Back in 1999, I was this broke high school junior with gaming dreams way bigger than my wallet. I’d been saving up forever for a Nintendo 64, but man, those things weren’t getting any cheaper and my part-time job at the movie theater wasn’t exactly making me rich.

Then something magical happened.

My mom’s friend Anita – who was super cool but definitely not the type you’d expect to have a Toys-R-Us credit card since she didn’t have kids – stopped by our house one afternoon.

“Hey Adrian,” she said, handing me an envelope.

“I got these store dollars from my credit card company but I’ll never use them. Maybe you can get something nice.”

I nearly passed out when I opened it. $180 in Toys-R-Us store dollars, all in neat little $20 vouchers.

This wasn’t regular store credit – these were special promotional certificates that came from the credit card company itself, not directly from the store. That distinction would end up being pretty important.

I didn’t waste any time.

The very next day, I convinced my mom to drive me to Toys-R-Us after school. The Nintendo 64 was right there on the shelf, gleaming under the fluorescent lights like it was personally calling my name. I grabbed the console and a sweet transparent green controller too – because what’s the point of having a Nintendo if you can’t destroy your friends in GoldenEye?

With tax, the total came to just over $180.

Perfect! I handed over my stack of store dollars and a single dollar bill to cover the difference. The cashier – this guy named Ethan who looked about 19 or 20 – scanned the first voucher without a problem. But when he tried the second one, the register beeped angrily.

“Sorry man,” Ethan said, looking genuinely apologetic.

“The system will only let me use one of these store dollars per transaction. Company policy.”

My heart sank. I’d been waiting months for this moment. The store was practically empty – just me and a couple of moms browsing the baby aisle in the distance.

I wasn’t going home without that Nintendo.

“What if…” I started, my brain suddenly working overtime, “what if I buy a $20 gift certificate first, using one of these store dollars, and then use that gift certificate toward the Nintendo?”

Ethan looked at me, then at the vouchers, then back at me.

A slow smile spread across his face. “That’s… actually not against any rule I know of.”

So we did it. He rang up a $20 gift certificate, I paid with one of my store dollars, and he handed me the gift card.

We repeated the process for another $20. By the third one, I was feeling pretty clever about my workaround.

That’s when Javier, the floor manager, noticed what was happening. My stomach dropped as he walked over. Great, I thought, he’s going to shut this whole thing down.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, looking between me and the growing pile of gift certificates.

Ethan explained the situation, probably expecting to get in trouble.

But to my complete surprise, Javier just laughed and shook his head.

“Kid, I admire your creativity, but we’ll be here all day at this rate.” He pulled out a key card and tapped it against the register.

“Let me override the system. We’ll let you use all your store dollars in one go.”

With a few keystrokes, Javier bypassed whatever restriction had been in place. I handed over all nine of my remaining store dollars and that single dollar bill.

The register showed I’d spent $180.44 exactly.

As Ethan bagged up my Nintendo 64 and controller, Javier leaned in. “Between you and me, that was pretty smart thinking. Corporate makes these dumb rules without considering real situations. Sometimes you gotta find the loopholes.”

I walked out of that store clutching my bag like it contained gold.

In a way, it did. My mom was waiting in the car, and I couldn’t stop grinning the whole ride home.

“What are you so happy about?” she asked. “It’s just a video game.”

But it wasn’t just a game to me.

It was my first real lesson in creative problem-solving – and the satisfaction of finding a legitimate workaround to a ridiculous rule. I spent the entire weekend playing Mario 64, barely sleeping, fingers cramped from the weird three-pronged controller.

Twenty-five years later, I still have that Nintendo tucked away in my closet.

Sometimes I take it out and show my kids, telling them the story of how I “hacked the system” to get it. They roll their eyes every time, but I don’t care. That Nintendo represents one of my proudest teenage moments – and the best 44 cents I ever spent.

And Anita?

She’s still friends with my mom, still doesn’t have kids, and still occasionally does random nice things that make someone’s day. I bought her a gift card last Christmas as a small thank you for a gaming console that brought me years of joy and a story I’ll never forget.

So there I was, stationed in Germany back in the 90s, barely 20 years old and completely clueless about military procedures. This was my first assignment after basic training, and I was just trying to keep my head above water and not mess anything up too badly.

When you’re in the military, they’re supposed to give you your transfer orders about 45 days before you move to your next post.

This gives you time to handle all the paperwork, turn in gear, and basically check off a million little boxes before you can leave. It’s like moving apartments but with ten times the bureaucracy.

So my time in Germany was coming to an end, and I was getting excited about my next assignment in Texas.

Everyone in my platoon who was leaving around the same time had gotten their orders weeks ago. But not me. I figured that was normal for my situation or something. I mean, how would I know? I was just following the system.

Then one morning, my sergeant Brandon comes rushing up to me looking stressed.

“Hudson, where are your transfer papers?” he asked, frowning.

“What papers?

I haven’t gotten anything yet,” I replied.

His face turned white. “You’re supposed to ship out in TWO WEEKS!”

Turns out someone in admin had completely dropped the ball. My paperwork had been sitting in some forgotten inbox, and now I had exactly two weeks to do what everyone else gets a month and a half to complete.

Brandon rushed me to the admin office where a frazzled-looking officer named Sebastian pushed a stack of papers at me.

“You need to get all of these signed off in the next 48 hours,” he said, not even trying to hide his annoyance like this was somehow my fault.

The real kicker? Our company headquarters wasn’t even in the same city as our platoon.

It was a two-hour drive away, and I needed signatures from people there too. I had to borrow a buddy’s car, drive there, spend the night sleeping in the car because I couldn’t afford a hotel, and then run around all day getting forms stamped and signed.

I was running on energy drinks and determination at this point.

My checklist had about 40 items, everything from turning in my gear to medical clearance. I even had to get my teeth checked before I could leave! Who thinks of this stuff?

By some miracle, I got through most of it with only one item left: closing my bank account.

This was the German bank where my military pay was deposited, and I needed that money for my leave before reporting to Texas. I had about $1,500 in there–basically all the money I had in the world at that point.

I walked into the bank feeling pretty good about myself.

Home stretch! I just needed to close the account, get my cash, and I’d be done with this nightmare. I took a number, waited my turn, and approached the desk where a lady named Grace sat typing away.

“I need to close my account,” I said, sliding my orders across the desk.

“I’m being transferred back to the States.”

Grace reviewed my paperwork and then delivered the news that nearly gave me a heart attack.

“We’ll need three copies of your orders. Then we’ll freeze your account for 30 days to ensure no outstanding checks come through.

After that, we can mail you a check to your new address.”

I just stared at her. “Thirty days? But I need that money now. I’m going on leave in ten days and that’s literally all the money I have.”

She gave me that bureaucratic smile that says ‘I don’t make the rules’ and slid my orders back to me.

“It’s standard procedure for military personnel. We’ve had problems with soldiers leaving unpaid debts.”

I thanked her–though I felt like screaming–and walked away from her desk, trying to figure out what to do.

I had exactly 87 marks in my wallet (about $50), and that was supposed to last me until I could access my account again? Impossible.

As I was standing there having a mini panic attack, I noticed there wasn’t a line at the teller window.

On a whim, I walked over.

“Hi there,” I said to Violet, the teller. “Quick question: what’s the minimum balance needed to keep an account open here?”

Violet glanced at her screen. “Just 10 marks.

About $6.”

“Great,” I said, trying to play it cool. “In that case, I’d like to make a withdrawal.”

“How much would you like?” she asked.

“Everything except 10 marks.”

She didn’t even blink, just processed the withdrawal and counted out my money.

I walked out of there with my cash, feeling like I’d pulled off some kind of bank heist, even though I’d done nothing wrong. Technically, my account was still open, I just happened to withdraw almost all my money.

For the next two years, I got monthly statements from that German bank showing my balance of 10 marks plus a few pfennigs of interest.

Eventually, they closed it for inactivity and sent me a check for the remaining balance–all $7.42 of it.

The whole experience taught me an important military lesson: there’s the right way, the wrong way, and the way that actually works.

Sometimes you have to figure out the third option when the system fails you.

And whenever I hear someone complain about bank policies now, I just smile and think about my tiny German bank account that outlived my entire first tour of duty.

Sometimes the best solution isn’t fighting the system head-on–it’s finding the loophole that lets you slip right through.

So I’ve got this history teacher, Ms. Charlotte, who is basically the worst. Like, not exaggerating, she’s made this entire year a total nightmare for me.

She’s got this way of singling me out that makes me want to crawl under my desk and disappear.

Anyway, last week she assigns this project where we had to write a newspaper article about an event from the French Revolution as if we were actually there reporting on it.

I sat there listening to her drone on about requirements, word count, and vocabulary terms we had to include. The whole time she kept looking at me like she was expecting me to fail.

That’s when I had my brilliant idea.

So I did EXACTLY what the assignment asked for.

I wrote a detailed, historically accurate newspaper article about the Storming of the Bastille. I included all the required vocabulary terms. I hit the exact word count.

But I wrote the entire thing in French.

Yes, actual French. Not just a few phrases sprinkled in — the whole darn article from start to finish.

When I turned it in, Ms.

Charlotte looked confused. She flipped through the pages, her eyebrows getting higher and higher. “Lila, what is this?” she asked, looking genuinely baffled.

“It’s my article about the French Revolution,” I said innocently. “Written as if I were actually there.

In France. Where they speak French.”

Let me give you some background. I’m 15, a freshman in high school in a state that doesn’t even offer French classes. My parents think French is a waste of time and refuse to pay for any courses, always telling me it’s a “useless language nobody speaks outside of France” (which is totally wrong, by the way).

So about two years ago, I started teaching myself French.

I used library books, free online videos, and language apps. Why French? Partly because I think it sounds beautiful. And partly because — this is embarrassing — I had this massive crush on an anime character who spoke French, and I wanted to understand what he was saying without subtitles.

Silly reason to learn a language? Maybe. But hey, I was 13.

My state basically pushes everyone to learn Spanish, which makes sense since we’re near the border. But something about French just clicked with me, even if my parents rolled their eyes whenever they caught me practicing.

Anyway, back to Ms.

Charlotte. She stood there holding my paper, mouth slightly open. “This isn’t what I meant by the assignment,” she said.

“You said to write as if we were there,” I pointed out. “You never specified which language to use.

And since I was supposedly a French reporter covering a French event in France… I wrote it in French.”

“I can’t grade this,” she said. “I don’t speak French.”

“I included a translation guide at the back,” I told her, flipping to the last page where I’d added a glossary of all the vocabulary terms translated into English.

“All the required words are there.”

Ms. Charlotte looked at me like she couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or furious. “I’ll have to discuss this with the principal,” she finally said.

Here’s why I particularly dislike Ms.

Charlotte: she has zero patience for anyone who isn’t “normal” by her standards. I have ADHD and Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and instead of working with me, she calls me out in front of everyone when I get distracted.

Once when I was having an anxiety attack during a test, she told me to “just calm down and focus” like it was that simple.

The next day, I got called to the principal’s office. I was nervous, thinking I might be in serious trouble.

But when I arrived, the principal, Mr. Robert, was actually smiling.

“Ms. Charlotte showed me your French Revolution article,” he said. “Very creative approach.”

I explained my reasoning, and to my surprise, he nodded. “Technically, you did fulfill the assignment requirements,” he said.

“And your French is quite impressive for someone who’s self-taught.”

Apparently, Mr. Robert had studied in Paris for a semester in college and could actually read most of my article. He said there were some grammar mistakes but that overall it was well-done.

Ms.

Charlotte ended up giving me a B+ on the project. She wrote in her comments that while my “interpretation of the assignment was unconventional,” I had demonstrated “initiative and outside knowledge.”

The best part? After that, she stopped picking on me so much in class.

I think she realized I wasn’t just the distracted kid she thought I was. And a few weeks later, Mr. Robert let me know that the school was considering adding French as an elective next year. He asked if I’d be interested in helping create a student interest survey.

So yeah, my little rebellion actually turned into something pretty cool.

I’m still not Ms. Charlotte’s favorite student, but at least now when I use French phrases under my breath, she pretends not to hear me instead of sending me to detention.

Sometimes the best way to deal with a teacher who has it out for you isn’t to fight back directly–it’s to use their own rules against them in the most creative way possible.

You know those moments in life that are so ridiculous you can’t help but laugh years later? My cousin Liam has this friend Rafael who went through some seriously tough times as a teenager.

By the time he was 15, Rafael had lost almost his entire family to a terrible accident. Most of his relatives lived far away, and the only person he had left was his grandaunt Sofia–who was only 9 years old at the time.

Yes, you read that right. His grandaunt was a child herself.

My family took them both in. They lived in a small guest house on our property, and we helped support them financially. Rafael was incredibly mature for his age, basically raising little Sofia while trying to keep up with school.

In 2012, Rafael was attending the same public school as me.

Most teachers were understanding of his situation once they learned about it. They knew he was essentially the guardian of a young child despite being only 15 himself. But then there was Ms. Mariana–hands down the most hated teacher in the entire school.

This woman had the personality of a cactus and the empathy of a brick wall.

Rafael got into some minor trouble one day–I think he was late to class a few times because he had to drop Sofia off at elementary school first.

Ms. Mariana decided she needed to speak with his guardian. When Rafael explained that his only family member was his 9-year-old grandaunt, Ms. Mariana thought he was feeding her a line of nonsense.

“I need to speak with an adult responsible for you,” she insisted, her voice dripping with that condescending tone she was famous for.

Rafael tried to explain, “Ms.

Mariana, I don’t have any other family here. My cousin Liam’s parents handle things when an adult is needed. Maybe you could talk to them instead?”

Ms. Mariana wasn’t having it. She turned red in the face and started making this big scene in front of the whole class.

“I don’t care about your cousin’s parents! I want YOUR guardian here tomorrow, or you’re going to the principal’s office!”

The whole class was silent. Everyone knew Rafael’s situation, and we were all thinking the same thing: this lady has completely lost it.

Rafael just took a deep breath and said, “Okay.

Fine.”

The next day came, and Rafael showed up at Ms. Mariana’s classroom during her free period. I tagged along because there was no way I was missing this. He knocked on the door, and when she opened it, he stepped aside to reveal tiny Sofia, standing there in her pink backpack and light-up sneakers.

“Ms.

Mariana, this is my grandaunt Sofia. She’s my only living relative in the city. Sofia, this is my teacher who wanted to meet you.”

I wish I had a camera to capture Ms. Mariana’s face.

Her expression went from smug satisfaction to complete confusion to utter embarrassment in about three seconds flat. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish, and she just stood there staring at this little girl who was supposed to be Rafael’s responsible adult guardian.

Sofia, bless her heart, stuck out her tiny hand and said in the most adorable voice, “It’s nice to meet you.

Rafael says you’re very strict.”

Ms. Mariana was speechless. She eventually mumbled something about a misunderstanding and quickly ushered us out of her classroom. She never bothered Rafael about guardian meetings again.

The story spread through the school like wildfire, and even some of the other teachers were quietly laughing about it in the hallways.

Ms. Mariana avoided eye contact with Rafael for weeks afterward.

Fast forward seven years–Rafael is 23 now with a good job in IT, and Sofia is 16 and doing great in high school. Whenever we get together for family dinners, this story inevitably comes up, and we all crack up remembering the look on Ms.

Mariana’s face when she realized she’d demanded a meeting with a 9-year-old.

Sometimes the best revenge against unreasonable people is simply to give them exactly what they asked for. Rafael could have gotten angry or escalated the situation, but instead, he just maliciously complied with her ridiculous demand.

And honestly, that was so much more satisfying than any argument could have been.

The whole situation taught me something important about handling difficult people: sometimes the best response isn’t to fight back but to simply let reality do the work for you.

Ms. Mariana learned her lesson that day, and it didn’t require anyone to lose their cool or say anything they’d regret later. Just a 9-year-old girl in light-up sneakers, politely introducing herself as the “guardian” that Ms.

Mariana had so forcefully demanded to meet.

Four years ago, my life took a drastic turn that I never expected. I’d spent most of my career in IT despite having a degree in something completely different.

About fifteen years back, I landed what I considered my dream job – working at a small bank headquarters writing SQL queries. The pay was great, hours were reasonable, and the office was just down the street from my house.

I basically solved puzzles all day for money. Perfect, right?

Then the financial mess hit. Our little bank got swallowed by a medium-sized one. Suddenly, the reasonable hours vanished. My job transformed from interesting problem-solving to mindless data transfer – “connect that data pipe to that other data pipe as fast as humanly possible.”

I live in a country with amazing benefits – free healthcare, unemployment benefits, retirement pay, beautiful weather.

But when the economic crisis hit, unemployment jumped to 25%. With jobs so scarce, employers didn’t bother paying for overtime. Why would they? If you weren’t willing to work for free, someone else definitely would be.

So there I was – long hours, mind-numbing work, and no extra pay.

But it was still good money and close to home, so I stuck it out.

Just as I became a father, a massive bank acquired our mid-sized one. Hours got even longer, still with no overtime pay. I gritted my teeth and endured it.

Finally, after all the data migration was complete, our headquarters closed down.

They gave me two options: relocate to the big bank’s HQ 2,000 miles away or work as a teller at a local branch.

I chose the second option, thinking they’d place me somewhere nearby. Instead, they assigned me to a branch 100 miles from home – on an island.

With a small child and that terrifying unemployment rate, I couldn’t risk losing my job. So my family packed up and moved to the island.

It quickly became obvious that we weren’t really there to help customers with transactions.

We were salespeople. If an elderly woman wanted to deposit $20, we had to convince her to sign up for a savings plan. Someone wanting credit for a new TV? They needed our home insurance package.

Our contracts stated working hours from 8 to 3.

But the branch was open to the public from 8:15 to 2:30 and constantly packed. We’d stay until 4, 5, or sometimes 6 PM trying to hit our weekly sales targets. No extra pay, of course.

The first few months, I was terrible at selling.

Just awful. But I improved. And kept improving. Within two years, I was the top salesperson in our branch and among the best in the region. They selected me to train everyone else on the island – which meant more hours with no additional compensation.

Then came my salvation.

The bank announced a Voluntary Redundancy program. They wanted older employees with higher salaries to apply (the severance package was excellent) so they could replace them with younger people at much lower pay rates.

When I told Luna, my branch manager, I was leaving, she couldn’t believe it.

Most applicants were people close to retirement age who could live off the severance package. I wasn’t even 40 yet. She told me I was making a huge mistake. But honestly, I didn’t care anymore.

My child had health issues and I barely saw him.

The constant pressure to sell, sell, sell was overwhelming. I felt like I was drowning all the time (I recently discovered I have a heart condition – a lovely souvenir from that period of my life). Most importantly, I noticed I was becoming a worse person.

My improved sales numbers came from becoming less scrupulous. That wasn’t a path I wanted to continue down.

So in July, I informed Luna I’d be leaving at the end of September. Since we were entitled to a full month of paid vacation annually, I only needed to work until early September.

But since we were leaving the island, I asked Luna for that final week off without pay, because I needed to help my sick child during his first week at a new school.

She flatly refused. I had to work until my last day, she insisted.

So I started leaving exactly at 3 PM every single day.

A week later, Luna called me into her office and asked me to “do my part” – the whole branch was suffering because of my attitude, my colleagues wouldn’t receive bonuses because we wouldn’t hit targets… I told her if she was going to make me work until my last minute, I wouldn’t work a single hour for free.

Then my wife had a brilliant realization.

In our country, when you relocate, you’re entitled to one paid day off. Two days if you’re moving more than 50 miles away, which we were. Even better, the bank had a policy allowing employees to add 3 paid free days to any paid leave (marriage, family illness, etc.).

That meant I could get that first week of September off after all.

I submitted the request directly to headquarters without telling Luna.

A few days later, she called me to her office again: HQ had supposedly told her I couldn’t take that paid leave because I was leaving the bank.

But she claimed she’d spoken to higher-ups who agreed to let me have that week off without pay – as long as I “continued to give 100%” (code for working unpaid overtime).

I went back to my desk and emailed my friend Eden in HR who had relocated to the big bank’s headquarters.

She responded immediately, telling me Luna’s claim was complete nonsense. Of course I was entitled to those five days since I was still a bank employee.

I marched back to Luna’s office and informed her I knew the truth.

From that day until my last day on August 31st, I left at exactly 3 PM with the biggest smile on my face.

Not only did I get my week off with pay, but I also reclaimed about 50 hours of overtime I would’ve worked if Luna had just approved my original request.

In the end, her attempt to manipulate me backfired spectacularly, and I walked away with both my dignity and my time.

I’ve been working at this locally-owned coffee shop downtown for about three years now. The owner, Sophia, is awesome – she treats us well and backs us up when we have to deal with difficult people.

And believe me, in the coffee business, there’s no shortage of those.

Last Tuesday started like any other shift. The morning rush had died down, and I was cleaning the espresso machine when the phone rang. My coworker Claire answered it, and I immediately noticed her expression change from friendly to uncomfortable.

“Sir, I understand, but those are our prices,” she said, her voice steady despite the obvious tension.

I could hear the man’s voice through the phone – loud and condescending. Claire held the receiver slightly away from her ear.

“Perhaps you’d prefer to check our online ordering system? The prices are the same, but you can see all the options there.” She was being way more patient than I would’ve been.

After a few more minutes of getting berated about our “highway robbery” prices, Claire finally hung up.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“Some guy upset about the price of our Barista’s Special drink.

Told me our customer service was worthless and that he’d figure it out himself.” Claire rolled her eyes and went back to filling the pastry case.

About twenty minutes later, our tablet pinged with a new online order.

Sophia, who was checking inventory, glanced at it and started laughing.

“Elliot, come look at this,” she called me over. “I think we’ve got your phone friend from earlier.”

The order was for our Barista’s Special – our premium drink that normally includes house-made caramel, chocolate, two espresso shots, steamed milk, whipped cream, and a sprinkle of our signature spice blend.

It costs about $7.50, which honestly isn’t bad considering what goes into it.

But this customer had modified it beyond recognition. They’d removed EVERY ingredient except for a single shot of espresso, which they’d added as a “modification.” It was clearly an attempt to get our premium drink at the price of a regular espresso (which was only $3.25).

“Should I just make him a regular espresso?” I asked.

Sophia smiled that smile she gets when she’s about to teach someone a lesson.

“No, Elliot. Make exactly what he ordered – a Barista’s Special with everything removed except one shot of espresso.”

“But that’s just an espresso in a large cup,” I pointed out.

“Exactly.

And make sure you charge him the full $7.50 for the Barista’s Special. He specifically ordered a modified Special, not an espresso.”

I couldn’t help grinning as I prepared the order. One lonely shot of espresso in our large 16oz cup, looking sad and small at the bottom.

I even put it in our special branded cup with the gold trim that we only use for premium drinks.

When the customer, a middle-aged guy named Raymond according to the order, came to pick it up, his face fell as I handed him the mostly-empty cup.

“What’s this?” he demanded, peering into the cup.

“Your Barista’s Special, modified as requested,” I replied cheerfully.

“You removed the caramel, chocolate, second espresso shot, milk, whipped cream, and spice blend. So it’s just the one espresso shot, as you specified.”

“This is ridiculous! This is just an espresso! I should be charged for an espresso!”

Sophia appeared beside me.

“Sir, you ordered our premium drink and modified it. You didn’t order an espresso. Our system clearly shows the modifications and final price before you complete your purchase.”

“This is a scam! You’re charging me more than double for an espresso!”

“No sir, we’re charging you exactly what you selected in our online system.

If you wanted an espresso, that option is clearly listed in the ‘Espresso Drinks’ section.”

Raymond sputtered for a moment, his face reddening, before grabbing the cup and storming out, muttering something about “daylight robbery” and “never coming back.”

As soon as the door closed, our whole staff burst out laughing.

“You know he was trying to game the system, right?” Lucia, our newest barista asked.

“People do this all the time at my last job. They think they’re so clever ordering the premium item and removing everything except what they want.”

“Oh, I know exactly what he was doing,” Sophia nodded.

“But sometimes people need to learn that the customer isn’t always right – especially when they’re trying to cheat local businesses.”

The best part? Raymond actually came back the next day, sheepishly ordered a regular espresso, and left a two-dollar tip.

Sometimes people just need a little lesson in how ordering systems work – and that being rude to service workers rarely pays off.

Over the next few weeks, we noticed more and more people trying similar tricks with our online ordering system.

Sophia eventually had our web developer add a note that modifications don’t change the base price of premium drinks. Problem solved.

But honestly, nothing beat the look on Raymond’s face when he realized his clever scheme had backfired.

In the service industry, those small victories are what keep you going through the crazy shifts and demanding customers. And sometimes, just sometimes, following the rules to the letter is the perfect revenge against someone trying to beat the system.