People Are Ready To Redeem Themselves In These Revenge Stories

So I just have to share the story of the most insufferable manager I’ve ever had to deal with in my entire career.

About 8 years ago, I was working for a decent-sized tech company on their sales team.

We had a great group – supportive, hit our targets regularly, and actually enjoyed coming to work. Then management dropped a bomb on us named Simon.

From literally his first day, Simon was unbearable. He walked in wearing this ridiculous designer suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent, talking loudly on his phone about some golf game with executives.

The second he hung up, he gathered us all around to basically worship at his feet.

“I turned around my last three teams from underperforming disasters to sales powerhouses,” he announced without even bothering to learn our names first.

“I’ve broken every sales record at my previous companies. I’ve mentored people who went from nothing to making six figures. That’s why they brought me in – to elevate you all to my level.”

The thing is, we were already performing ABOVE target.

Had been for six quarters straight. But Simon didn’t care about facts when they contradicted his narrative.

During his first official team meeting, he spent twenty minutes talking about his “proven system” and how we were “leaving money on the table” with our “complacent attitude.” I caught my colleague Mila rolling her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck.

“Your numbers are acceptable,” Simon said, projecting our team dashboard.

“But acceptable isn’t exceptional. I could hit these numbers myself with one hand tied behind my back.”

That’s when Carlos, our senior account exec who usually kept quiet, spoke up with this deceptively innocent tone: “Hey, that sounds like an awesome challenge!

Why don’t we make it official? You versus the whole team this month?”

The room erupted. Everyone was nodding and smiling, some people literally clapping. Simon looked caught off-guard but his ego wouldn’t let him back down.

Then, as if the universe itself was orchestrating this perfect moment, our director Vivian walked in to see what all the commotion was about.

“Simon’s going to show us how it’s done!” Carlos explained.

“He’s competing against the entire team this month. Said he could hit our numbers single-handedly.”

Vivian, who I suspect already had reservations about Simon’s hiring, smiled broadly. “What a fantastic idea for team building!

Let’s track the results on the main dashboard.”

Simon’s face went through about five expressions in three seconds, but he ended on a forced smile. “Absolutely. I’m always up for friendly competition.”

The first week was comedy gold.

Simon came in early, stayed late, and made a huge show of his “expert” sales calls – but somehow couldn’t close a single deal. Meanwhile, the rest of us were on fire. We’d never been so motivated.

By the end of the first week, Simon had zero sales while even our newest hire, Isaiah – this super shy guy who’d only been with us for three weeks – had closed two deals.

Every time Isaiah’s name popped up on the sales board, we’d all cheer like he’d just won the lottery.

Week two was when Simon started making excuses. “The leads I’m getting are cold.” “The system is glitching for me.” “The pricing structure is throwing off my rhythm.”

Meanwhile, our team numbers were through the roof.

We were having our best month ever, partly because we were all working extra hard to contribute to Simon’s humiliation.

By week three, Simon was losing it. He’d snap at anyone who asked how his calls were going.

He started blaming the CRM, the phone system, even the office lighting for his failures. One afternoon, after Isaiah closed his fifth deal of the month, Simon actually threw his headset across his desk and stormed out for the rest of the day.

The most satisfying moment came when Vivian called an impromptu team meeting on the last Friday of the month.

The dashboard was projected on the wall: Team – 127% of monthly target. Simon – 0%.

“I want to congratulate everyone on an outstanding month,” Vivian said. “You’ve not only exceeded your targets but broken the company record for monthly sales.”

Simon wasn’t there to hear it.

He’d sent an email that morning saying he was “pursuing new opportunities that better aligned with his expertise.” Translation: he quit before he could be fired for being completely useless.

The aftermath was the best part.

Our team bonded through the whole experience, and management finally saw how strong we were without someone trying to “fix” what wasn’t broken. They promoted Mila to team lead, and our sales have been climbing ever since.

I looked Simon up on social media recently out of curiosity.

His profile says “Sales Leadership Consultant – Transforming Teams, Exceeding Targets.” Some people really never learn.

The whole experience taught me something valuable though – sometimes the best motivation is proving someone wrong. And sometimes the worst person in the room can accidentally bring out the best in everyone else.

Oh, and Isaiah?

The shy new guy who Simon dismissed as “not cut out for sales”? He’s now our top performer and mentoring new hires. Karma really is beautiful sometimes.

I never thought I’d get to cash in on my ex-boss’s stupidity, but here we are.

Two weeks ago, I was enjoying my Friday night when my phone lit up with a number I hadn’t seen in months.

It was Jordan, the comptroller from the accounting firm where I used to work. The same place that decided I was “too expensive” and replaced me with someone cheaper six months ago.

“We need your help,” Jordan said, sounding desperate.

“The monthly audit failed, which triggered a deeper audit, and now we’re in serious trouble.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “That sounds like a you problem, not a me problem.”

“Stephen is willing to pay whatever you want.”

Stephen was my former boss–the one who’d told me to my face that my position could be filled by “any competent person for half the salary.” Guess that didn’t work out so well for him.

“Whatever I want?

Tell him my consulting rate is eighteen times what my weekly salary was.”

I expected pushback, but Jordan just sighed. “Fine. Can you start Monday?”

That’s how I found myself walking back into my old office, trying not to look too smug.

The first thing I noticed was that my replacement, Asher, looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His desk was buried under stacks of papers, and he barely acknowledged me when Jordan introduced us.

“Just fix it,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely at the chaos around him.

I needed access to my old work files, so I called our IT guy, Hudson.

“Hey, is there any chance my old email is still active?”

“We never delete accounts,” Hudson explained. “The company has a package for a set number of users, and we stay well below that limit.

We just change passwords and leave old accounts inactive until we need to make room for someone new.”

That was lucky. Once I had my old account back, I could access my custom tools on Google Drive. They needed some serious updating–turns out automating accounting processes is definitely a “use it or lose it” skill–but at least I had a starting point.

The real disaster became clear when I started looking for physical files.

Apparently, after I left, Stephen hired some high school kid named Matthew to help with filing. Instead of following the meticulous system I’d created, this kid had invented his own “method.”

Matthew’s system? Start with cabinet 1, drawer 1, create a new folder, and stuff it with papers until it was full.

Then move to drawer 2, and so on. Every document was filed in the order he received it, regardless of client, date, or purpose. Complete nonsense.

Even worse, he hadn’t been making backup copies of important documents. For an accounting firm, this was beyond catastrophic.

I spent over 20 hours calling clients, vendors, and government offices begging for copies of essential paperwork. Some places charged hundreds of dollars for replacements.

“How did you let it get this bad?” I asked Jordan during a coffee break.

She shrugged.

“Stephen said you were overpaid for organizing paper. He didn’t realize what you were actually doing with all those spreadsheets and programs.”

Over the next two weeks, I basically rebuilt their entire system. I dug through unsorted files, digitized everything I could find, and ran it all through my updated tools.

When something broke, I’d fix it. Thank goodness for Stack Overflow.

Finally, I submitted everything to the auditors. They were satisfied, which saved Stephen’s firm from potential legal trouble and massive fines.

Interestingly, I never saw Stephen once during those two weeks.

He was apparently “traveling for business,” which I suspected meant “hiding from the mess he created.”

After the audit passed, Jordan approached me with another offer. “We need standardized procedures so this never happens again.

Would you be willing to create them?”

“Sure,” I said, “but I’ll be working from home, billing 40 hours a week at five times my old salary, with weekly reviews.”

I expected hesitation, but Jordan immediately agreed.

Stephen must have been truly desperate.

So began my next brilliant scheme. I stretched out what should have been a one-week job into nearly two months. The first week, I made a fancy slideshow outlining my plan to give them my code.

The second week, I billed them for “development” and shared some basic screenshots. Each week, I’d show just enough progress to justify my hours while building the most comprehensive documentation ever created for a relatively simple set of tools.

During our weekly reviews, Jordan never questioned my pace.

“Stephen just wants this done right,” she said every time I showed minimal progress. “He never wants to be in this position again.”

Finally, after milking this cash cow for all it was worth, I transferred my code to their server and set up an idiot-proof system.

I wrote instructions so clear that even Matthew could probably handle it.

Yesterday was my last billable day. I submitted my final invoice–the largest one yet–and used part of my earnings to buy myself a top-of-the-line mountain bike to celebrate.

The rest is going straight into savings for my degree completion.

The best part? Stephen finally showed up on my last day, looking humbled and avoiding eye contact. “Thanks for your help,” he mumbled, before retreating to his office.

I just smiled and nodded.

The NDA I signed prevents me from sharing specific details about the audit or their finances, but nothing stops me from enjoying the sweet satisfaction of being paid significantly more than what Stephen once claimed I was worth.

Funny how sometimes, getting fired is the best thing that can happen to your career.

My dad worked for UK railways from ’59 to ’98, and I’ve got tons of stories from his career. This one’s from the early 90s when the railways were getting privatized, and it’s probably my favorite example of what happens when management doesn’t listen to the people who actually know how things work.

My dad was a controller, which basically meant he kept the trains running on schedule.

When privatization hit, he got shifted to the infrastructure side but still had to coordinate with these new private companies that were now running the actual train services.

So in spring of ’93, this company called Northern Spirit started a new service line from Cleethorpes to Manchester Airport.

They decided to use these brand new, totally untested Class 158 diesel trains for the route. The problem was that the timetable was super tight–like barely any room for error–and these new trains hadn’t really been proven reliable yet.

Surprise, surprise, it didn’t take long for problems to start.

One evening when my dad was on duty, he got a call that one of these fancy new 158s had broken down at Doncaster. My dad checked what other trains were available, and there was this old, kind of beat-up Class 141 sitting in the yard.

It wasn’t pretty, but it could get the job done. So he told the driver to use it and then leave it at the Manchester depot after the service was finished.

The old train actually ran the route perfectly–stayed on schedule and got all the passengers to the airport in time for their flights.

Problem solved, right?

Wrong. The next day, my dad got chewed out by management for using the older train. They were adamant that ONLY the new Class 158s could be used for that service–no exceptions. My dad, being the smart guy he is, asked them to put that in writing so all the controllers would know the policy.

And they did, sending out an official memo.

That very night, three different 158s broke down–one at Cleethorpes, another at Doncaster, and the last one at Sheffield. Following the memo to the letter, my dad simply canceled all the services because no Class 158s were available.

Never mind that there were other perfectly functional trains literally sitting at the next platform over.

The next morning, my dad got called in again for another lecture. But this time, he calmly pointed to the memo and said they had no available Class 158s at the time, so cancellation was the only option according to their own policy.

My dad’s boss just laughed, shook her head, and walked away, telling the Northern Spirit rep, “You get what you ask for, and then you don’t like it.”

For the next three months, every time one of those airport service trains had a problem, it got canceled.

No substitutions, no alternatives–just straight-up canceled. This ended up costing Northern Spirit around £500,000 in fines and compensation. Airport trains were considered high priority, and when they’re canceled, the railway company has to cover passengers’ costs–no questions asked.

After watching their money disappear for three months, Northern Spirit finally relented and said other train types could be used.

But by then, all those older trains they didn’t want to use had been scrapped, forcing them to buy new stock at much higher prices.

The best part? My dad never had to say “I told you so.” The numbers spoke for themselves.

Just goes to show that sometimes the people on the ground know better than the folks making the decisions from their offices.

My dad’s got a million of these stories. Working for the railways for nearly 40 years, he saw it all.

But this one always stands out to me as a perfect example of malicious compliance at its finest. Be careful what you order–you just might get exactly that.

Back in third grade, I had this amazing bloodhound named Rex who could sniff out literally ANYTHING edible within a half-mile radius.

This skill of his became a huge problem for me one night after our school’s fall festival.

So I came home with this backpack full of candy, popcorn balls, and other treats from the festival, along with my homework for Mrs.

Jade’s class. I left my backpack on the kitchen chair while I went to help my dad bring in groceries. Big mistake. When I got back, Rex had his entire head in my backpack, happily munching away on EVERYTHING – treats AND homework.

I panicked.

Mrs. Jade was super strict about homework, and this assignment was a printed worksheet with questions from our textbook. I couldn’t just reprint it since we didn’t have the digital file, so I did what I thought was the next best thing – I grabbed my textbook, found the chapter questions, and carefully wrote out ALL TEN questions and answers by hand.

The normal homework was only like 4 or 5 questions, so I figured doing all 10 would show extra effort.

The next morning, I proudly handed in my handwritten paper, ready to explain my predicament.

“What’s this, Christopher?” Mrs.

Jade asked, scrunching up her nose at my paper.

“My homework, Mrs. Jade. My dog ate the original worksheet, so I copied all the questions from the book and answered them all!”

She actually LAUGHED at me. “Christopher, you expect me to believe the ‘my dog ate my homework’ excuse?

That’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“But it’s true! Rex got into my backpack and–”

“That’s enough!” she snapped. “I won’t tolerate lies in my classroom.

Go sit in the corner until you’re ready to tell the truth.”

I spent most of that day staring at the wall, burning with frustration. Why wouldn’t she believe me? At the end of class, I approached her desk again.

“Mrs.

Jade, please, you can call my parents. They saw what happened!”

She sighed dramatically. “Christopher, unless you can provide some actual evidence that your dog ate your homework, I won’t be changing your grade.”

That’s when the idea hit me.

All weekend, I followed Rex around our yard with a ziplock bag, waiting for nature to take its course.

When I finally got what I needed – proof with visible bits of paper in it – I sealed it up and convinced my mom to let me store it in our garage freezer until Monday.

“What in the world do you need to freeze that for?” she asked, clearly grossed out.

“Evidence,” I replied solemnly.

Monday morning, I marched into class with my frozen package of proof.

While the other kids were hanging up their coats, I walked straight to Mrs. Jade’s desk and placed my evidence right on top of her lesson plans.

“Here’s your evidence,” I said. “You can see the bits of printer paper with ink on them.”

The SCREAM that came out of Mrs.

Jade could’ve shattered windows. She jumped back from her desk, knocking over her coffee mug and sending papers flying.

“CHRISTOPHER!” she shrieked. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

Before I could explain, she grabbed me by my arm and practically dragged me to the principal’s office, yelling the entire way about how I was going to be suspended or worse.

Principal Benjamin was much more reasonable.

He listened to both sides of the story, examined the evidence (with gloves and considerable reluctance), and could indeed confirm that there were fragments of what appeared to be a worksheet visible in the… specimen.

“Mrs. Jade,” he said carefully, “it does appear that Christopher was telling the truth about his homework being eaten.”

“That doesn’t excuse bringing… THAT… into my classroom!”

“You specifically asked for solid evidence,” I pointed out.

“This is pretty solid.”

I didn’t get in trouble, but Mrs. Jade didn’t come back to school for a week. When she did return, she barely looked at me. My parents had a long meeting with the principal about her grabbing me and yelling, and by Thanksgiving break, we had a new teacher named Ms.

Emma.

The moral of the story? Be careful what you ask for, especially from determined third-graders with resourceful minds and large dogs. And maybe next time, just accept the handwritten homework with twice the required answers – or at least make a quick phone call home to check the story before calling a kid a liar.

When I was 14, I got shipped off to boarding school. Not because my parents wanted the best education for me or anything nice like that. Nope.

My home life was a nightmare – verbal and physical abuse that I won’t get into, but trust me when I say that boarding school, despite all its problems, was actually an improvement.

This was in Belgium, where we had this rule about covering textbooks with wrapping paper.

You don’t own the books; you just borrow them for the year, so you need to protect them. Simple enough for most kids, right?

Well, not for me. I had several problems: First, I had zero idea how to cover a textbook properly.

Second, carrying all those heavy books home on the train and bus would’ve been a nightmare. Third, even if I managed that, my mom would’ve refused to help – our relationship had deteriorated to the point where weekend visits home meant guaranteed misery.

And finally, I didn’t have money for wrapping paper. Like, at all.

So I did what seemed logical at the time – absolutely nothing. I just carried my uncovered textbooks around and hoped nobody would notice.

Meanwhile, I was putting on this tough guy act at school.

Classic teen defense mechanism when you’re hurting inside, I guess. I started skipping classes, especially at lunchtime when I could wander around town. During morning classes, I’d either sleep or read free newspapers. Learning wasn’t exactly my priority.

Mr.

Simon was my history teacher, and we did NOT get along. One day, he caught me reading a newspaper during his lecture about the French Revolution or whatever. He was already annoyed, but then he spotted my bare textbooks and completely lost it.

“Where is your book cover?” he demanded.

“Don’t have one,” I mumbled.

That earned me a note in my journal.

Now, these notes were serious business. The boarding school supervisors would give me a mild scolding, but when I went home on weekends, my parents would… well, let’s just say it wasn’t good.

Actually, I had figured out a hack for that – I stole a second journal from the supply closet and used it for home visits, while forging my parents’ signatures in my real one.

Pretty clever, if I do say so myself.

But Mr. Simon kept adding notes throughout the week – both for reading newspapers AND for having bare textbooks. I could stop reading the papers, sure, but the textbook situation seemed impossible.

Every note was building toward a weekend disaster at home.

I avoided dealing with it for two weeks, enduring horrible weekend visits. I was angry at Mr. Simon, even though he had no idea what he was causing. I wanted revenge, but I also needed to solve this problem.

One evening at boarding school, while staring hopelessly at my pile of uncovered textbooks, I noticed the stack of free newspapers I’d collected.

And that’s when it hit me – the school rulebook said nothing about WHAT material you had to use to cover the textbooks.

I spent hours that night covering every single textbook with newspaper pages, using ridiculous amounts of tape.

I’m terrible at crafts, so the result was hideous – crooked corners, visible tears patched with more tape, and headlines about local politics and sports randomly plastered across my math and history books.

When I walked into Mr.

Simon’s class the next day, his eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“What is THAT?” he asked, pointing at my newspaper-covered history book.

“My covered textbook, sir,” I replied with fake innocence. “Just like you asked.”

“You can’t use newspapers!”

“The school rules don’t specify what materials we need to use.

You can check if you want.”

He turned red. I got another note in my journal for “inappropriate materials” and “disrespect,” but I didn’t care. For the next class, I made sure to position my book so headlines like “Mayor Faces Corruption Scandal” were clearly visible, and I’d ostentatiously read the articles on my book covers instead of paying attention.

The newspaper covers started falling apart within days, looking even more horrible as they deteriorated.

But Mr. Simon never mentioned my textbook covers again. He’d given up.

That small act of rebellion meant everything to me. It was probably the first time I’d found a way to fight back against authority without breaking any actual rules.

I’d discovered the power of malicious compliance.

My life didn’t magically improve overnight. That year was still rough, and I eventually ended up in state care. But finding that little loophole taught me something valuable – systems have cracks, and sometimes those cracks are where you can find your power.

Fast forward to now, and I’m 32 years old working as a social worker for adults with special needs.

Nothing gives me more satisfaction than finding loopholes in bureaucratic systems to get my clients the wheelchairs, benefits, or services they need but might not technically qualify for. I’m still that rebellious 14-year-old at heart, just with better resources and less newspaper.

Sometimes I wonder if Mr.

Simon realizes he helped shape my entire career path. I doubt it. But wherever he is, I hope he knows that kid with the newspaper-covered textbooks turned out okay in the end.

Back in high school, I was that weird kid obsessed with languages and fantasy worlds. Our English class was split into two parts – Language and Literature – and we had to keep separate notebooks for each that were labeled with the specific days we’d use them.

Just basic organization stuff, right? Nothing to get creative about. But that’s not how my brain works.

I’ve always been fascinated by Norse mythology and pretty much anything Tolkien ever touched. My friends Owen and Jack were just as into it as I was.

We’d pass notes written in Dwarvish runes during class, feeling all secretive and cool while the other kids just saw weird scratches on paper.

So when Ms. Stella told us to label our notebooks with the days of the week, I saw an opportunity.

Instead of writing boring old “Monday” and “Thursday,” I carefully wrote the Norse versions – “Mandag” and “Torsdag” – using those awesome Dwarvish runes from The Hobbit. The lettering looked amazing, and I used pen because I was confident in my work.

Why wouldn’t I be? I’d practiced those runes for months.

The next day, Ms. Stella walked around checking everyone’s notebooks. When she got to mine, she stopped and stared longer than usual.

“What’s this?” she asked, tapping my notebook cover.

“The days of the week,” I replied, trying not to sound smug.

“Richard, while I’m impressed with your research, this doesn’t count unless everyone can read it.”

I pointed out that Owen, Jack, and a couple other students in our fantasy book club could read the runes perfectly fine.

That was like 10% of the class! But apparently that wasn’t enough.

Ms. Stella handed me two new notebooks since there was no way to erase my penned runes.

“Label these in English,” she said very clearly, then added, “And use the Latin alphabet.” She wasn’t stupid – she knew I’d find a loophole if she didn’t specify.

Challenge accepted.

I took the new notebooks home that night and thought carefully about her instructions.

She said “English” and “Latin alphabet” – which left me plenty of room to work with. So I labeled the new notebooks with the modern English translations of Tolkien’s Elvish day names: “Stars’ Day,” “Trees’ Day,” “Sea Day,” and so on.

Still technically English! And definitely using the Latin alphabet as instructed! I even used my best handwriting to make it look extra proper.

The next day, Ms. Stella’s face when she saw my notebooks was priceless. She picked one up, looked at it for a long moment, then looked at me with this expression that was half irritation, half reluctant respect.

“You know what I meant, Richard.

Use the commonly-accepted English day names, please.”

So there I was, getting my third set of notebooks in a week. By this point, a few kids were watching the ongoing battle between us with interest. I could have pushed it further – there are plenty of variations on day names even in standard English – but I decided three rounds was enough.

I labeled the third set with the boring “Monday,” “Tuesday,” etc. that she wanted.

The funny thing is, Ms. Stella never actually punished me for any of this. She could have given me detention or extra homework, but she didn’t.

After class that day, she actually told me she appreciated my knowledge of languages and mythology, but that classroom materials needed to be standardized so she could check them efficiently.

That was fair, I guess. And honestly, Ms. Stella ended up being one of my favorite teachers ever.

She recommended me for advanced placement English the following year and lent me books from her personal collection about ancient languages. She even asked me to teach the class about runes for a special presentation when we studied Beowulf.

Looking back now, I realize she was trying to channel my enthusiasm rather than shut it down.

She just needed me to follow the basic rules first. I’ve had dozens of teachers over the years, but Ms. Stella still ranks in my top three. She pushed back on my nonsense just enough while still encouraging the interests behind it.

I still have those first two sets of notebooks somewhere in my parents’ attic.

Sometimes I think about digging them out and sending her pictures, just to see if she remembers our little standoff. Ten years later, I bet she’d get a good laugh out of it.

During my time in the military, I learned that respect is earned, not given just because of your position. This was never clearer than during a promotion course I attended a few years back.

Our course was run by instructors who were technically the same rank as us trainees.

Most were decent folks who understood the balance between authority and mutual respect. Then there was Theodore.

Theodore wasn’t a terrible person, but he’d been in the instructor role way too long. The little bit of power had gone straight to his head, and he’d forgotten what it was like to be on the other side.

The day before a field exercise, we were all in the lecture room finalizing our team prep when Theodore strolled in, fancy travel mug in hand.

“Hey, I need some help loading up a vehicle,” he announced casually.

No big deal, right? A bunch of us–me, Noah, Raymond, and a couple others–followed him outside, expecting to help with training equipment or shared supplies.

What we found instead was a pile of Theodore’s personal gear.

Stuff that had nothing to do with our training–just his own comfort items for the field exercise. Still, we weren’t bothered. That’s military life–you help each other out.

But then Theodore did something that made my blood boil.

He started barking orders at us like we were his personal movers. “That goes there! Careful with that one! Make sure everything’s secure!” And then–I still can’t believe this part–he turned around, took a long sip from his coffee, and walked back inside without lifting a finger.

I stood there for a solid minute, completely stunned.

The others had already started moving things, not wanting to make waves. Military habit, I guess. Eventually, I snapped out of it and grabbed a small trunk, not wanting to leave my buddies doing all the work.

But as I walked toward Theodore’s SUV, a little idea formed.

Instead of heading to the trunk like he’d instructed, I went straight to the driver’s seat and carefully placed the box right on the seat.

Noah saw what I was doing and, without a word, veered over to the passenger side with his load.

Raymond followed suit with the back seat. It was beautiful–not a word exchanged between us, just this silent agreement.

We kept at it, filling every seat in Theodore’s vehicle with his gear. Once those were full, we actually started taking things OUT of the trunk and redistributing them to any remaining seat space.

By the time we finished, every inch of the interior was packed tight with his stuff, while the trunk was practically empty.

The best part? Theodore never mentioned it. When he came back out later, we were all back at our prep tables, working diligently.

I caught a glimpse of his face when he went to his car though. First confusion, then understanding, then–I swear–a little bit of respect.

For the rest of the course, Theodore never asked us to load his personal gear again.

And interestingly, he started carrying his own equipment and even helping with the group supplies. Lesson learned, I guess.

The story came up yesterday when my buddy Noah and I were catching up, and he reminded me of this incident.

“Remember how you started that silent rebellion with Theodore’s car?” he laughed. “Man, that was brilliant. You always were the king of making a point without saying a word.”

I won’t pretend I’m not proud of that moment.

Sometimes the most effective revenge isn’t loud or destructive–it’s just creative enough to make someone think twice about how they treat others.

The funny thing is, Theodore and I actually became decent acquaintances after that course.

At the graduation ceremony, he came up to me, offered a handshake, and said, “You know, I had to completely unpack and repack my car that day.”

I just smiled and replied, “Sometimes the best way to learn is by doing the work yourself.”

He nodded, got the message, and we left it at that.

There’s something satisfying about standing your ground without causing a scene or making an enemy. And honestly, I think Theodore became a better instructor after that–at least that’s what I heard from friends who went through his course later.

It’s been years now, but I still think about that day whenever someone tries to take advantage of my willingness to help.

Being supportive doesn’t mean being a doormat, and sometimes a little creative resistance goes a long way in earning respect.

The military taught me many things–discipline, perseverance, teamwork–but some of the most valuable lessons came from these small moments of standing up for yourself in clever ways.

No confrontation needed, just a trunk full of personal items relocated to the driver’s seat and a message that couldn’t be clearer if we’d spelled it out.

I was a total smart aleck as a kid. Still am, if I’m being honest. It was my special talent, and I wielded it like a superpower against my family, especially my mom, Ava.

Most of the time, my smartness came from genuine misunderstandings or taking things way too literally.

But let’s not kid ourselves–I knew exactly what I was doing most of the time. Like when Ava asked me to grab the tape measure from the garage, and instead of getting the actual measuring tape that I KNEW she wanted, I brought back a piece of scotch tape with marks I’d drawn on it.

The look on her face was priceless.

That mix of frustration and trying not to laugh was what I lived for. She’d usually give me a light swat on the backside, tell me to knock it off, and then I’d go get what she actually wanted.

Worth it every single time.

For more serious stuff, Ava had this whole routine where she’d say, “Go get me something to spank you with!” We all knew that meant the wooden spoon from the utensil drawer.

It wasn’t anything crazy–just enough to make a point. Most of the time, I avoided these situations because despite being a smart mouth, I generally stayed out of real trouble.

Except for that one time involving my bike, three neighborhood kids, a mud puddle, and Ava’s fancy china.

But that’s another story entirely.

Anyway, this particular day, my cousin Brian was staying with us. He was always picking on me, and I usually took it in stride, but that day he was being exceptionally annoying. After about an hour of his teasing, I finally snapped and said something truly awful.

I don’t even remember what it was exactly, but I DO remember the shocked look on Brian’s face, my little sister Bella’s gasp, and the immediate feeling of Ava’s hand on my shoulder spinning me around.

“What did you just say?” Her eyes were wide with that mom-fury that makes your stomach drop.

“But he started it!” I protested, pointing at Brian.

“He’s been messing with me all day!”

“I don’t care who started it. We don’t talk like that in this house!” Ava was fuming. “Go get me something to spank you with!

And NOT the wooden spoon this time!”

That last part was her mistake. She’d left it open-ended, and I was just angry enough to be creative.

I stomped into the kitchen, thinking about how unfair it was that I was getting in trouble when Brian had been tormenting me for hours.

If she wanted something different, fine. I looked around the kitchen, saw exactly what I needed sitting by the sink, and grabbed it.

I walked back to the living room where everyone was waiting, holding my chosen item behind my back.

Ava had her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently.

“Well?” she demanded.

I pulled my hand from behind my back and held up my selection: a bright yellow kitchen sponge.

The room went completely silent. Ava and I locked eyes in a standoff that felt like it lasted forever.

I could see the exact moment when what I’d done registered in her brain. Her eyes widened, her nostrils flared, and then–the corner of her mouth twitched.

Bella broke first, a snort escaping as she slapped her hands over her mouth.

Then Brian, who had been eagerly awaiting my punishment, doubled over. Ava’s face was doing this amazing dance between trying to stay stern and completely losing it.

I couldn’t hold it anymore and burst out laughing.

That did it–Ava lost her composure completely.

“Why do you have to be such a pain in the neck all the time?” she asked through her laughter. She snatched the sponge from my hand and started chasing me around the living room, swatting at me with it while I ducked and dodged, both of us laughing hysterically.

When we finally calmed down, Ava pointed the sponge at me.

“Watch your mouth, or next time you’ll be eating this thing! And YOU,” she turned to Brian, “stop tormenting your cousin or you’ll be eating whatever he can’t finish!”

Brian actually apologized later and we ended up playing video games together for the rest of the afternoon like nothing had happened.

My dad, Patrick, had missed the whole thing because he was outside fixing something on the car.

When he came in for dinner, Ava told him the story. I could hear his booming laugh from my room.

Later that night, Patrick poked his head into my room, still grinning. “Son, you’ve got some nerve.

You do realize that could have gone very differently, right?”

“Yeah,” I replied with a shrug. “But you should have seen her face. Totally worth it.”

He just shook his head, chuckling as he closed my door.

Looking back now as an adult, I realize I was pretty lucky to have parents who could laugh at themselves sometimes. And honestly? I’d probably do the same thing today.

I work at a small newspaper in Georgia, and I’ve seen some crazy things in my time, but nothing prepared me for what happened at United Benefits last month.

My friend Mary works as a receptionist there, and she called me in a complete panic one Tuesday afternoon.

“You need to get down here right now,” she hissed into the phone. “Some woman just showed up with a dead body!”

I thought she was joking. She wasn’t.

Here’s the backstory: Caroline Thompson lives in a rural area about 60 miles outside the city.

She’s been taking care of her elderly uncle, Christian, for years. Christian wasn’t wealthy, but he was careful with his money. He had a modest funeral policy with United Benefits worth about $5,000 that Caroline had been paying religiously every month – never missed a payment.

Christian had a rough life.

He worked hard, drank harder, and had his share of troubles. One night, he got into an altercation at a local dive bar. Some guys roughed him up pretty bad. Somehow, he managed to walk himself to the nearest police station to report what happened.

But when he got there, he started having some kind of seizure. The cops thought he was just wasted or on something and basically ignored him.

Later that day, a local farmer named Lincoln found Christian sitting outside in the rain and took pity on him.

He drove him to the county hospital, where Christian sat in the waiting room for hours, still bleeding. By the time they finally called his name, it was too late. He died from his injuries.

When Caroline found out, she was devastated.

She called United Benefits right away to file a claim on the funeral policy. She needed that money – not just for the funeral, but because the morgue was charging her a daily fee to keep Christian’s body, and those charges were adding up fast.

And that’s when the nonsense started.

Every time Caroline called, she got a different excuse.

“We’re still processing your claim.” “We need more documentation.” “The claim is under review.” This went on for weeks. Caroline had to make the long journey into the city multiple times, taking four different buses each way.

She’s barely making ends meet on assistance, so these trips were a real hardship.

After three weeks of getting nowhere, Caroline snapped. She went to the morgue, signed whatever papers they needed to release Christian’s body, and borrowed her neighbor Isaac’s truck.

She drove Christian’s body – still in the morgue bag – straight to the United Benefits office in the middle of a busy Thursday.

Mary told me that Caroline just walked in calm as could be, with two guys helping her carry what was clearly a body.

They laid it right in the middle of the lobby floor. Caroline stood beside it and started addressing everyone in the waiting area, explaining very loudly how United Benefits had been giving her the runaround while her uncle’s body sat in cold storage.

“I figured if they won’t come to see about my uncle,” she announced to the horrified customers, “I’d bring my uncle to see them.”

You can imagine the chaos.

People were screaming, running for the exits. A security guard tried to approach Caroline but honestly didn’t know what to do – they don’t exactly cover “customer brings in corpse” in basic training. Mary said she’d never seen her manager, Joshua, move so fast.

He practically flew out of his office.

Miraculously, within 30 minutes, Caroline’s claim was not only “processed” but approved in full. Joshua personally walked her to a private office where she could use a computer to check her bank account.

Sure enough, the full $5,000 was there, plus an additional $2,000 for what they called “inconvenience.”

But Caroline wasn’t finished. She demanded that United Benefits pay for the traditional family ceremonies needed to properly lay Christian to rest.

In her family’s culture, these rituals were sacred and necessary – and expensive, involving special foods and community gatherings. Joshua agreed to this too, writing a separate check on the spot.

The kicker? Caroline left Christian’s body right there in the lobby while she went to the bank to confirm the money had actually been deposited.

Only then did she return with the funeral home personnel to collect her uncle.

The story made regional news that night, though the company tried desperately to keep it quiet. United Benefits has since overhauled their claims process, and Caroline has become something of a local legend.

I asked Mary what happened to Joshua and the other managers who had been giving Caroline such a hard time.

Turns out the regional director came down personally the next day and fired three people, including the claims supervisor who had been sitting on Caroline’s paperwork for weeks.

Mary says they’ve had a record number of claims paid out in full since then.

Nothing motivates an insurance company quite like the threat of having deceased policy holders delivered to their doorstep.

I’ve covered all kinds of stories in my career – corruption, scandals, natural disasters – but nothing quite compares to the day Caroline Thompson decided enough was enough, and found perhaps the most effective way possible to cut through corporate red tape.

Sometimes the most powerful statement you can make is the most literal one: “Here’s the body.

Now pay for the funeral.”

This happened back in the early 2010s at a mid-sized company where I worked in a specialized quote processing team for the sales department.

I’m going to keep locations vague for obvious reasons, but let’s just say it was in a rainy part of the UK.

Our company had been having issues with regulators, and senior management was desperately trying to cut costs.

Instead of making smart decisions, they went for the easiest targets – us regular workers.

My team was tight-knit – six team members plus our manager Michael. We were known for being efficient, and we often collaborated with other departments.

They’d help us when we were swamped, and we’d return the favor. The system worked great until management decided to mess with it.

One day, without any warning, we were all called into a meeting. The announcement hit like a ton of bricks – they were laying off two people from our team.

Michael and his right-hand man Grayson were immediately declared “safe” (shocking absolutely no one). The rest of us had to reapply for our own jobs and take some ridiculous test that had nothing to do with our actual work.

During this whole circus, it became clear they were manipulating data to justify the cuts.

They claimed ticket numbers had fallen, but the decrease was literally just 13 tickets over three years – out of THOUSANDS we processed annually. It was complete nonsense.

Two team members were eventually let go. One took a settlement package, but Charlotte wasn’t having it.

She sued the company for various issues and won her case. The whole situation was obviously unfair – especially since Michael had protected Grayson, who was objectively the worst performer on our team. The guy could barely handle basic tasks without messing them up, but he was great at brown-nosing.

After the dust settled, our workload became unmanageable.

Other teams stopped helping us because we couldn’t help them anymore. A massive backlog built up, and then management had the nerve to threaten us with disciplinary action if we didn’t clear it. They also refused to approve any overtime.

During the redundancy process, we’d been criticized for skipping unnecessary steps in the quote process – steps that wasted time but management insisted were essential.

So Olivia, Sabrina and I decided to follow every single rule to the letter. Every checkbox, every form, every ridiculous protocol – we did it all exactly by the book. This made our backlog even worse, but they couldn’t complain since we were following their precious procedures.

A week later, we had another meeting with HR, the sales director, and Michael.

They asked why the backlog was growing. We calmly explained, “We’re following all guidelines exactly as written. This is as fast as we can work while adhering to company protocols.” They also demanded we start helping other teams again.

We replied, “We simply can’t. Our workload is too high, and assisting other departments isn’t actually in our contracts.”

This continued for months. Management refused to believe we were genuinely overworked. Then came holiday planning, and we noticed they hadn’t updated the team’s vacation policy.

It still stated that three team members could be off simultaneously. So we coordinated – Olivia and Sabrina booked international trips, and I planned to visit family across the country.

When Michael realized this – just a week before our departures – he went ballistic.

Another HR meeting was called, but we stood our ground: “According to team rules, three people can be off at once. We checked before booking.” All three of us took our two-week vacations, creating even more chaos for the company.

The sales director then hatched a brilliant plan to train teams at our India offices to help with the backlog.

They wanted us to fly there for weeks to train them. Again, we refused, pointing out that international travel and training weren’t in our contracts. I didn’t even have a passport at the time, which they conveniently ignored.

Poor Michael and Grayson ended up stuck there for over two months, failing miserably to get the overseas team up to speed. We’d send them simple tickets, they’d mess them up, and we’d have to redo everything.

After six months of this nonsense, they abandoned the plan completely.

After about a year of this toxic environment, the three of us decided we couldn’t trust the company anymore. We all started job hunting and, by pure coincidence, found new positions within a week of each other.

We submitted our four-week notices – strictly following our contract terms – all set to leave on the same day.

That’s when Sabrina, who was particularly knowledgeable about our employment contracts, pointed out something interesting. Any documentation we created during our employment technically belonged to us and we could do whatever we wanted with it when we left.

So we hatched our final plan.

During our last week, we consolidated all our digital files – training manuals, process documents, cheat sheets, templates, everything we’d created over the years.

On our final day, we brought in our external hard drives and, with IT’s help (they hated management too), downloaded every single document we’d created and deleted the company copies.

As we were saying our goodbyes, Michael asked about the handover materials.

We smiled and told him exactly what we’d done, showing him our drives. “According to our contracts, all documentation we created belongs to us, and we’re choosing to take it with us.”

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

Friends who stayed at the company later told us the sales director had a complete meltdown when he realized no one knew how to process quotes anymore.

The department was practically paralyzed.

The three of us have all moved on to better companies with actual decent management. We still meet up for drinks occasionally and laugh about the time we left our former bosses with absolutely nothing but their own incompetence.

So there I was, sprawled on the couch after a particularly exhausting day at work. My girlfriend Aria was heading to the kitchen, and I asked if she could grab me some water while she was up.

Now, Aria and I have this routine.

She knows exactly how I like my water – in this massive tumbler with plenty of ice and a straw. It’s practically a personality trait at this point. The tumbler keeps my water cold for hours, and I can sip on it all afternoon without having to get up.

Perfect for lazy days like this one.

“What do you want it in?” she called from the kitchen.

I was deep into some mindless scrolling on my phone, so I just mumbled back, “Whatever’s closest, I don’t mind.”

There was a pause before she asked, “Do you want a straw?”

“Yes, please!” I replied, not even looking up from my phone.

I heard some shuffling and then the sound of Aria giggling.

That should’ve been my first clue that something was up. When she walked back into the living room, she was practically doubled over laughing.

That’s when I finally looked up.

This goofball was standing there with her hands cupped together, filled with water, and a single straw sticking out of it.

The look on her face was pure mischief.

“Well, my hands were the closest thing!” she declared, still giggling as she held her makeshift “cup” over my lap.

I couldn’t help but laugh. I leaned forward to actually try and drink from her hands through the straw, which was a terrible idea.

We both started laughing harder, and within seconds, most of the water had spilled all over my pants. It looked like I’d had an unfortunate accident.

“Thanks a lot,” I said, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably because I was laughing too hard.

“Now I look like I can’t control my bladder.”

Aria collapsed on the couch next to me, still cackling. “Your face! You should’ve seen your face!”

I got up, dripping water everywhere, and went to grab a towel.

“You know what? I’m getting my own water now.”

“Aww, don’t be mad,” she called after me, still giggling.

“Oh, I’m not mad,” I replied. “But you should know that this means war.”

I spent the next three days plotting my revenge.

It had to be perfect – funny but not mean, clever but not too elaborate. The opportunity presented itself when Aria asked me to grab her phone charger from the bedroom while she was cooking dinner.

“Where is it?” I asked.

“Anywhere,” she replied, distracted by the pasta sauce she was stirring.

“Just grab whatever charger you see first.”

I smiled to myself. This was it.

I went to our bedroom, unplugged her charger from the wall, and walked back to the kitchen. Instead of handing it to her, I held up the charger and started making a soft buzzing noise.

“What are you doing?” she asked, looking confused.

“You said grab whatever charger I see first,” I explained innocently.

“So I’m charging the air between us.”

She stared at me for a solid five seconds before bursting into laughter. “That’s terrible! That doesn’t even make sense!”

“Neither did giving me water in your hands,” I countered, laughing along with her.

“Fair point,” she conceded, wiping away a tear of laughter.

“But you know this isn’t over, right?”

And that’s how we started what we now call the “Literal Interpretation Wars.” For weeks, we kept finding ways to deliberately misinterpret each other’s requests in the most ridiculous ways possible.

When she asked me to turn up the heat, I did jumping jacks in the living room to “heat things up.”

When I asked her if she could grab the remote, she took it and held it tightly, technically “grabbing” it but not bringing it to me.

The best one was when I asked her to pick up some bread on the way home, and she sent me a picture of herself literally picking up a loaf of bread in the store – and then putting it back down.

She came home with the bread, of course, but not before making me laugh with her nonsense.

It’s been months, and we still occasionally surprise each other with these literal interpretations. It’s become one of those weird little traditions that make our relationship unique.

Sometimes the simplest jokes become the best inside jokes.

And yes, I still use that massive tumbler for my water. But nowadays, I make sure to be very, very specific about how I want it served.

My parents split up in the early 90s, and the court gave my mom custody of me and my sister. We moved into my grandma’s house, which my grandpa had built in the 50s but never renovated.

The house had two apartments – one downstairs where Grandma lived, and one upstairs where we stayed. At first, Mom wanted to keep things separate, but eventually Grandma convinced her to treat the whole place as our family home.

Mom and Grandma decided to renovate the whole house.

But there was a complication – since Grandpa died without a will, the house wasn’t legally just Grandma’s. It partly belonged to my mom and her sister Nevaeh. Grandma bought out Nevaeh’s share, and then they started the renovations.

Mom put all her divorce settlement money into the house, even paying off an old loan.

To avoid future problems, the three women made a will. After Grandma died, her share of the house would go to my mom since she lived there and invested so much.

Nevaeh would get a substantial cash payment, and everything else would be split equally between the sisters.

Fast forward to 2015. Mom had retired and was caring for Grandma full-time as she struggled with dementia. We were committed to keeping Grandma in her home as long as possible.

I’d moved out years ago but visited when I could to give Mom a break, though that wasn’t often since I lived two hours away. Mom did get some help from a woman named Kiara, who happened to be dating Nevaeh’s son Hudson.

Hudson had fallen out with his dad and most of our family years ago.

For over two decades, he only showed up for birthdays and Christmas, basically a ghost the rest of the time.

Grandma had a brief hospital stay and was supposed to spend time in a nursing home where Kiara worked so Mom could rest.

But on the second day, confused and disoriented, Grandma crawled under her roommate’s bed and refused to come out. Kiara called Hudson, who came by. During their attempts to coax her out, Grandma got slightly hurt and was sent back to the hospital.

After that, she refused to return to the nursing home, so Mom brought her home.

Over the next few months, Hudson suddenly started showing up weekly to “take care of Grandma.” This consisted of sitting with her for 15 minutes, holding her hand, and then leaving.

Mind you, my mom had been providing round-the-clock care since 2011, never going more than 50 meters from the house without someone watching Grandma. Both Grandma’s doctor and official care evaluators had confirmed Mom was doing an excellent job.

In March, Nevaeh advised Mom to start saving money for when Grandma passed away.

Then in July, while Grandma was in short-term care so Mom could recover, Hudson offered to bring Grandma to Kiara’s birthday party.

By August, everything changed. Nevaeh started suggesting that Grandma’s confusion wasn’t dementia but the result of poor care from Mom. Hudson became increasingly hostile, accusing Mom of stealing Grandma’s money and tax evasion. During one confrontation I attended, I nearly lost it with him.

After we all calmed down, I challenged Hudson: instead of just dropping by for 15 minutes and making accusations, why didn’t he actually care for Grandma for a full week?

He agreed. Two weeks later, Hudson and his brother showed up and took Grandma to a fair. ... Click here to continue reading