People Put On A Show In These Revenge Stories

So there I was, trapped between an executive who didn’t understand tech and an IT team who couldn’t make the impossible happen.

The perfect recipe for making money while watching a train wreck in slow motion.

I work as a security consultant for various companies, and last year I landed this contract with a massive financial firm. One day, I got an email from William, a senior VP who’d discovered this website called SecureScore that grades websites on their security protocols.

William had become absolutely obsessed with getting an A+ rating.

“Santiago,” he wrote to me, “we absolutely need to achieve an A+ rating on SecureScore. Our clients might see anything less and think we’re not serious about security.”

Let me stop right there and explain something.

SecureScore is a tool that security professionals use. Regular clients don’t randomly go there to check a company’s security rating before doing business. It’s like worrying that your customers might judge your restaurant based on the specific brand of fire extinguisher in your kitchen.

Anyway, I checked their site and found they had a B+ rating.

The only reason they didn’t have an A+ was because they were using TLS 1.1 instead of the newer 1.2 protocol. For most companies at that time, this was perfectly fine.

I reached out to their IT security team, headed by Jeremiah, to see what the deal was.

“We can’t upgrade to TLS 1.2 yet,” Jeremiah explained with obvious frustration.

“Our client software in the field only supports 1.1. We’d need to update thousands of installations across multiple companies. It’s at least an 18-month project.”

That made perfect sense to me. I wrote up a detailed explanation for William, outlining why the B+ rating was actually fine for their current situation and why upgrading wasn’t a simple flip of a switch.

I included a timeline showing the 18-month upgrade path the IT team had mapped out.

I sent the email and invoiced for my time. Easy money, right?

A day later, William replied: “I understand all that, but we need an A+ rating.

Our competitors all have A+ ratings. Can you push IT harder on this? They never see the big picture.”

I called William directly. “Look, I think there’s a misunderstanding here. This isn’t about pushing IT–they physically can’t upgrade without breaking client connections.

You might want to meet with Jeremiah directly to discuss this.”

“No, no,” William insisted. “IT always gives me technical excuses. I need you to be the intermediary here. Just keep pushing them and bill me for your time.”

Well, if that’s how he wanted to play it…

So began the most ridiculous game of telephone I’ve ever participated in.

William would send me nonsensical demands:

“Tell IT to just update the main servers but keep the old protocol for clients.”

I’d clean this up into something that at least made technical sense, then forward it to Jeremiah.

Jeremiah would explain, again, why this wouldn’t work. I’d translate his response into executive-speak for William.

Rinse and repeat. Every single week.

By month three, Jeremiah and I had developed a kind of dark humor about the whole thing.

He’d see my name in his inbox and immediately know it was another round of William’s demands.

“What’s the genius asking for this time?” he’d message me.

Meanwhile, my invoices kept rolling in.

Five hours one week, eight the next, sometimes up to twelve if William was particularly fired up about the topic. I was essentially being paid to translate between two departments of the same company that could have just walked down the hall and talked to each other.

By month four, I started dropping hints in my emails that perhaps an in-person meeting might be more efficient.

William wouldn’t hear of it.

“Your expertise is valuable in translating the technical aspects,” he’d say. In other words, he didn’t want to look stupid in front of IT.

Month five rolled around, and William’s boss Elliot finally noticed the mounting consulting fees.

He called me in for a meeting.

“What exactly are we paying you for regarding this security rating issue?” he asked.

I pulled out a folder with printed copies of every email exchange. “I’ve been mediating communications between William and IT regarding the TLS protocol upgrade,” I explained, showing him the first few exchanges.

Elliot flipped through the stack of papers, his expression growing increasingly confused.

“And this has been going on for five months?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve suggested direct meetings several times, but William preferred I continue as the intermediary.”

Two days later, I received an email from William: “Santiago, please discontinue the TLS upgrade project.

We’ve decided to align with IT’s original 18-month timeline.”

Translation: Elliot told him to stop wasting money on consultant fees for internal communications.

I later learned from Jeremiah that the whole thing had become something of a legend in their IT department.

Apparently, they’d started a betting pool on how long William would keep paying me to tell him the same thing over and over again.

The funniest part? Six months after this all ended, SecureScore changed their rating algorithm.

Sites using TLS 1.1 with proper implementation could now receive an A rating (though still not A+).

William never contacted me about it. I’m guessing he found something new to obsess over. Maybe the color of the login button or something equally critical to company security.

As for me, I used some of that easy money for a nice vacation.

Sometimes the best consulting work is just sitting back and letting executives pay you to hear what their own employees are telling them for free.

I used to work for this government agency where our management had the most predictable ‘surprise’ ever. Every single holiday eve–day before Thanksgiving, December 23rd, New Year’s Eve–they’d send out this email around 1 or 2 PM telling everyone they could head home early.

Like clockwork, seriously. They treated it like some grand gesture, but we all knew it was coming.

The problem? I was the early bird. I came in at 6:30 AM to handle IT systems for the morning crew, partly because I wanted to avoid the hellish commute traffic.

So when everyone got their ‘generous’ early dismissal at 1:30 PM, most people were getting like half their workday off. Me? I was getting maybe an hour. Whoopee.

What made it worse was that if you took that day off, you’d burn a full 8 hours of vacation time, even though everyone else was only working 4-5 hours.

Talk about unfair.

I remember talking to my coworker Isaiah about it during one particularly frustrating December 23rd as everyone was happily packing up their stuff.

‘This is such nonsense,’ I said, watching people who’d rolled in at 10 AM high-fiving each other about their ‘half-day’.

Isaiah nodded.

‘You know, Anita, you’re right. We’ve been trying to get them to change this policy for what, two years now?’

We had indeed brought it up multiple times. Emily from HR had even suggested a more fair approach–like giving everyone a set number of hours off, regardless of when their shift started.

But management kept shooting it down.

‘It’s not official policy,’ they’d say. ‘It’s just a nice surprise.’ And then they’d remind us about government optics and taxpayer money and blah blah blah.

After our third year of this, something interesting happened.

The early shift crew–me, Isaiah, Peter from security, and Elodie from operations–started having remarkable coincidences on those predictable ‘surprise’ days.

‘Oh no, my car won’t start this morning,’ I’d text my supervisor at 6 AM on the day before Thanksgiving.

‘Have a doctor’s appointment, be in around 9:30,’ Isaiah would message.

‘Water pipe burst at home, waiting for plumber,’ Peter would report.

You get the idea.

None of us early shifters were showing up before 9 AM on those days anymore. Why should we? Everyone else was practically getting a half-day vacation while we were getting shafted.

I remember my supervisor Ethan calling me one December 30th after I’d texted about having ‘car trouble’ again.

‘Anita, this is the third time your car has had issues on a pre-holiday workday.

Is everything okay with your vehicle?’

I paused, weighing my options. ‘You know what, Ethan? No, everything is not okay. But it’s not my car that’s the problem.’

That opened a whole conversation.

Turned out Ethan had actually noticed the pattern of all the early shift people suddenly having ’emergencies’ on those days, but hadn’t connected it to the unfairness of the early dismissal policy.

‘I never thought about how that affects you guys,’ he admitted.

The next holiday season, something changed.

Instead of the ‘surprise’ afternoon dismissal, management announced a new holiday policy: everyone would get 4 hours of administrative leave to use on holiday eves, no matter what time they started or ended their shift. Early birds like me could leave after 4.5 hours of work, while the late arrivers would work their first 4-5 hours.

It was fair, transparent, and–miraculously–all our car troubles and plumbing emergencies disappeared overnight.

At the first holiday party after the new policy, Scarlett from management pulled me aside.

‘You know, we finally figured out why we suddenly had no morning coverage on those days,’ she said with a knowing look.

I just smiled. ‘Amazing how solving one problem fixes another, isn’t it?’

Sometimes it takes a little collective action to make things fair.

And while I wouldn’t recommend lying about car troubles or fake doctor’s appointments, I do think there’s something to be said for finding creative ways to highlight unfair policies.

And now, years later at a different job, whenever I see policies that disproportionately benefit one group over another, I think about those holiday dismissals.

It’s a reminder that sometimes what looks like generosity on the surface isn’t actually all that generous when you look at who’s really benefiting.

The funny thing is, I’m a manager now, and I make sure our time-off policies are fair to everyone, no matter when their shift starts.

Amazing what you can learn from a little ‘car trouble.’

I was hanging out with my grandpa Nathan last weekend, helping him clean out his garage. He’s got this way of turning mundane tasks into story time, and honestly, that’s my favorite part about visiting him.

So we’re sorting through these dusty boxes, and he pulls out this old employee handbook from the meat packing plant where he worked for like 30 years.

The thing was basically falling apart, but seeing it triggered one of his classic tales.

“This place was something else,” he chuckled, flipping through the yellowed pages. “Management was always coming up with new rules without thinking them through.”

He told me about this incident from about 20 years ago when the company suddenly made flu shots mandatory for all employees.

According to Nathan, it came out of nowhere – just a memo posted on the bulletin board one day saying everyone needed to get a shot by the end of the month or face disciplinary action.

“Problem was,” he said, tapping the handbook, “I’m allergic to the flu shot.

Always have been. Doctor told me years ago to avoid it because I react badly.”

Nathan said he went to his supervisor, a guy named Grayson who was notorious for being a stickler for rules.

“Look Grayson,” Nathan had told him, “I can’t get this shot.

I’ve got medical documentation saying I’m allergic.”

Grayson apparently just shrugged and said, “Policy’s policy. Everyone means everyone. No exceptions.”

Nathan even went to HR – some lady named Zoe who was new and eager to prove herself as a company woman.

She basically echoed what Grayson said and suggested maybe he should “just try it and see what happens.”

“Can you believe that nonsense?” Nathan laughed, shaking his head. “‘See what happens.’ Like I was making it up!”

What’s wild is that Nathan decided to just comply.

He said he figured his options were either get the shot and deal with the consequences or lose his job. With a mortgage and three kids to support, he chose the shot.

“So I go to this clinic they set up in the break room,” he continued, “and this nurse, Penelope I think her name was, she could tell I was nervous.

I showed her my medical card that listed my allergies, but she said she was just there to administer shots, not make exceptions.”

Nathan got the shot on a Friday afternoon. By Sunday morning, he was completely knocked out – fever, chills, swollen lymph nodes, the whole deal.

His reaction was so severe that my grandma had to take him to the emergency room.

“Doctor took one look at me and said, ‘Let me guess, you got the flu shot?’ When I nodded, he just shook his head and said, ‘Some people just shouldn’t have it.'”

Nathan ended up missing two full weeks of work.

The irony? The company had to pay him sick leave the entire time since it was their mandatory policy that caused his illness. Even better, when he finally returned, there was a new notice on the bulletin board stating that employees with documented medical exemptions could opt out of the program.

“Too little, too late,” Nathan chuckled.

“But I got a nice paid vacation out of it.”

What gets me is that Nathan doesn’t seem bitter about it at all. He says the experience taught him that sometimes you have to let people learn things the hard way.

“Grayson called me at home during my second week out,” Nathan recalled.

“Asked how I was doing, but I knew what he really wanted to know was when I’d be back. I told him, ‘Remember when I warned you this would happen?’ The line went quiet for a bit, then he just said, ‘Yeah, lesson learned.'”

Apparently, Nathan wasn’t the only one who had a reaction, though his was by far the worst.

A few other employees had missed a day or two with mild symptoms. The company’s brilliant plan to prevent lost productivity due to flu season ended up costing them dozens of unplanned absence days.

“Corporate policies are funny things,” Nathan said as we finished sorting through the boxes.

“They’re written by people who never have to follow them, enforced by people who don’t understand them, and suffered by people who can’t change them.”

I asked him why he didn’t just get a doctor’s note beforehand to avoid the whole situation.

“Honestly?” he replied with a mischievous grin, “I did have a note.

But sometimes you gotta let people make their own mistakes. I knew they wouldn’t listen, and I needed a vacation anyway.”

That’s my grandpa – turning corporate stubbornness into paid time off. The man’s a legend.

I’ve been a youth soccer referee for about five years now, and let me tell you, it’s like having a front row seat to adult temper tantrums every weekend.

Most of the time I can laugh it off – parents who couldn’t tell an offside from a throw-in screaming like they’re FIFA-certified, or kids who think acting skills will earn them a foul. But sometimes, you get that one coach who makes you question why you didn’t just sleep in that Saturday.

That’s where Louis comes in.

Louis was coaching the Falcons, a team of 14-year-olds with serious talent but terrible attitudes – a perfect reflection of their leader. This particular game was a semi-final match, and the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

The Falcons were playing against the Eagles, coached by a quiet guy named George who actually respected the game.

The contrast couldn’t have been more obvious. From kickoff, Louis was working overtime, questioning literally every call that didn’t go his way.

“That’s a foul! Are you kidding me? Open your eyes!”

“How is that not a yellow card?

He practically assaulted my player!”

After twenty minutes of this non-stop commentary, I’d had enough and showed Louis a yellow card for dissent. It’s my way of saying, “One more outburst and you’re gone.”

Did that shut him up?

Sort of. He switched tactics and started making these passive-aggressive comments to his players that were obviously meant for me.

“Don’t worry about it, Anthony. The referee clearly doesn’t understand the rules, just keep playing your game.”

I could have sent him off right then, but the paperwork would’ve been a nightmare, and these types often get reduced punishments on appeal.

So I let him dig his own grave.

Meanwhile, his players had picked up on his attitude. One kid, Javier, started arguing every call, so he got a yellow card. Then another player, John, got one for mouthing off after a foul.

By the second half, the Falcons were up 2-1, and Louis was practically strutting along the sideline.

Then came the turning point. Anthony, his star forward, committed a textbook red card offense – he took down an Eagles player who had a clear path to goal as the second-to-last defender. Straight red, no question about it.

As I showed the red card, one of the Falcons’ parents – John’s dad – jumped up and started screaming at me in Spanish, working his way behind the goal to continue his tirade.

I pointed him to the parking lot. As I was dealing with that, I heard Javier call me a nasty name in Spanish (which I understand perfectly). Another red card.

Just like that, Louis’s team was down to 9 players against 11, and they still had fifteen minutes to protect a one-goal lead.

I could see the veins popping in Louis’s forehead. He knew what was coming.

When regular time ended, I announced, “Five minutes of stoppage time!” accounting for the delays from the ejections and the parent’s slow walk to the parking lot.

Louis exploded.

“Five minutes? That’s ridiculous! No way!”

I jogged over to explain. “Coach, you had two player dismissals and a parent who took his time leaving. Those incidents cost us about five minutes of playing time.”

His face turned a shade of red I didn’t think was humanly possible.

“That’s complete nonsense! You’re handing them the game! You need to do your job!”

There it was. The magic words. You need to do your job.

“Funny you mention that, Coach. Part of my job is to add back time lost due to delays, which I’m doing.

Another part of my job is to prevent dissent, and since you’ve already been cautioned…” I held up a yellow card, followed by a red. “That’s your second caution. You’re dismissed.”

He stood there for a second, jaw hanging open.

Then he launched into a tirade that would make a sailor blush, pacing in front of his bench where seven teenagers sat watching their role model completely lose it.

I let him go on for a bit, then calmly said, “Another part of my job is to submit detailed reports on every ejection.

Everything you’ve said will be in that report. You have two minutes to collect your things and leave, or I’ll abandon the match and note in my report that your behavior was the direct cause.”

An abandoned match would mean an automatic loss, a hefty fine, and a suspension for Louis.

He knew it. He glared at me, grabbed his clipboard, and stormed off without another word.

Because of his meltdown, I added three more minutes to the already announced five minutes of stoppage time. The Eagles tied the game in the seventh minute of stoppage time – two minutes after the original five would have ended.

And then, in the eighth minute, they scored again to win 3-2.

If Louis had just kept his mouth shut, his team would have won and advanced to the finals.

The aftermath was even sweeter. After submitting my detailed reports, the disciplinary committee handed down their punishments: Anthony got a standard one-game suspension for his foul, Javier got three games for his insult, and John’s dad received a $100 fine and a two-game ban from attending matches.

But Louis?

He hit the jackpot: a six-game suspension, mandatory anger management classes, and a formal reprimand that went into his coaching record.

I’ve refereed his team twice since then. Both times, he got an early yellow card for minor dissent.

And both times, he sat down and didn’t say another word for the rest of the match. Lesson learned.

So yeah, I’ll happily “do my job” – all parts of it, including the parts coaches like Louis tend to forget about until it’s too late.

I still can’t believe I put up with that nonsense for as long as I did.

Last year, I spent the entire summer working at this fancy riverside restaurant and lodge called ‘Eagle’s Landing.’ It was this picturesque place where people would stop before or after fishing trips and rafting adventures.

The views were amazing, but the 45-minute commute from my apartment was brutal.

I started as just a dishwasher, but by the end of the season, I was basically doing everything. Washing dishes, moving supplies between buildings, shuttling cars over the mountain for the rafting trips – you name it, I handled it.

The manager, Sofia, seemed to really appreciate my work ethic.

When the season ended, Sofia asked if I’d come back the following summer. By then, I’d already lined up another food service job at ‘Quick Bites’ just 5 minutes from my place.

The pay was pretty much the same, but the convenience factor was huge.

Sofia really wanted me back though. She offered to promote me to prep cook with a small raise, saying I’d be invaluable since I already knew how everything worked.

After thinking about it for a while, I decided I could manage both jobs. I’d work mornings at Eagle’s Landing and evenings at Quick Bites.

So my schedule became absolutely insane. I’d wake up at 5 AM to drive 45 minutes to Eagle’s Landing, work from 6 AM until 2 PM, drive 45 minutes back home, and then head straight to my evening shift at Quick Bites from 4 PM until 10:30 PM.

I was getting maybe 5 hours of sleep a night.

About three weeks into this ridiculous schedule, I was prepping vegetables in the kitchen when Sofia walked in looking for something. She glanced at me, gave me this weird look, but didn’t say anything and just walked out.

I didn’t think much of it at the time.

When payday came around, I noticed my check was the same as last season – minimum wage with no raise. I thought there must have been a mistake with payroll, so I went to Sofia’s office.

“Hey Sofia, I think there’s an error with my paycheck.

It doesn’t include the raise we agreed on for the prep cook position.”

She barely looked up from her computer. “There’s no error, Rafael.”

“But we agreed I’d get a raise when I came back this season,” I reminded her.

That’s when she finally looked at me and said, “You’ve been walking around here looking like you don’t want to be here, so I decided I didn’t want to pay you more.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“I’ve been working 15-hour days for almost a month straight. Of course I look tired.”

“Yeah, well, if you don’t like it, you can leave,” she said dismissively, turning back to her computer.

I stood there for a moment, absolutely stunned.

Then something just clicked in my brain. Without saying another word, I untied my apron, placed it on her desk, and walked out.

It was 11 AM on a Saturday – one of their busiest days. I was the only prep cook scheduled, and the lunch rush was about to start.

The only other person in the kitchen was Gabriel, the head cook, who had no idea what was happening. I felt a little bad for him, but this wasn’t his fault.

I later heard from Mariana, one of the servers, that Sofia had to jump in and help with prep and dishwashing.

They were completely swamped, and food was coming out late for hours. Sofia had to call in Liam, one of the maintenance guys, to help wash dishes even though he had no kitchen experience.

The best part? Eagle’s Landing had a reputation for being extremely picky about who they hired.

They preferred to train people from scratch their way, which meant it would take them at least a full season to get someone up to the level where I had been.

I doubled down on my hours at Quick Bites, and the manager there was more than happy to give me the extra shifts.

A few weeks later, Mariana texted me saying Sofia had gone through three different prep cooks already. Apparently, none of them could handle her management style.

I still drive past Eagle’s Landing occasionally on my way to go hiking.

Each time I see it, I smile knowing that my sudden departure probably cost them a lot more than the small raise they refused to give me.

Sometimes I wonder if Sofia ever realized that treating your employees with basic respect and honoring your promises is actually good for business.

Somehow, I doubt it.

That post about someone getting their pay docked for being 15 minutes late reminded me of my own experience with ridiculous workplace rules.

About a decade ago, I was working for a tech company in Mumbai where I managed a team of about 30 people.

Our city was going through a serious infrastructure crisis with planned power outages that would last for 8 hours at a time. Initially supposed to be a temporary three-month measure, these outages ended up lasting over two years.

For our office building, the power went out every Tuesday from 10am to 6pm like clockwork.

Any reasonable company would have installed backup generators, but our leadership was too cheap. “It’s just temporary,” they kept saying, month after month.

I suggested we make Tuesdays an official day off and work Saturdays instead, but management shot that down immediately.

So, I came up with what I thought was a brilliant solution – I told my team they could use Tuesday mornings for personal errands, then come in at 6pm when the power returned and work until 2am. This way, we still put in our full hours and met all our deadlines.

Everyone on the team loved this arrangement.

About a month into our new schedule, I got summoned by HR. The HR manager, Vanessa, looked at me like I’d committed some terrible crime.

“Samuel, your team needs to log in during regular morning hours,” she said, tapping her pen against a clipboard.

“But there’s no power on Tuesdays,” I explained.

“We can’t do any work.”

“Company policy states all employees must report at their designated start times.”

I went back to my team and explained the situation. They were annoyed but agreed to come in the morning, log in, then leave and return at 6pm.

It meant extra commuting, but they were willing to do it to keep everyone happy.

Three weeks later, I got called in again. This time Vanessa had Rafael, the operations manager, with her.

“Your team members are logging in and then leaving the premises,” Rafael said, frowning.

“That’s unacceptable.”

“What exactly do you want them to do without electricity?” I asked. “We can’t even turn on our computers.”

“They need to be physically present in the office during regular working hours,” Vanessa insisted.

“Period.”

This was getting ridiculous. “So you want my team to sit in a dark office doing nothing for 8 hours, and then work another 8 hours when the power comes back on?”

“You can conduct training sessions or team-building activities during the outage,” Rafael suggested, as if that solved everything.

I went back to my team and told them about the new requirement.

My senior developer, Jade, just laughed.

“So we’re supposed to do training in the dark? With no projector? No computers?”

Matthew, our QA lead, was more direct: “This is complete nonsense.”

That’s when Nolan, the quietest member of our team, spoke up.

“What if we follow ALL the company policies?”

The gleam in his eye told me exactly what he meant.

The next Tuesday, not a single member of my team drove their personal vehicles to work. Instead, everyone used the company’s transportation policy, which stated that employees working outside standard hours were entitled to company-paid transportation.

Since we’d be working until 2am, this meant private taxis at 1.5x the normal rate.

We all showed up at 10am as required and sat in the dark office. I held “training sessions” where we basically played word games and had discussions by the natural light from the windows.

When someone asked for documentation, I explained that the printer didn’t work without electricity.

At 6pm when the power returned, everyone started working diligently. Since HR insisted we be present from 10am, our entire team was now working overtime – more than 3 hours of it, which according to company policy meant double pay.

And then there was the dinner policy: any employee working past 8pm was entitled to a company-provided meal.

Previously, when we voluntarily worked the evening shift, everyone brought their own food. Now, we all ordered delivery on the company account.

The first week, nobody noticed. By the second week, the transportation coordinator was asking questions about all the late-night taxi vouchers.

By the third week, the finance team was reviewing overtime payments. And by the fourth week, Vanessa and Rafael were back in my office, looking considerably less smug.

“We’ve noticed some unusual expenses from your department,” Vanessa said carefully.

I nodded.

“Just following company policies to the letter.”

Rafael cleared his throat. “The overtime alone for your team last month exceeded our quarterly budget allocation.”

“Not to mention the transportation costs,” Vanessa added. “And the meal expenses.”

“I understand,” I said.

“But you were very clear about needing physical presence during power outages, and company policies regarding overtime, transportation, and meals are equally clear.”

Two days later, an announcement went out: the company was installing industrial generators that would cover the entire building during power outages.

The cost of the generators was significantly less than what they’d have paid for another month of our malicious compliance.

Our CEO, Sofia, even came by my department to personally inform us of the change. As she was leaving, she pulled me aside.

“That was cleverly done, Samuel,” she said with a small smile.

“I’ve also had a word with HR about applying policies with common sense in the future.”

The best part? My team was the only one that didn’t cheat the company. Other departments simply adjusted their deadlines to account for the power outages, effectively getting paid for five days while working four.

We had maintained full productivity by adapting our schedule, only to be punished for it – until we showed them exactly what blind adherence to policy actually costs.

You know those moments when you think you’re so clever as a kid? Yeah, this is definitely one of those stories.

When I was about 14, my best friend Anna would come over for sleepovers almost every weekend.

We’d stay up way too late watching stupid videos, talking about school drama, and eating junk food until we practically passed out.

This particular Saturday morning, we were both zombies from staying up until like 3 AM. We dragged ourselves to the living room and sprawled across the couch, still in our pajamas, watching cartoons with that glazed-over weekend morning look.

My mom, Claire, was in full weekend cleaning mode.

She was bustling around the house, making all sorts of noise with the vacuum cleaner, wiping down surfaces, and generally making it impossible to fully enjoy our cartoon marathon.

She popped her head into the living room where Anna and I were vegetating.

“Henry,” she called over the sound of the TV, “when the commercial comes on, take the trash out. It’s overflowing.”

I barely looked up from the screen. “Okay, Mom.”

Now, I should mention that I was in that phase where doing chores felt like the ultimate injustice in life.

I mean, I was tired, it was the weekend, and my friend was over! The audacity!

That’s when inspiration struck. Pure, beautiful, teenage inspiration.

I waited until Mom went back to cleaning the kitchen, then I grabbed the remote and quickly changed the channel from Cartoon Network to PBS.

Anna looked at me confused.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

I grinned. “PBS doesn’t have commercials.”

Anna’s eyes widened, and she covered her mouth to stop from laughing too loud. “Your mom’s going to kill you.”

“Not if she doesn’t figure it out,” I said, settling back into the couch cushions.

So we sat there watching some educational show about wildlife or something, but it was worth it for the prank.

The content was boring, but our victory was sweet.

About fifteen minutes later, Mom walked through the living room again, carrying a basket of laundry. She stopped and stared at the overflowing trash can in the kitchen, visible from where she stood.

“Henry,” she said in that warning tone that all moms perfect by their child’s tenth birthday, “why isn’t the trash out yet?”

Without missing a beat, I gestured to the TV.

“The commercial hasn’t come on yet.”

Anna buried her face in a pillow, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Mom stopped and looked at the TV. Then at me. Then back at the TV. I could practically see the gears turning in her head as she registered that we were watching PBS.

Her expression shifted from confusion to realization to that special kind of parental exasperation that I became very familiar with during my teenage years.

“Very funny, smarty pants,” she said, putting down the laundry basket. “Take out the trash.

Now.”

“But you said when the commercial comes on,” I protested, trying to keep a straight face.

“Henry James,” she used my middle name, which was never a good sign, “if that trash isn’t out in the next sixty seconds, you’re going to lose video game privileges for a week.”

Game over.

I got up with an exaggerated sigh and trudged to the kitchen. As I tied up the trash bag, I could hear Anna still giggling on the couch.

“Your mom is so cool,” she said as I headed for the door.

“Mine would have freaked out.”

When I came back in, Mom was sitting on the arm of the couch, smiling and shaking her head. “Nice try, kiddo. But I’ve been outsmarting children a lot longer than you’ve been outsmarting parents.”

“Worth a shot,” I shrugged, flopping back onto the couch.

“For that little stunt,” Mom continued, “you can help me with the dishes after Anna goes home tomorrow.”

I groaned dramatically, but honestly, I wasn’t even mad.

It was a fair consequence for my attempted trash evasion.

The funny thing is, this became a running joke in our family for years. Anytime Mom would ask me to do something “when the commercial comes on,” we’d both start laughing.

Even now, when I visit home and she asks me to help with something, sometimes she’ll add, “And don’t try changing the channel to PBS.”

Anna still brings it up sometimes when we catch up.

“Remember when you thought you were a genius for switching to PBS to get out of taking out the trash?”

Yeah, I remember. Not my most successful rebellion, but definitely one of my most creative. And honestly? Looking back, I think Mom was actually kind of impressed with the attempt, even if she’d never admit it.

Working at a small city newspaper in the early 2000s wasn’t exactly glamorous, but it was honest work. We had a tight-knit editorial team, and despite the constant deadlines, we managed to have a good time.

That is, until management decided they needed to pinch pennies in the most ridiculous way possible.

I still remember that Tuesday morning when I tried to call a source for a story I was working on. The guy was based in a city about 50 miles away – not exactly international calling rates.

I dialed the number and got nothing but a dead tone. Weird. I tried again. Same result.

“Hey, Alex,” I called over to my colleague. “Can I borrow your phone for a sec? Mine seems busted.”

Alex slid his desk phone over, but I got the same result when I tried the number again.

Something wasn’t right.

I dialed our front desk where Natalie, our Scottish receptionist with impeccable manners and a rebellious streak, answered immediately.

“Morning, Carter! What can I do for you today?”

“Hey Nat, I’m trying to call this number and it’s not going through.

Any idea what’s happening with the phones?”

There was a pause, then a sigh. “Oh dear. Nobody told the editorial department, did they?”

“Told us what?”

“The new policy. As of this morning, reporters can’t make calls outside a 15-mile radius without going through reception.

I have to connect you myself.”

I nearly choked on my coffee. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“I wish I was,” she replied. “Mateo from accounting pushed it through. Something about reducing unnecessary long-distance charges.”

I thanked her and hung up, turning to the rest of the newsroom.

“Guys, you’re not going to believe this nonsense.”

I explained the situation, and within minutes, our news editor Easton was at my desk, eyebrows furrowed in disbelief.

“They did what now?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm.

“We can only make local calls.

Anything beyond 15 miles has to go through Natalie.”

“That’s the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard,” Easton muttered, running a hand through his hair. “How exactly are we supposed to, you know, do journalism?”

The newsroom fell silent as everyone processed this ridiculous new policy.

We were on constant deadlines, making dozens of calls daily to sources, agencies, and officials all across the region. Having to funnel everything through poor Natalie would be a disaster.

Then I saw a familiar gleam in Easton’s eye – the one he got when he was about to do something either brilliant or career-ending.

“Right,” he said, picking up his phone and dialing reception.

“Natalie, it’s Easton. Listen, I want to apologize in advance for what’s about to happen… Yes, I know it’s not your fault… Appreciate it. Talk soon.”

He hung up and addressed the newsroom.

“Folks, clearly management needs a practical demonstration of why this policy is completely unworkable. For the next two hours, I want every one of you to make every single call you need to make today – especially the long-distance ones.

All through Natalie. Start now.”

And so began what we later called the “Great Phone Rebellion of 2003.” Seventeen reporters immediately picked up their phones and dialed reception. Poor Natalie barely had time to breathe between connecting calls.

I made my legitimate work call to my source, then called my cousin in Denver just to catch up. Arthur from sports called three different teams in three different states. Caroline from lifestyle had a lovely chat with a chef in Chicago.

The system collapsed almost immediately.

People coming into the building couldn’t get through to reception. Other departments couldn’t transfer calls. The publisher’s wife couldn’t even get through to tell him about their dinner plans. All because Natalie was drowning in our requests to connect calls that we could have easily made ourselves.

By lunchtime, the front desk was in chaos.

Natalie, bless her heart, handled it like a champ, but it was clearly impossible for one person to manage. The kicker came when our publisher Mateo himself couldn’t get through to his own office because Natalie was too busy connecting me to my aunt for a chat about her garden.

“What in God’s name is happening with the phones?” he demanded when he stormed into the newsroom around 1 PM.

Easton looked up innocently.

“We’re just following the new protocol, sir. All calls outside the 15-mile radius go through reception. We’ve got a lot of sources to contact today.”

The publisher’s face went through a fascinating range of colors.

“This is completely unacceptable!”

“We think so too,” Easton replied calmly. “The policy, I mean.”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Mateo threw his hands up in defeat.

“Fine!

The policy is revoked. Just stop whatever this is!”

A cheer went up around the newsroom. I hung up on my aunt mid-sentence about her tomato plants. Arthur wrapped up his call with the high school football coach from three counties over.

Easton smiled and leaned back in his chair.

“Glad we could sort that out, sir.”

The next morning, we came in to find a memo stating that all phone privileges had been restored and any future cost-cutting measures would be “thoroughly evaluated for practicality.”

Natalie sent us all a batch of her famous Scottish shortbread as thanks for getting the policy overturned, though she did include a note saying, “Next time you stage a rebellion, give a girl more than five minutes’ warning.”

The lesson?

Never get between journalists and their phone lines – and never underestimate the power of a newsroom united in malicious compliance. Some penny-pinching ideas cost way more in the end.

Back in 2009 during the economic crash, I graduated with a pretty decent GPA and some solid internships under my belt, but the job market was absolutely brutal.

After six months of searching, I ended up taking a position at a retail home goods store that I was massively overqualified for, but bills don’t pay themselves, right?

The place was your typical corporate nightmare. Full-time hours but conveniently just under the threshold where they’d have to provide health benefits.

And being in a state with zero worker protections, they reminded us constantly that we were “at-will employees” – corporate speak for “we can fire you whenever we feel like it.”

I’d been there about two years when I caught some kind of stomach bug that was absolutely wrecking me.

I’m talking cold sweats, stomach cramps, and frequent trips to the bathroom. I called my manager Jackson the night before my shift.

“I really can’t make it tomorrow. I think I need to see a doctor,” I explained between stomach cramps.

Jackson didn’t even hesitate.

“We’re already short-staffed. Either you show up or don’t bother coming back at all.”

“But I’m literally sick every fifteen minutes,” I protested.

“Not my problem. Be here at 8 AM sharp.” Then he hung up.

So I dragged myself into work the next morning looking like death warmed over.

The store had two bathrooms – one in the back hallway near the managers’ offices that was technically for employees, and one up front for customers. The managers – Jackson, Timothy, Elliot, and Nathan – basically claimed the back bathroom as their exclusive territory though none of them ever said it outright.

I started my shift and within thirty minutes, I felt that familiar wave of nausea.

I had a choice to make: use the customer bathroom and potentially get innocent people sick, or use the sacred manager bathroom located conveniently next to their offices.

I chose option two.

I sprinted to the back hallway, barely acknowledging Nathan as he stepped out of the main office, and proceeded to be violently ill in their bathroom.

The walls were thin enough that there was no hiding what was happening in there.

When I emerged, pale and sweaty, Timothy was standing there with his arms crossed.

“You need to use the front bathroom if you’re going to be… like that,” he said, waving his hand vaguely at me.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, “didn’t want to get customers sick.

Plus this one was closer.” I shuffled back to my register.

An hour later, it happened again. This time, I knew Elliot was having a meeting with a vendor in the office. I made sure to leave the bathroom door slightly ajar as I was sick, the sounds echoing down the hallway.

When I came out, the vendor was looking extremely uncomfortable while Elliot glared daggers at me.

The coup de grâce came around lunchtime. All four managers were in the break room having some kind of pizza lunch meeting when I felt that now-familiar rumble.

I practically ran past their open door, making eye contact with Jackson as I pushed into the bathroom. What followed was probably the loudest, most theatrical display of illness I’ve ever produced, partially genuine and partially enhanced for effect.

When I emerged, the break room was silent.

Four pairs of eyes stared at me with mixtures of disgust and anger.

“Maybe you should have stayed home,” muttered Nathan.

“Wish I could have,” I replied weakly. “But someone told me to be here or lose my job.”

Jackson just looked away.

I somehow made it through that shift and the next two days, though I continued using their bathroom exclusively whenever needed (which thankfully became less frequent).

Then came the sweet, sweet karma.

I arrived at work on Friday morning to find the store eerily quiet.

No managers in sight. At 7:58, my phone rang.

“Hello?” I answered.

“It’s Jackson,” came a weak, gravelly voice. In the background, I could hear what sounded suspiciously like someone being sick.

“You’re opening the store today,” he continued.

“None of us can… make it in.”

“All four of you?” I couldn’t keep the smile out of my voice.

“Yes,” he hissed. “All four of us are…” There was a pause and what sounded like retching.

“Just handle everything today. The codes for the safe are in the red binder. Don’t mess anything up.” Then he hung up.

When I shared the news with my coworkers, there was a mixture of disbelief and barely contained celebration.

Without the managers breathing down our necks, we actually had a fantastic day. I scheduled proper breaks for everyone, approved a discount for a sweet elderly lady who was furnishing her grandson’s first apartment, and even ordered lunch for the team.

We ended up having the highest sales day of the month, all while the four horsemen of retail apocalypse were home experiencing the consequences of their own terrible policies.

The irony wasn’t lost on any of us – those four had comprehensive health insurance and paid sick leave.

Meanwhile, the rest of us were one illness away from potential homelessness.

When they all returned on Monday, looking pale and moving slowly, nobody mentioned what had happened. But something had shifted. Jackson approved my time-off request the following month without comment, and Timothy even started bringing in hand sanitizer for the registers.

Sometimes karma needs a little help finding its way to the right bathroom door.

You know how some jobs pay like garbage but somehow you stick around because the people are awesome? That was me five years ago. I worked at this engineering firm where the pay was barely enough to cover rent, but the office culture made up for it.

Everyone was fair game for pranks.

And I mean everyone – from the new hires to the company president. Nobody was safe, and that’s what made coming to work fun despite the sad numbers on our paychecks.

One Tuesday, my buddy Oliver spotted our manager Miles heading into a meeting.

Without saying a word, we locked eyes and immediately had the same thought. Miles had this fancy office chair he was always bragging about – some ergonomic thing that probably cost more than our weekly salary.

We snuck into his office like we were on a covert mission.

Oliver kept watch while I dropped to the floor and started removing the wheels from Miles’ chair. The whole operation took maybe 30 seconds. We were back at our desks pretending to work when we heard Miles coming back.

“Alright, which one of you jokers took the wheels off my chair?” Miles stood in the doorway of our office, arms crossed.

Oliver and I exchanged innocent looks.

“Wheels? Those are casters, boss.” I couldn’t help myself. A room full of engineers, we had to be technically correct.

Miles just stared at us for a moment, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Whatever you want to call them.

I have a client meeting in 15 minutes, and when I get back, I expect my chair to be fully functional.”

He stormed off, and as soon as he was gone, our office erupted in laughter. But then Nathaniel from accounting had a better idea.

“Guys, he said to fix his chair.

He didn’t say where it needed to be.”

And that’s how, exactly 63 minutes later, Miles returned from his meeting to find all five casters perfectly reattached to his chair… which was no longer in his office.

We heard his heavy footsteps approaching our workspace.

Everyone suddenly became intensely focused on their monitors. I bit my cheek to keep from laughing.

“Okay people,” Miles sighed, sounding more tired than angry. “Where’s my chair?”

That’s when we knew the client meeting must have gone well.

If it had bombed, he would’ve been throwing things. Zachary from down the hall had started a betting pool on when the vein in Miles’ forehead would finally pop.

We all exchanged glances without looking away from our screens.

Nobody wanted to crack first. Finally, we did a silent game of rock-paper-scissors without taking our hands off the keyboards. Jonathan, predictable as always, threw rock and lost to everyone else’s paper.

“Check the conference room,” Jonathan mumbled, still pretending to type something important.

Miles walked to the conference room, pushed open the door, and found his chair sitting proudly in the middle of the long table, wheels perfectly attached.

He stared at it for a long moment. We could see him from our desks, pinching the bridge of his nose and counting under his breath.

He made it to four before losing it. “For crying out loud!”

He grabbed his chair off the table, carried it back to his office, and slammed the door.

We didn’t hear from him for the rest of the day. Actually, it was almost 24 hours before he spoke to any of us again.

We only know his initial reaction because Paige from purchasing sits right by the conference room.

She sent us all an email with a play-by-play of his face turning various shades of red.

The next day, Miles called us all into a meeting. We figured we were in for a lecture, maybe even write-ups. Instead, he announced we were all going out for lunch on the company card.

Then he looked directly at Oliver and me.

“And when we get back, I expect to find all the screws still in my desk. Yes, I noticed what you were trying to do this morning.”

That’s when we realized the chair thing had started an office prank war.

Over the next month, Miles’ computer mysteriously switched to Spanish, his stapler was encased in Jell-O, and for one glorious week, everyone in the office pretended not to hear anything he said.

We might not have made much money, but we laughed every single day.

Eventually, I moved on to a better-paying job, but I’ve never found an office with that same spirit. Sometimes I wonder if Miles’ chair is still occasionally finding its way to strange places around the building.

The last I heard, they had to institute a company-wide “Chair Amnesty Day” where all mysteriously relocated office furniture could be returned with no questions asked.

Apparently, the CEO’s executive chair had gone missing for two weeks and was eventually found in the janitor’s closet, completely wrapped in aluminum foil.

I miss that nonsense. My current job pays twice as much, but it’s only half as fun.

I used to work at this small pet supply store called Furry Friends while I was getting my veterinary tech certification. The owner, Victoria, was one of those micro-managers who thought she knew everything about running a business, despite the place being a total disaster waiting to happen.

I’d been working weekends there for about four months, and Victoria had already shown plenty of red flags.

Like, she’d make me eat my lunch at the register counter while customers were shopping because she didn’t want to “waste payroll hours on breaks.” Customers would give me these weird looks, and a few even asked Victoria why I was eating there instead of in a break room.

She’d just smile and say something about team efficiency.

But the real nightmare happened on a Tuesday when I came in for my afternoon shift. There had been this big pet adoption event downtown, and Victoria had gone completely overboard ordering supplies, thinking we’d get a rush of new pet owners.

When I arrived, there was this massive delivery waiting to be stocked.

Victoria pointed to the storage area upstairs and told me to get everything on the shelves ASAP.

I took one look at those metal shelving units and knew they couldn’t handle that much weight. These weren’t industrial shelves–they were those flimsy things you’d put in your garage for holiday decorations.

“Victoria, I don’t think these shelves can hold all this,” I said, showing her the safety label that clearly stated a 50-pound weight limit per shelf.

“Quinn, just stack it all.

We need the floor space clear for customers,” she replied without even looking at the label.

“But the safety guide says–”

“I don’t care what some sticker says. I’ve had these shelves for years.

Just do your job.”

Reluctantly, I started loading the shelves with 40-pound bags of premium dog food, heavy cat litter containers, and boxes of aquarium equipment. The metal was visibly bending under the weight, and I could hear creaking noises that made me nervous.

I went back to Victoria.

“The shelves are literally bending. This isn’t safe.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s normal. They always do that. Now can you please go help Patrick with the register?”

I headed downstairs, feeling sick to my stomach.

Not even five minutes later, there was this horrific crash that shook the entire building. It sounded like a car had driven through the wall.

We all ran upstairs to find a disaster zone. Every single shelf had collapsed like dominoes.

Thousands of dollars of merchandise was destroyed–broken fish tanks, busted bags of food with kibble everywhere, shattered pet medication bottles. It was a complete nightmare.

Victoria’s face turned bright red, and she immediately pointed at me in front of everyone.

“This is all Quinn’s fault! I told her to secure the shelves properly!”

I was shocked. “That’s not true! I warned you they couldn’t hold that weight. I showed you the safety label!”

Patrick and Luna, my coworkers, both nodded in agreement.

They’d heard our conversation earlier.

It didn’t matter. Victoria fired me on the spot and actually had the nerve to send a termination letter to my program coordinator at school, Sara, claiming I had endangered the store through negligence.

Sara called me into her office the next day with the school’s department head, Henry.

I explained everything that happened and showed them pictures I’d taken of the bent shelves before they collapsed (thank goodness I had the sense to document it).

Sara was furious–not at me, but at Victoria. She asked if I’d be willing to take her back to the store to investigate.

We went that afternoon.

What Sara found was way worse than just overloaded shelves. The units themselves had been improperly assembled, missing critical support brackets. Even worse, we discovered that several shelves had broken previously and Victoria had “fixed” them by basically zip-tying and duct-taping them together instead of replacing them.

Sara took extensive photos and immediately reported Victoria to the local business licensing office and OSHA.

Turns out Victoria had been cutting corners on basically everything–not just the shelving units but electrical wiring, emergency exits, and even proper ventilation for the small animal section.

The school permanently removed Furry Friends from their approved internship locations list.

Victoria received multiple citations and fines totaling over $15,000 for safety violations. She tried fighting it at first, even trying to blame me again during the investigation, but the evidence was overwhelming.

Over the next few months, word got around town about how unsafe the store was, and people stopped shopping there.

Victoria couldn’t find anyone willing to work for her either. Last I heard, she had to sell the business to cover her fines and legal fees.

The new owner, Santiago, completely renovated the place with proper fixtures and safety measures.

He even offered me my job back with a pay increase, but by then I’d found a much better position at an actual veterinary clinic.

Sometimes I drive by the old store, now called “Paws & Claws,” and it’s actually doing really well.

Funny how treating your employees with respect and not trying to kill them with falling shelves can be good for business.

The best part? I graduated my vet tech program with honors, and Sara now uses my experience as a case study for new students about workplace safety and the importance of documentation.

Victoria tried to ruin my career before it even started, but instead, she just made herself a cautionary tale.

College was a mixed bag for me. Great friends, way too many all-nighters, and mostly decent professors. Except for Professor Alex. He taught Contemporary American Literature, and at first, I was genuinely excited about his class.

He seemed passionate, took us to poetry readings off-campus, and encouraged lively debates that made the material come alive.

The first half of the semester went smoothly. His grading was a bit unconventional–he cared more about creative interpretation than technical analysis–but I maintained a solid A- by playing to his preferences. Then came the midterm exam fiasco that completely destroyed my GPA.

Here’s what happened: Professor Alex announced an optional extra credit assignment worth 100 points to help struggling students. The regular midterm was also worth 100 points, so this would effectively double its value. Since I was doing well, I focused on acing the actual midterm and skipped the extra work. Makes sense, right?

Well, the class after the midterm, Professor Alex dropped a bomb on us. “I’ve decided that since so many students completed the extra credit assignment, it’s now mandatory for everyone.” Just like that, my grade plummeted from an A to a D. My overall class standing dropped two full letters.

The room erupted in protests from those of us who hadn’t done the “optional” work, so he grudgingly added, “If you have issues with this decision, you can see me during office hours, and we’ll work something out.”

The next day, I went to his office with my graded assignments and midterm printouts. I had scored a 97 on the actual exam portion, but now that only counted for half the grade. When I politely explained my situation, Professor Alex looked at my paperwork, leaned back in his chair, and said with this smug grin, “I guess you’ll be doing the extra credit next time, won’t you?”

I reminded him that he had promised to work something out for students who were unhappy with his last-minute policy change. ... Click here to continue reading