yeah, that’s what my FATHER said to you, but now he’s dead and I don’t want you to add another floor to your house!! I’ll sue you if you do that!!” To which my grandpa just replied in his sweetest voice: “Alright, do it!”
The reason why the neighbor could sue us for adding another floor was some weird clause in the German law that existed at that time, that stated a house only could be so high so that the houses next to it would get a specific amount of “sun and air.” The idea was to not cast a huge shadow on the other houses around.
My grandpa knew this was nonsense because a few houses in this area already had like seven floors so it wouldn’t be an inconvenience if our house would “stock up.”
So he went to court. He told me, that there literally was a court meeting and a trial on the street in front of our house.
He brought a lawyer, his attorney, police officers, and some specialists from the state department with him. There the specialists said that our house could actually be three floors tall without robbing this neighbor of any of his “air and sun.” With the attorney and the lawyer as witnesses, everything was settled.
Then the neighbor came over and had a fit, screaming and huffing the whole time, and demanded that it should only be one floor at most.
My grandpa said: “Alright, we’ll do one floor, and then we’re gonna see what we’ll do next.”
They built the floor. And then, because that’s what the specialists said, built another. Right as when the workers wanted to start to work on the second added (so in total third) floor, the neighbor comes flying. Demands to know why they’re doing one more than they said they’ll do.
Police were called. The police (already very tired of this whole situation and especially with the neighbor) told my grandpa to continue building because the concrete was already mixed and ready to use.
This house is now three floors high. I don’t really know what happened to the neighbor because I never met him but my grandpa said that they’re fine now.
There was some kind of story that ended up with my grandpa actually building walls AROUND some of the windows of the third floor because the neighbor demanded some nonsense about fireproof windows. Definitely fireproof if you ask me.”
3. Slides Have To Be Perfect? They Will, But It'll Require More Time And Money
“A few years ago, I worked for a diagnostic company named after a certain mythical firebird.
This was a veterinary diagnostic company and I was a cytotechnician. My job was to perform CBC counts, evaluate cerebrospinal fluid, fix tissue in formalin for the histologist, make fecal smears for our microbial team, slice brain matter and fix it into paraffin blocks you name it.
I even sorted sperm for dairy farms that wanted to have their breedings result in fewer males.
Now, I loved the work. It was dirty work don’t get me wrong. I dealt with everything from gallon jars of horse urine to chunks of flesh torn from cancer-ridden dogs.
Even a polar bear head from a suspected smuggling case! My proudest moment was confirming pregnancies, including being on the phone with a zoo while I confirmed the pregnancy in a lovely wolf eel named Matilda.
I was an overnight tech so I didn’t interact with the bosses (pathologists, microbiologists, etc).
I took care of the emergencies and gave any critical data to veterinarians on the case, but most of the time it was stuff that could wait for the pathologist to wake up. The chief pathologist got the worst cases, and he was a jerk.
I was to have all of his slides, data, and patient files arranged alphabetically ON HIS DESK by 6 am.
And he meant by 6 am.
I came in at 6:05 because a chunky sample had clogged the Advia, and he was sitting at his desk in complete and total darkness.
Waiting for me. He switched on the lamp when I walked in and gave me a heart attack.
Now, this chief pathologist didn’t like me. I’m loud, I have crazy hair and stretched ears. We’re laboratory workers. No one from the public interacts with us, so the dress code boils down to “as long as it’s lab safe you’re good.” Being an ancient chief pathologist with the withered soul of a dementor, he didn’t like this.
He hated that I was gay, that I joked around with coworkers. In his mind, this was austere work, and we’re never allowed to have any fun, ever.
So he began sending back my slide books. This man would wake me up at 9 am after a 10-hour shift, and ask why sample 106542 was chunky.
As in, he thought the b***d on the slide was too thick to read and demanded that I re-make it for the next morning. Now, I take pride in my work. People trust vets to diagnose their pet correctly and it’s my job to help Fluffy recover just as much as the vets.
Not to mention I saw repeated draws, so I knew a few patients by name alone.
I asked a few other techs to give feedback on my slides and got approval from them before sending them up to the Dementor.
He began sending back whole lots of slides to the point where he was doubling and tripling my work for the night.
The clients began to notice; I wasn’t spending as long on sperm sorting and the dairy. A few fecals had to be delayed. Always the same feedback from the Dementor. “The slides are too thick!!” “I can’t read the slides!” “You’re killing patients!”
He once marched downstairs and actually threw a book of glass slides at my head.
“Don’t send them up here until they’re perfect!” He snarled and marched back upstairs. I was petrified, holding a tray of urine and covered in broken borosilicate glass.
Not send them up until they’re perfect? Absolutely, sir.
I shoved my non-emergency cases off on a coworker who needed more sperm, urine, and fecal practice, and I threw my back into making b***d and CSF slides.
My tissue was eagerly taken up by a coworker who wanted to learn histo, so my work was covered. Since everyone hated the Dementor, it wasn’t hard to get folks to help me.
I pulled slides the Dementor had made personally and set that as my standard.
Presumably, he’s able to read his own slides.
I did them over and over again until they were PERFECT. No cells were ruptured. No streaks. Dyed to perfection, labeled clearly as anything I could label. These were slides that could have gone to the museum of hematology.
They were actually better than his.
I send a 300 slide lot of perfect, beautiful, lovely slides to my boss. He admires them, compliments my work, and I get the paperwork packet ready. Not only do I organize it by alphanumeric patient name and number, but I also organize it by ER cases on top so he doesn’t have to hunt for them.
I ask the veterinarians for patient records and attach those. I put them each in their own lovely case folder labeled with the patient number and name.
I send this gorgeous packet up to the Dementor EXACTLY at 6 am.
He’s of course, waiting.
He picks up a slide, sets it on the microscope, and immediately I see him stop.
They’re beautiful.
You can see every white b***d cell. The pathogens stand out like I had asked them to. I’m standing there with a grin on my face, thank him for his time, and go downstairs to gather my things.
I’m woken up again.
This time by HR. They ask me to come in, and nervously I drive to the lab. I find out the Dementor is accusing me of wasting the sample, as I had essentially used up most of the sample prepping the slides. After all the other techs had pawed the tubes, there was only enough for one or two re-test runs.
There were other technicians’ names on histo, fecal, and urine reports, so some of the other doctors got a little angry.
I tell HR about the Dementor screaming at me not to send the b***d slides until they were perfect. Since I am committed to the health and well-being of my patients, I pulled slides the Dementor had made and followed his standard.
By his own standards, the slides were, in a word, perfect.
HR immediately turned on him and asked him why he would ask me to be written up for performing my job. Dementor grumbled something about the samples, but since there was enough for analysis he couldn’t really nail me on anything.
Unfortunately, the Dementor did eventually win and get me fired. He complained about everything under the sun, including things like asking why diarrhea samples were streaked (uh, nature of the beast) but I never heard anything about any b***d samples I ever handed him ever again.
And since pathology labs keep example slides indefinitely for reference, those beautiful slides I made will be standing next to his for eternity. I hope it irks him as much as it helps me sleep at night. I like to imagine he has to pull those perfect slides to reference a case, and purses his leathery lips at the initials on the slide.”
2. Need A Doctor's Note For Bottled Water In Class? Sure
That’s absolutely pathetic.
“So my school made this dumb rule that nobody can have a water or drink bottle with them because a couple of seniors got caught drinking booze at school. The only exception is if you have a form signed by your doctor saying there’s a medical reason you need it.
And carry the note with you whenever you have a water bottle so you can show it to teachers or administration.
Now, my doctor who I have my yearly checkup with is also one of my mom’s best friends, and last week she and her daughter were coming around to hang out with our family.
I was telling her and my mom about the school rule and they thought it was silly too. My doctor was talking about how unhealthy it was to not let kids drink water all day, and sell them sugary sodas at lunch.
I asked if she’d sign a doctor’s note allowing me a water bottle and she said of course.
So I printed out the form and she signed it.
There was a section saying to describe the medical need and she wrote “water is necessary for life” which my mom thought was funny but also thought might get the note rejected like it was obviously meant for specific medical conditions or disabilities.
But she said that if anyone had a problem with it, to have them call her and they’d get a piece of her mind.
So I took the note to school and a bunch of teachers told me I couldn’t have a water bottle and I said I had a note.
Most of them didn’t read it closely enough to see the reason but out of the two that did, one laughed about it and asked if it was real. I said it was, she could call the number on the form. She seemed satisfied.
The other teacher threatened to take the note away, saying medical exemptions were not a joke, it was a disrespectful thing to do, disrespectful to the school’s rules, and disrespectful to people who had an actual medical need, to treat it as a joke.
I know my doctor hadn’t meant it as a joke about actual medical problems…”
1. Kick Me Out Of The Assembly? Fine, But I Have A Plan
“This is a story from my high school years.
Now, before I write anything, to my American readers, before you start explaining the law to me and calling my story fake, I want to emphasize: this is Africa – we have rules, we have laws, but unless you’re murdering someone, they’re really more just guidelines to follow than anything else.
So, a brief back story; they’re not really crucial to the plot, but it paints a nice background. Any of those who read the story about my Evil Stepmother knows that by age 14 I was living alone in my father’s house and making a pretty comfortable living renting out his rooms to students, therefore, needless to say, for me, high school was a blast.
Now I’m not going to lie and say I was a good student, I was anything but. I mean I never drank or smoked, but I skipped school almost more often than I attended. When I rarely did show my face, I’d often just go sit in any class that I felt like, whether I took the subject or not, sometimes I’d just go to school for recess and go home again after…I was really living the dream of any B-average student.
What’s more, I hardly ever got in trouble, even when I got caught the teachers would kinda just brush it off and let me get away without so much as a slap on the wrist. Most of the teachers either loved me or had long since realized there really was nothing that could be done about me, so they mostly just humored my antics.
There was, however, one teacher who saw through my “charms.” He was the first language teacher, never my favorite or anything, but I truly held no ill will towards him, in fact, I kinda respected him for being the only one who actually bothered calling me out on all my stuff.
Although this seldom did him any good, because whenever he threatened to call my parents, the obnoxious kid that I was, I would just ask him, “Uhm, which parent? My mother in heaven or my father somewhere in Africa? If you manage to reach either of them, could you please ask them to check in once in a while?” and this would kinda be the end of the conversation because as arrogant as I was about it, my argument wasn’t untrue.
Onto the day of the actual story. I was in my senior year and still attending classes on an on and off basis, but attending more than I did in the past. I wasn’t trying to change my ways or anything, but I was in the process of putting together a 4-hour long video of our high school years and realized I had skipped so much that year, that I hardly had enough footage to use for that segment.
On this particular day though, I had picked the wrong day to attend and ended up having to attend the assembly. This did not sit well with me as I had a personal gripe against our school principal for something that had happened in my sister’s senior year and therefore I refused to show him any kind of respect; he later got canned for having an affair with the PE teacher, so karma, but I digress.
Now, as arrogant as I was, I do maintain that I wasn’t actually talking as loud as the language teacher accused me of, but I will openly admit that I wasn’t paying any attention to the principal’s speech, because I hadn’t done so in 4-years and definitely wouldn’t have done so that day, so maybe I was, who knows?
He wasn’t an unfair teacher or anything.
Nonetheless, the language teacher pulled me out of assembly and forced me to go stand outside. So I stand there waiting, several teachers pass me, one asks why I’m not inside, I answer that the language teacher kicked me out, they say “oh okay” and continue about their business.
Later, the assembly ends, the students exit…and I’m kinda standing there waiting to be called to the office or just for some kinda consequence, but nada, nothing, zilch.
So I walk back to class thinking, “Uhm, that was freaking awesome.”
Cue the malicious compliance, so the next week rolls around; I decide to attend school that day, assembly time comes, the other students enter, I hang back and when the doors close, I’m still outside.
I hang around again, later a passing teacher again asks why I’m not inside, I once more answer that the language teacher sent me out and she again walks away without saying another word.
The next week, I do the same thing, but this time instead of hanging out where the teacher told me, I just take a leisurely stroll outside, getting fresh air and an extra-long recess while the other students are stuck inside that boring assembly.
The week after, I got extra ballsy and invited a friend to try it out with me, he agreed and when the bell rang for assembly, we both just hung back while the other students entered the building. So now I actually had company for this extra-long recess.
This was like the best discovery ever.
Needless to say, I never set foot inside the assembly hall again; I wish I could say the same for my friend, but after 2-weeks he had grown paranoid and started attending again – chicken.
I would have loved to have ended this story by saying that the language teacher eventually caught me and I could have told him that he was the one that sent me out, but that moment never happened. Even though I was in the wrong and I knew it, I still would have loved that argument.
Just a brief epilogue, I had nice chat with the teacher at his sister-in-law’s wedding and I apologized to him for being a jerk back then, so we’re cool today.”
