People Show Us They're The Greatest In These Revenge Stories

I work at this small accounting firm in the suburbs – just five accountants, an office manager, and me handling the front desk.

My official title is ‘Administrative Coordinator,’ but let’s be real, I’m just the receptionist who answers phones all day.

My boss, Landon, is the worst kind of micromanager. He owns the firm, has his CPA license framed prominently behind his desk, and acts like that gives him the right to track our every movement.

The past year has been a nightmare with him. When everyone started working remotely, he fought it tooth and nail. At first, we could work from home four days a week, then three, and now most of us are back in the office nearly full-time.

The worst part?

Last month, he guilt-tripped Omar and Nadia into coming to work sick AND meeting with clients. They both looked terrible – coughing, sniffling, the works – but Landon insisted they were ‘essential’ for this particular meeting. I overheard him telling them, ‘A little cold never killed anyone.’ Easy for him to say from his private office while the rest of us share the main floor.

The office vibe is beyond tense.

I literally dread coming in every morning. I live with my mom who has health issues, and I’m constantly worried about bringing something home to her. Plus, Landon spends half the day complaining about how much he hates remote work and how we’re all supposedly slacking off at home – which is complete nonsense.

Our productivity reports show we’ve been doing the same amount of work, if not more, since we started working remotely.

Anyway, I’m a smoker. I know it’s a bad habit, but it’s my stress relief.

Instead of taking a lunch break like everyone else, I take three quick smoke breaks throughout the day – usually about 7-8 minutes each. I’m super responsible about it too. I always let Sebastian or one of the other accountants know so they can listen for the phones, and sometimes I even forward calls to my cell so no one gets disturbed.

Yesterday, I came back from my morning break to find Landon looking irritated.

He’d paged my desk while I was out.

‘You have GOT to tell me when you leave the office,’ he snapped. ‘I paged Sebastian and he wasn’t at his desk, and then I paged you and you weren’t at yours either.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, trying to be professional.

‘What did you need help with?’

‘That’s not important,’ he said, waving his hand dismissively. ‘I need to know if you are not in the office.’

Here’s the thing – he doesn’t ask this of Violet, our office manager.

He doesn’t ask it of any of the accountants. Just me. And it’s never because we missed a client call or anything important happened. It’s literally just so he can keep tabs on me, the lowest-paid person in the office.

This morning, I decided to comply with his request – maliciously.

I’ve gone to the bathroom four times today (I’ve been chugging water to make this happen). I’ve taken two of my three smoke breaks. And each and every time, I’ve paged Landon to let him know.

9:17 AM: ‘Landon, just letting you know I’m stepping away from my desk to use the restroom.’

10:32 AM: ‘Landon, I’m taking my first smoke break now.

Sebastian is covering the phones.’

10:41 AM: ‘Landon, I’m back at my desk now.’

11:28 AM: ‘Landon, bathroom break.’

11:31 AM: ‘Landon, I’m back.’

12:45 PM: ‘Landon, second smoke break.’

12:53 PM: ‘Landon, back at my desk.’

2:17 PM: ‘Landon, bathroom break.’

2:20 PM: ‘Landon, back at desk.’

3:46 PM: ‘Landon, bathroom break again.’

3:49 PM: ‘Landon, back at desk.’

This doesn’t even count all the regular pages I have to send him about appointments and client calls.

Normally, I’d page him maybe 6-7 times a day. Today, it’s been about 18 times so far, and the day isn’t even over.

When I paged him to let him know his 2:30 appointment had arrived, I received the most exasperated ‘…yes…?’ I have ever heard in my life.

His voice was strained, like he was about to snap. Twenty minutes later, his ‘Do Not Disturb’ light came on, which means his calls are being forwarded to voicemail.

Ruby, one of the accountants, stopped by my desk after witnessing one of my many pages.

‘What’s with all the updates to Landon today?’ she whispered.

I explained what happened yesterday and she burst out laughing.

‘That’s brilliant,’ she said.

‘He’s been on my case all week about documentation for the Thompson account. Maybe I should start giving him hourly updates too.’

Chloe from tax preparation overheard us and chimed in, ‘Count me in. I can send him a play-by-play of every tax form I fill out.’

It’s been oddly satisfying watching Landon slowly lose his mind today.

I’m planning to keep this up until he specifically tells me to stop informing him of my whereabouts. And who knows? Maybe the other accountants will join in my little rebellion.

The best part? I’m just following his instructions.

He wanted to know when I wasn’t at my desk, so I’m making sure he knows. Every. Single. Time.

I’ve got one more smoke break left today, and I’m planning to take it right before his 4:30 client meeting.

I’ll be sure to page him both when I leave and when I return, plus once more to let him know his appointment has arrived.

Sometimes the best way to deal with a micromanager is to give them exactly what they asked for – until they choke on it.

Working night shifts at a large manufacturing plant has its perks, but dealing with lunch thieves isn’t one of them. For weeks, people’s food had been disappearing from the break room fridge, and it was becoming a serious problem.

I work in quality control, and I usually take my lunch break with two guys from different departments – Max from maintenance and Jayden from shipping.

We didn’t know each other before starting these shifts, but when you’re eating at 1 AM while the rest of the world sleeps, you form bonds pretty quick.

Jayden is… something else. This guy doesn’t just like spicy food – he LIVES for it.

I’m talking about a dude who enters competitive eating contests specifically for the spiciest foods on the planet. Ghost peppers, Carolina Reapers, Trinidad Scorpions – he treats these things like candy.

The first time I saw him pull out his lunch, I nearly fell out of my chair.

His sandwiches look normal enough until you notice he uses hot sauce instead of mayo and what looks like regular pickle slices are actually raw ghost pepper rings. The smell alone makes my eyes water.

“How can you even taste anything anymore?” I asked him once.

“My taste buds evolved, man.

Regular food is just… bland,” he replied with a shrug.

Both Max and I had our lunches stolen in the same week, which sucked because we start our shift right when the day shift ends, and there’s this brief overlap where the break room is packed.

Perfect cover for a lunch thief.

Then came the day Jayden was particularly excited about his lunch. He’d been experimenting with a new homemade hot sauce that he claimed would “melt the spoon if you left it in too long.”

“Guys, I outdid myself this time,” Jayden announced, rubbing his hands together as we headed to the break room.

“I fermented these peppers for two weeks, added some vinegar and this special extract I ordered online. It’s probably the hottest thing I’ve ever made.”

Max rolled his eyes. “You’re not human, dude.

No normal person should be this excited about self-inflicted pain.”

Jayden just grinned and patted his lunch bag. “It’s about the endorphin rush, my friend.”

When we got to our usual table and unpacked our meals, Jayden’s face suddenly dropped.

He was staring into his empty lunch bag like someone had just told him his dog died.

“My sandwich is gone,” he said quietly.

I started to say something sympathetic, but then I noticed a slow, devious smile spreading across his face.

“Well,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “someone’s about to have a very interesting afternoon.”

Max burst out laughing.

“Oh man, I would pay good money to see that! Whoever took it probably thought they were grabbing a regular sandwich!”

Jayden nodded, grabbing a protein bar from the vending machine. “This tastes like cardboard compared to what I had planned, but the entertainment value might be worth it.”

We didn’t have to wait long for confirmation.

Two days later, Aaron from janitorial services came by during our break with the craziest story.

“You guys missed the show of a lifetime the other day,” Aaron said, shaking his head. “Some dude in accounting – I think his name is Stephen – took a few bites of a sandwich and then went absolutely ballistic.”

“What happened?” I asked, trying to keep a straight face while Jayden was practically vibrating with anticipation beside me.

“First, his face turned this scary shade of red.

Then he started coughing and gagging before sprinting to the water fountain. Which, you know, is the worst thing you can do with spicy food.”

“It just spreads the capsaicin around,” Jayden added helpfully.

“Whatever it is, it didn’t help him,” Aaron continued.

“The guy started screaming – like, actually screaming – in the middle of the break room with about 150 people watching. Then he ran to the fridge, grabbed Whitney’s milk carton, and chugged the whole thing right there, spilling half of it down his shirt.”

By this point, Max was doubled over, trying not to laugh too loudly.

“The best part?

He was running around so frantically he slammed right into the vending machine. I thought we might need to call an ambulance. Then he just bolted out of the building. His manager found him outside, curled up next to his car, crying.”

Jayden looked oddly proud.

“That doesn’t sound too bad for what I made. He’s tougher than I thought.”

“What was in that sandwich?” Aaron asked, suddenly suspicious.

“Just some peppers I’ve been growing,” Jayden said innocently.

“Nothing illegal. Some people just can’t handle a little heat.”

The story spread through the night shift like wildfire, and surprisingly, Stephen came back to work the next day. His eyes were red, and he kept chugging milk, but he was there.

I overheard him telling someone he thought the sandwich had gone bad and gave him food poisoning. He never admitted to stealing it.

The funniest part? Nobody’s lunch has gone missing since that day. Word travels fast, and apparently the thought that any random lunch could contain Jayden’s nuclear peppers was enough to end the theft problem completely.

A few weeks later, the company installed cameras in the break room “for security purposes,” but we all know it was too late.

The lunch thief had already learned his lesson the hard way.

Jayden still brings his insanely spicy creations to work, but now he labels them with skull and crossbones stickers. “Just in case someone’s feeling brave,” he says with a wink.

So far, there have been no takers.

Growing up with my twin sister Anna was always an adventure, especially at breakfast time. I was notoriously slow with my food, and Anna?

Well, she was the pickiest eater you’d ever meet. Poor Mom had her work cut out for her every single morning.

This particular memory happened when we were about 8 years old. Our morning routine was always the same: Mom would get us up, put cereal in our plastic bowls, and then spend the next 30 minutes trying to make sure we actually ate something before school.

Anna was being especially difficult that day.

“I don’t want the blue cereal pieces. They taste different,” she insisted, picking through her bowl with laser focus.

“They’re all the same flavor, honey,” Mom said for probably the millionth time, the exhaustion clear in her voice.

Meanwhile, I was in my own world, taking one tiny spoonful every few minutes, distracted by literally anything – the bird outside, the patterns in the wood grain of our table, my own thoughts about what games we’d play at recess.

“Daniela, please focus on eating,” Mom said to me.

“We need to leave for school in fifteen minutes.”

I nodded and took another microscopic bite.

Mom had already been dealing with some stress from work that week. Dad had mentioned she was having trouble with her boss, and she’d been on the phone late the previous night talking in that hushed, tense voice adults use when they don’t want kids to know something’s wrong.

After another ten minutes of Anna’s cereal surgery and my daydreaming, Mom checked the clock and her patience finally snapped.

“That’s it,” she said, running her hands through her hair.

“Just… drop it, Daniela. We don’t have time for this today.”

I looked up at her, processing her words. Drop it? Okay.

Maintaining complete eye contact with my mom, I slowly grabbed my nearly full bowl of cereal with both hands, lifted it slightly, and then – with all the seriousness an 8-year-old could muster – dropped it directly onto the kitchen floor.

The bowl hit the tile with a loud THUD, milk splashing everywhere, cereal pieces sliding across the floor like tiny hockey pucks.

Some even made it under the refrigerator. The sound echoed through our kitchen like a gunshot.

Time stood still for about three seconds.

Mom’s face went through a fascinating journey: shock, then anger, then sudden realization, and finally – to my surprise – she burst out laughing.

Not just a little chuckle, but full-on, doubled-over, tears-in-her-eyes laughter.

“That is NOT what I meant!” she managed to say between gasps.

Anna, who had been silently judging my cereal-dropping performance, started giggling too.

“You said ‘drop it,'” I explained, feeling both clever and slightly worried I might still be in trouble.

Mom wiped her eyes, still laughing.

“I meant stop worrying about finishing your breakfast, not create a cereal swimming pool on my kitchen floor!”

She grabbed the paper towels and started cleaning up, still chuckling to herself. “I can’t even be mad.

You followed my instructions perfectly.”

From that day forward, “drop it” became a family code phrase. Anytime someone in our family would say those words, we’d all look at each other and start laughing. Mom was especially careful about her choice of words around me after that.

Years later, when I was going through a rough patch in high school – stressing about grades, friends, and all the usual teenage drama – Mom sat me down for a talk.

“Remember when you literally dropped your cereal bowl because I told you to ‘drop it’?” she asked.

“How could I forget?

Anna brings it up at least once a month,” I replied.

“Sometimes in life, you need to know when to actually drop things – not cereal bowls – but worries, grudges, things you can’t control,” she said.

“You taught me that sometimes we take things too literally, but also that a good laugh can turn around even the most frustrating morning.”

That cereal incident has become legendary in our family. Mom still tells the story at family gatherings, especially when introducing me to new people.

“This is my daughter Daniela, who takes instructions very literally,” she’ll say with that same laugh.

Anna and I are in college now, and we live in different states, but occasionally she’ll send me a picture of a cereal bowl with the message “Don’t drop it!” It never fails to make me smile.

It’s funny how these small childhood moments stick with you.

What could have been a morning of anger and frustration became one of our favorite family stories instead, all because my mom chose to laugh rather than get mad at a kid who was just following orders.

And for the record, I’ve never deliberately dropped a bowl of cereal since – though I still eat just as slowly, much to everyone’s frustration.

I was that kid who had absolutely zero filter growing up. Whatever popped into my head came straight out of my mouth, unfiltered and usually at maximum volume.

My parents called it my “special talent” – the ability to make any situation unbearably awkward in under five seconds flat.

My dad, Ryan, started this whole routine before we’d go anywhere. He’d kneel down, put his hands on my shoulders, look me dead in the eyes, and list all the things I wasn’t allowed to say.

“Mateo, remember, we don’t comment on people’s appearances,” or “Mateo, please don’t ask why that lady is so tall.” You get the idea.

I was eight when we got invited to dinner at his old college friends’ place.

Jordan and Alice were this fancy couple who lived in one of those homes where everything looks like it belongs in a magazine. The kind of place where you’re afraid to touch anything.

The morning before the dinner, Dad sat me down for our usual talk.

“Mateo, tonight we’re meeting my friend Jordan.

He has a… distinctive nose. Under no circumstances are you to say he looks like a rhino. Don’t mention his nose at all. Got it?”

I nodded seriously, mentally filing away the information that Jordan apparently had a rhino nose that I absolutely should not mention.

When we arrived at their immaculate house that evening, Alice welcomed us at the door.

She was super nice, offering my mom, Natalie, a glass of wine immediately. Jordan came out from the kitchen, and honestly, his nose wasn’t even that big. It was just slightly crooked, like maybe it had been broken once.

We all sat down at this massive dining table with fancy plates and like three different forks.

I was trying my absolute hardest to be on my best behavior. I didn’t slurp my water or put my elbows on the table. I was being the perfect kid.

Jordan was in the middle of telling some boring story about work when he paused to ask if I was enjoying school.

Everyone looked at me, waiting for my answer. This was my chance to show how mature I could be.

Instead, what came out of my mouth was: “You know, Dad told me not to say you look like a rhino, but I don’t think you look like a rhino at all!”

The silence that followed was so thick you could’ve cut it with one of their fancy butter knives.

Jordan’s face went completely blank. My mom choked on her wine. My dad looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

Alice, bless her heart, let out this awkward laugh and said, “Well, thank goodness for that, right honey?”

Jordan didn’t say much for the rest of dinner.

My parents rushed through the meal, making excuses about needing to get me to bed early. I didn’t understand what I’d done wrong – I thought I was being nice by telling him he DIDN’T look like a rhino!

On the drive home, my parents were dead silent until my dad finally said, “Mateo, sometimes the best way to avoid saying something rude is to not bring up the subject at all.”

We never got invited back to Jordan and Alice’s house.

Years later, I found out that Jordan had actually had reconstructive surgery on his nose after a car accident in college. That’s why it was slightly crooked. Way to go, eight-year-old me.

The funny thing is, after that night, my dad never gave me the pre-event pep talks again.

I think he realized that putting ideas in my head was actually worse than just letting me say whatever came naturally. It was like telling someone “don’t think about pink elephants” – all they can think about are pink elephants.

I’m 27 now, and I’d like to think I’ve developed at least some filter.

But at family gatherings, my dad still sometimes gives me that look – the one that says “please, for the love of everything, think before you speak.”

My mom claims the whole ordeal actually improved my social skills in the long run.

“Nothing teaches tact like complete humiliation,” she says. Thanks, Mom.

I’ve tried finding Jordan and Alice on social media to apologize, but no luck so far. So if you’re out there, Jordan, I’m sorry I implied my dad thought you looked like a rhino.

For what it’s worth, you really didn’t.

And to all the parents out there prepping their kids before social events – maybe just stick with “be polite” instead of giving them specific things NOT to say.

Trust me on this one.

I’ve been with my husband Felix for 11 years now, and I’ve always loved being part of his big family since I grew up as an only child.

Since we don’t have kids of our own, our nieces and nephew are basically our whole world.

Felix’s sister Savannah has four kids and they’ve been sharing a five-bedroom house with her parents who have serious health issues.

Savannah stays home handling most of the housework and taking care of the kids while her husband Paul works all day, then comes home and mostly just sits around. He’s gotten a bit better lately, but his habits have led to him gaining a lot of weight.

The kids, especially the older ones, have started copying him.

My father-in-law Jackson still works despite his health problems. He’s had two heart attacks and has 7 stents just in the time I’ve known him. My mother-in-law Aria has a laundry list of health issues – diabetes, lupus, congestive heart failure, plus mental health challenges including bipolar disorder, PTSD, and schizo-effective disorder.

She’s also a complete narcissist who never takes responsibility for anything.

When summer came around, we wanted to see each other after months of isolation, so we planned a socially distant cookout and bonfire. We were super careful – everything was in the backyard, nobody went inside the house, and I brought enough hand sanitizer to drown someone.

We took every possible precaution with the twelve of us that were there.

Aria took this get-together as a personal attack. She got angry because we had gone to the store to pick up pre-ordered food. She started ranting that we were trying to kill her and that anyone not wearing masks should be jailed or shot.

I’m totally pro-mask, but her extreme reaction was over the top. When I didn’t completely agree with her stance, she took it as a personal slight. I walked away to avoid saying something I’d regret, which only made her angrier.

Then she started attacking me personally.

I wanted to scream at her because I hadn’t been able to see my own parents for months since my mom has cancer and is high-risk. Being accused of not taking precautions when I was being incredibly careful really hurt.

So I told Felix I didn’t want to visit unless I knew Aria wouldn’t be there.

Fast forward to our niece’s birthday. The night before, they had another socially distanced bonfire that I chose to skip.

Aria decided to attack the entire family, including me even though I wasn’t there to defend myself. She threatened to leave Jackson and went off on all her children. Felix tried to walk away, but eventually blew up and said some things he shouldn’t have about how Aria treats Savannah.

Aria and Jackson frequently mention they think Savannah and Paul are terrible parents.

Savannah lost it! A huge fight erupted, and Aria announced she was moving out because she “had the money to do so.” Savannah just said, “Go ahead, no one is stopping you.” Aria immediately started telling anyone who would listen that her daughter was kicking her out and wanted her to get sick and die – which wasn’t true at all.

Savannah was just tired of the manipulative behavior.

Eventually, they sat down and seemed to work things out, despite Aria making a few comments to the grandkids like, “Your Mommy wants to kick Grammy out of the house.” We thought it was settled.

Then Felix and I were scrolling through social media and saw Aria had posted publicly on a thread about ungrateful people.

She wrote that her daughter was ungrateful, how she had “given up everything” to raise her grandkids, that Savannah was kicking her out with nowhere to go, and that Savannah refused to “protect her from sickness.”

Savannah saw the post, printed it out, and explained to her kids that this behavior wasn’t healthy and what their grandmother did wasn’t nice.

She taped the printout to the door with a note saying, “I’m protecting you now ” Then they packed up and left.

They’re staying at our house until they can find a place of their own, leaving Aria and Jackson to sit and think about what happened.

The whole situation is a mess, but honestly, I think Savannah finally reached her breaking point with Aria’s nonsense and manipulation.

Felix is torn between supporting his sister and trying to make peace with his mom. I’m firmly on Savannah’s side – there’s only so much toxic behavior anyone should have to put up with, even from family.

The kids are confused, but they seem to understand more than the adults give them credit for. The oldest actually told me yesterday, “Grammy says mean things about Mommy a lot. I don’t like it.”

Now we’re house-hunting with Savannah and Paul, trying to find them something affordable nearby.

My house isn’t really big enough for six extra people long-term, but we’re making it work. Jackson has called a few times, mostly to guilt-trip them into coming back, saying Aria is devastated and didn’t mean any harm.

But the screenshots of her social media rants tell a different story.

The ironic thing is that Aria keeps saying Savannah doesn’t protect her, but posting family drama publicly for everyone to see is about the least protective thing I can imagine.

Some things should stay private, you know?

I just hope they can work something out eventually that doesn’t involve living together. Some families just need a little more physical space between them to maintain healthy relationships. And sometimes, standing up for yourself means walking away – even when it’s hard.

I grew up in a small suburban town wedged between two major cities in Texas. When we moved in, the population was barely 4,000 people. The houses weren’t exactly on top of each other, but they were close enough that you could definitely hear your neighbor’s lawnmower on Saturday mornings.

My parents had three boys – me and my younger brothers Lucas and Ryan. All of us were under 7 at the time this all went down.

Our family dynamic was a bit unusual. Dad worked regular hours while Mom worked nights, which meant she slept during most of the day.

This arrangement basically left us boys to entertain ourselves with whatever mischief we could cook up. Spraying each other with the garden hose, climbing trees, collecting bugs – you name it, we probably did it.

Dad was big on weekend trips to the lake, which meant Friday afternoons were always a race against time.

He’d rush home from work and immediately start mowing the lawn before sunset. Our yard wasn’t huge, but the grass grew like crazy in that Texas heat and humidity. This was back when lawnmowers required some serious muscle to push around.

One particular Friday, Dad came home and started his usual routine.

About ten minutes in, he came storming through the front door, slamming it behind him and cursing up a storm. He paced around the kitchen, muttering under his breath, face all red and sweaty. We knew better than to ask what happened – we just watched from a distance as he cooled off.

After about half an hour, he went back out and finished mowing without saying another word about it.

As dusk settled, Mom called us in for dinner. We all washed our hands (Mom was super strict about that) and gathered around the table.

During our meal, Mom did her usual check-in with everyone. “What did you boys get up to today?” We rambled about our adventures with frogs and toy trucks, nothing special.

Then she turned to Dad. “How was work?” He gave some boring answer about meetings and paperwork.

Then she asked the question we were all curious about: “What happened earlier? I heard you come in pretty upset.”

Dad put down his fork and sighed. “It’s that neighbor, Valerie, with her giant poodle, Goliath.”

Valerie was an older lady who lived two houses down.

She mostly kept to herself, but her standard poodle was notorious in our neighborhood. This dog was enormous – even by Texas standards. He could clear Valerie’s five-foot fence like it was nothing.

“That dog has been using our front yard as his personal bathroom,” Dad continued.

“The grass was so tall that I couldn’t see the landmines until it was too late. Hit at least three of them with the mower.” He grimaced. “Sprayed all over the house front and both cars in the driveway.”

We boys tried to hold in our giggles but failed miserably.

The mental image of Dad covered in dog mess while fighting with the lawnmower was just too funny.

Dad noticed our laughter and pointed his fork at us. “Next time we find Goliath’s deposits in the front yard, I want you to make a delivery to Valerie’s doorstep.”

We exchanged glances.

Challenge accepted.

A few days later, Mom woke up from her afternoon nap to the sound of running water. Being the mother of three boys, this immediately triggered her suspicion. She got up and poked her head out the back patio door.

“Boys!

Why is the water running?” she called out.

“We’re just washing the dustpan, Mom!” we shouted back.

Still half-asleep, she mumbled, “Okay, thank you,” shook her head, and went back to bed.

That evening at dinner, Mom went through her usual questions about our day.

Then, almost as an afterthought, she asked, “By the way, why were you washing the dustpan earlier?”

We looked at each other, and since I was the oldest, I took the lead.

“Well,” I said matter-of-factly, “Dad told us that the next time we found Goliath’s poop in the front yard, we were supposed to take it over to Valerie’s and leave it on her doorstep.”

I shrugged.

“So that’s what we did. We just had to wash the dustpan afterward so we wouldn’t get in trouble for bringing poop into the house.”

The kitchen went completely silent. Mom and Dad froze, forks halfway to their mouths, staring at us like we’d just spoken in alien language.

For a moment, I thought we were in serious trouble.

Then they both burst out laughing. They laughed so hard that Mom had tears streaming down her face. They weren’t just amused at our boldness, but at the fact that we had followed Dad’s instructions to the absolute letter, without questioning if he was serious.

That dinner marked a turning point for our parents.

From then on, they became much more careful about what they said around us and how they said it. They realized that kids – especially boys like us – don’t always understand when adults are just blowing off steam.

The funny thing is, the very next day, Valerie came knocking at our door.

She apologized about Goliath’s bathroom habits and mentioned that her daughter Aria who lived out in the country had been asking her to move in with them. Within a week, Valerie and Goliath were gone, relocated to a place where a dog could do his business without upsetting the neighbors.

I’ve got three kids of my own now, and this story has become legendary in our family.

Whenever I’m frustrated and about to say something I might regret, I remember the Great Poop Delivery Incident and choose my words more carefully. Because if there’s one thing I learned that day, it’s that kids will absolutely take you at your word – even when you don’t mean it.

I still cringe when I think about the day I accidentally created the most awkward situation ever between my best friend Kiara and my mom.

We were sixteen at the time, and Kiara had just transferred to my high school.

She was this super quiet girl who barely spoke above a whisper. Everyone thought she was stuck up, but I could tell she was just painfully shy. After a few group projects together, we started hanging out, and I discovered she was actually hilarious once she got comfortable.

One Friday afternoon, Kiara came over to my place to help me study for our chemistry test.

We’d been cramming for hours, and our brains were basically fried. We were sprawled across my bedroom floor with textbooks and note cards scattered everywhere when we heard the front door open.

“Claire? Are you home?” My mom called out.

“Yeah, in my room with a friend!” I shouted back.

My mom appeared in the doorway a moment later.

She was still in her nurse scrubs, looking tired after her twelve-hour shift, but she still had that warm smile she always greeted my friends with.

“Oh, hello there,” she said to Kiara, who immediately sat up straight, looking nervous.

“Mom, this is Kiara.

She just moved here last month. Kiara, this is my mom.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Evans,” Kiara said, her voice barely audible.

“Please, call me Abigail,” my mom insisted. “Can I get you girls anything?

I was about to make some lemonade.”

Kiara shook her head quickly. “No, thank you,” she mumbled, looking at the floor.

I’d noticed this about Kiara before. She’d refuse anything offered to her because she didn’t want to impose.

Last week, she’d sat through our entire lunch period without eating because she’d forgotten her lunch money and refused to let me buy her anything.

“You don’t need to be so polite,” I told her.

“If you want something, just say so.”

What I meant was that she should feel comfortable in our house and not worry about being a burden. What I didn’t realize was that Kiara, who’d moved here from another state, interpreted regional expressions very differently.

She nodded, looked my mom straight in the eye, and said with sudden confidence, “Actually, no, go away.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

My jaw dropped. My mom’s eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline.

“Excuse me?” my mom said, looking between us.

Kiara immediately turned bright red, realizing something had gone terribly wrong. “I–I thought that’s what Claire meant by not being polite,” she stammered.

“Where I’m from, when someone says ‘don’t be polite,’ they mean ‘be honest’ and I honestly didn’t want anything to drink and didn’t want to trouble you…”

I burst out laughing.

I couldn’t help it. The look of horror on Kiara’s face, combined with my mom’s complete shock, was too much.

“Mom, I swear I didn’t tell her to be rude to you!” I managed between laughs.

“I just meant she should ask for a drink if she actually wanted one!”

My mom’s shocked expression slowly melted into amusement as she understood what had happened. “Well, that’s certainly a new way to decline refreshments,” she said dryly.

Kiara looked like she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

“I’m so, so sorry, Mrs. Evans. We have this saying back home that–I didn’t mean–oh no.”

To everyone’s surprise, my mom started laughing too. “Don’t worry about it, honey.

After dealing with demanding patients all day, it’s actually refreshing to have someone tell me straight up they don’t need anything.”

Kiara didn’t believe she was off the hook that easily. The next day, she showed up at our door with a homemade apology cake with “I’m Sorry I Told You To Go Away” written in frosting.

My mom thought it was the funniest thing ever and took a picture to show all her coworkers.

From that day on, it became an inside joke. Whenever my mom offered Kiara anything, she’d add, “Feel free to tell me to go away again if you’d prefer.”

By senior year, Kiara was so comfortable at our house that sometimes she’d show up when I wasn’t even home, just to hang out with my mom and bake cookies.

Ten years later, Kiara was the maid of honor at my wedding.

During her speech, she told the entire story to a room of two hundred guests. “Claire taught me the most important lesson about friendship that day,” she concluded. “Real friends don’t need you to be polite–they just need you to be yourself.

Even if being yourself sometimes means accidentally telling their mother to go away.”

Everyone laughed, but I caught my mom wiping away a tear. Later she told me, “You know, if Kiara had been polite that day, she might never have become part of our family.”

Sometimes the most embarrassing moments lead to the best friendships.

And sometimes telling someone to go away is actually the beginning of them staying in your life forever.

So my younger brother Thomas just started his first job at this pizza place downtown, and he’s already got stories. He’s only been there three days and already had to deal with the customer from hell.

Thomas was getting trained by this awesome team – Valentina, Yasmin, and Savannah – all super chill and patient with him as he learned the ropes.

The place was packed on Wednesday, typical lunch rush, when this lady walks in with her designer purse and that “I need to speak to a manager” energy. Surprisingly, she seemed normal at first – ordered a large pepperoni and some wings, even left a couple bucks in the tip jar.

Fast forward maybe 45 minutes, and the store phone rings.

Thomas picks up, and guess who it is? Same lady, now claiming her pizza was “completely raw in the middle and drowning in grease.” She demanded they make her a new one AND deliver it to her house for free.

Mind you, she had picked up the original order herself, and this place charges like $5 for delivery.

Thomas, being new and unsure what to do, waves Savannah over while keeping the lady on hold. Savannah listens for a second and tells him, “We’ll remake it, but she needs to come back and get it herself.”

When Thomas gets back on the phone and explains this, the lady goes, “Fine.

I’ll come there and I’ll make a scene.” Like, who even says that? Who threatens to make a scene?

Savannah overheard this and immediately trashed the pizza she was about to put in the oven.

“I’m not making anything for someone who talks to us like that,” she said. Valentina, the shift leader, walked by and asked what happened, so Thomas filled her in. Valentina just rolled her eyes like this wasn’t her first rodeo.

About an hour later, the door flies open, and there she is, stomping toward the counter with her pizza box in hand, looking even more annoyed than before.

Thomas greets her with a simple, “How can I help you?”

“I’m here for my replacement pizza,” she snaps.

Valentina steps in. “Are you the woman who called earlier?”

“Yes! Look at THIS!” She dramatically opens the box to reveal… a half-eaten pizza that honestly looked perfectly fine.

Valentina crosses her arms.

“Did you threaten my employee?”

The lady’s eyes go wide. “Absolutely not! I would never!”

“That’s not what I heard,” Valentina says calmly.

The lady changes her story: “I simply said the pizza wasn’t cooked properly and asked for a new one.”

Thomas shakes his head.

“That’s not exactly how the conversation went, ma’am.”

Now caught in her lie, she changes tactics: “I wasn’t even the one who called!”

Yasmin pulls Thomas aside while Valentina handles the situation and whispers, “Just watch this go down.”

The lady’s final desperate plea: “My children are WAITING in the car!

They’re hungry! This is terrible customer service!”

Valentina finally says they’ll remake the pizza just to end the situation. But here’s where it gets good.

Since the lady complained it was undercooked, they made sure the crust was extra crispy – like, borderline burnt.

She had complained about too much seasoning, so they left it completely plain. No garlic butter, no nothing. Just sauce, cheese, and pepperoni on a burnt crust.

When they handed her the box, Thomas says she opened it right there, looked at the sad excuse for a pizza, then up at the four employees standing together with “we’re not taking your nonsense” expressions, and just stormed out without another word.

Apparently she called corporate to complain, but Thomas’s manager told him not to worry.

They have notes in their system about what really happened, plus they’ve had problems with this lady before. The kicker? She didn’t even bring back the wings she claimed were also “inedible” – guess those were magically fine.

Thomas told me after his shift that he was nervous about how to handle it, but seeing his coworkers stand up for each other instead of just giving in to an unreasonable customer made him feel good about where he’s working.

Sometimes people just need to learn they can’t treat service workers like dirt and get away with it.

I told him to keep a journal of these stories because three days in and he’s already got gold.

Can’t wait to hear what happens next week.

So this whole mess started about a year ago when I was working at this small cafe. It was part of a chain, but our location had this cozy neighborhood vibe that made it special.

We had tons of regulars who came in at the same times, ordered the same food, and talked about the same things every visit.

I’m not exaggerating when I say I knew everyone’s name within my first week.

I was honestly crushing it as a server – I moved fast, stayed organized, and kept my cool even during the lunch rush when we were packed wall-to-wall. But what made me really good at my job? I genuinely liked people.

I’d chat with customers whenever I had a spare minute, remember details about their lives, laugh at their jokes (even the bad ones).

Even on hectic days, I made sure to add a personal touch with each table – a quick comment about someone’s new haircut or asking about their kid’s soccer tournament.

Not trying to brag, but I seriously loved my job and connecting with the people who came in.

My manager, Andrew, never seemed to like me much from day one, though. I couldn’t figure out why since the customers loved me and I worked my butt off.

Then one afternoon, he asked me to ‘have a chat’ in the back office.

My stomach immediately dropped. I thought for sure I was getting fired, which made zero sense since we all knew I was one of his best servers.

He must have seen the panic on my face because he quickly said, ‘Relax, Madeline. I just want to discuss some aspects of your work routine.’

Then he hit me with it: apparently, I was being ‘too nice’ to customers.

Yeah, you read that right. TOO NICE.

‘You’re making customers uncomfortable with your friendliness,’ Andrew told me with this straight face. I was completely shocked. I’m actually pretty shy by nature and super careful about reading people’s cues.

If someone seems like they want space, I back off right away. The last thing I’d ever want is to make someone uncomfortable.

He also claimed my ‘excessive chatting’ was wasting time I could spend polishing silverware or stacking glasses.

I mean, I get where he’s coming from as a manager watching the bottom line, but come on! Being personable is literally part of the job. People don’t just come for the food – they come for the experience.

So, fine.

If Andrew wanted a robot instead of a human server, that’s exactly what he’d get.

The very next shift, I completely transformed. No more friendly conversations. No remembering personal details. No laughing at jokes. I became this emotionless server-bot who did nothing beyond the absolute minimum required.

‘Would you like more coffee?’ ‘Here’s your check.’ That was the extent of my interaction.

And wow, did it backfire on Andrew FAST.

Before his little ‘chat,’ I consistently pulled in the highest tips of any server – around 15% when the average in our area is 10%.

The other servers typically got less because, honestly, they were just okay at their jobs. Nothing special.

Within two weeks of my personality transplant, our average tip percentage during my shifts plummeted from around 12.5% to a pathetic 9%. That’s a massive drop that hit everyone’s pockets, including Andrew’s bonus metrics.

What’s worse, the regulars noticed immediately.

Hannah, this sweet older lady who came in every Thursday like clockwork, cornered me by the coffee station on day three of Robot Madeline.

‘What’s happened to you, dear?’ she asked, genuine concern in her eyes.

‘You’re not yourself.’

I didn’t see any reason to lie. ‘Andrew says chatting with customers is a waste of time. I’m really sorry, but I need to keep this job.’

Oh man, Hannah went BALLISTIC.

She marched right up to Andrew while he was doing paperwork at the counter and let him have it. ‘You’re a complete fool,’ she told him loud enough for the whole cafe to hear. ‘You wouldn’t know a good server if she served you breakfast in bed!

You’re crushing this poor girl’s spirit!’

She wasn’t the only one. Beatrice and Elizabeth, these two retired teachers who came in for lunch three times a week, started leaving notes on their receipts about missing ‘the real Madeline.’ Ian, this businessman who used to stop by every morning, actually asked Andrew directly if something was wrong with the cafe’s management because the atmosphere had changed.

Andrew tried to brush it off at first, but after a month of declining tips and customer complaints, he called me into his office again.

This time he was all, ‘Perhaps I was too harsh in my assessment of your customer interaction style.’

But by then, I’d already lined up another job at a different cafe down the street. The owner there, Leonardo, had noticed me when he came in for coffee and offered me a position on the spot after seeing how I handled a particularly difficult customer.

I gave my two weeks’ notice the same day Andrew tried to walk back his criticism.

The look on his face was priceless – like he’d just realized he’d shot himself in the foot.

My new job at Leonardo’s place was everything I wanted. He actually appreciated my people skills and encouraged us to build relationships with customers.

I was only there about eight months before circumstances forced them to close, but I never regretted making the switch, not for a single day.

The best part? About half of my regular customers from Andrew’s cafe started coming to Leonardo’s place instead.

Hannah, Beatrice, and Elizabeth became our most loyal customers, and they never missed a chance to remind me how much better off I was.

Sometimes I wonder if Andrew ever figured out that being ‘too nice’ wasn’t actually a problem at all.

But honestly? I’m too busy being my friendly self at my new job to care.

Last year, my wife Sara and I took a big leap and opened our own hardware store together. We’d been talking about it for years, and when a retail space opened up in our neighborhood, we jumped on it.

Sara has always been better with people than me, so we agreed she’d run the day-to-day operations as the Owner while I handled the backend stuff as the Operations Manager.

I usually come in around noon after handling supplier calls from home in the mornings.

Sara opens the store and runs the show until closing time. The arrangement works perfectly for us–she’s amazing with customers and has a better eye for inventory than I ever could.

This past Tuesday started like any other day.

I was heading into the store around my usual time when I noticed this older guy sitting in a pickup truck in our parking lot. He seemed to be staring at the entrance, looking all annoyed and checking his watch every few minutes.

Whatever, not my problem.

I walked in through the front door, and Sara gave me our usual greeting from behind the counter. “Hey, Patrick! The new shipment of power tools came in. Would you mind checking the invoice?”

Before I could answer, the guy from the parking lot basically burst in behind me.

His face was all red, and he had this look like he’d been waiting forever for something. He immediately ignored Sara and made a beeline straight for me.

“Are you the manager?” he demanded, not even bothering with a hello.

“I’m the Operations Manager, yes,” I replied, a bit taken aback by his tone.

“What can I help you with?”

He launched into this complicated question about some specific brand of industrial-grade sealant and whether it would work for his particular project. I’m okay with the technical side of our inventory, but Sara is actually the expert on all our products.

She handles the ordering and knows each item inside and out.

“Hmm,” I said, genuinely stumped. “I’m not 100% sure about that application. Let me ask my wife, she’d know better than I would.”

The guy’s face turned even redder.

“I already asked your *employee* when I came in earlier, and she clearly doesn’t know what she’s talking about! That’s why I asked for the manager, and now you’re telling me you don’t know either?

This is ridiculous. I WANT TO SPEAK TO THE OWNER RIGHT NOW!”

I couldn’t help but smile a little. I turned to Sara, who was already looking our way with that patient expression she gets when dealing with difficult customers.

“Well sir, looks like you want to talk to my wife again.”

“Your wife?” He looked confused for a second, then let out this dismissive laugh. “Come on, a woman can’t own a hardware store!

Who’s really in charge here?”

Sara stepped forward with her professional smile firmly in place. “As my husband mentioned, I am the owner, sir. My name is Sara Mitchell, and I’ve been in the hardware business for fifteen years.”

The guy looked between us like we were playing some kind of joke on him.

“No, no. There’s gotta be someone else. The real boss.”

I pulled one of Sara’s business cards from the holder on the counter and handed it to him. Right there in bold letters: “Sara Mitchell, Owner.”

“If you’d like to verify, you can look us up on the state business registry,” I added.

“Mitchell Hardware, LLC. Sole owner: Sara Mitchell.”

He stared at the card for what felt like forever. The mental gymnastics playing across his face were honestly worth the whole interaction. Finally, he mumbled something that might have been an apology–hard to tell–and turned back to Sara.

“So about that sealant…” he started again, his tone completely different now.

Sara, being the incredible professional she is, didn’t even mention his earlier behavior.

She launched into a detailed explanation of different sealant options, recommended the best one for his specific project, and even suggested some application techniques that would give him better results.

By the end of their conversation, this guy who’d been so dismissive was nodding along, asking follow-up questions, and actually listening.

He ended up buying not just the sealant but also a bunch of other supplies Sara recommended. As he was checking out, I overheard him say, “You really know your stuff.”

“Yes, she does,” I chimed in from across the store where I was unpacking inventory.

“That’s why she’s the owner.”

He left with his purchases, looking a bit sheepish. As soon as the door closed behind him, Sara and I locked eyes and burst out laughing.

“Operation Manager?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I thought we agreed on ‘Mangler.'”

“Didn’t want to confuse the poor guy any more than he already was,” I replied.

Later that afternoon, the same customer returned with donuts for the whole staff (just us and our two part-timers) and specifically apologized to Sara.

He’s actually become a regular now, and always asks for her by name when he comes in with questions. I guess sometimes people can surprise you after all.

Running a business with your spouse isn’t always easy, but moments like these make it all worth it.

Sara doesn’t just put up with the nonsense–she turns it around with grace and competence every single time. I couldn’t be prouder to be her “Mangler.”

I never thought I’d end up working at a thrift shop after college, but here I am three years later, still sorting through other people’s discarded treasures for minimum wage plus commission.

The only thing that makes this job bearable is my boss, Nora.

Nora’s this tiny redhead with the energy of a tornado. She’s barely 5’2″ but somehow manages to lift furniture twice her size. Meanwhile, I’m also on the smaller side but without her supernatural strength.

We make a decent team though – she does the heavy lifting, I handle the customer service.

Last Tuesday, we got a huge donation of vintage books and needed to set up some additional shelving in the back room. The shelves we have are these ancient metal monstrosities from the 80s that require an engineering degree and the patience of a saint to assemble.

“Aisha, can you help me with these?” Nora called from the storage room, already dragging pieces across the floor.

“Coming!” I shouted back, abandoning the jewelry display I’d been organizing.

When I got there, Nora had already laid out all the pieces like some kind of medieval torture device exhibition.

“These instructions might as well be written in hieroglyphics,” she muttered, squinting at a faded piece of paper.

“Let me see,” I said, taking the paper.

“Okay, so we need to attach these side panels first, then add the cross beams, then the shelf supports…”

Three hours and several near-death experiences later, we had managed to assemble most of the unit. The metal frames were these thin, perforated strips with hundreds of tiny holes for adjustable shelf heights.

The edges were sharp enough to qualify as weapons in some countries.

“Hold this side steady while I get this last shelf support in,” Nora instructed, her face red with exertion.

I grabbed my side while she held hers, and we tried to line everything up.

The metal was fighting us every step of the way.

“A little higher on your end,” she grunted.

I lifted, my arms shaking from holding this position for so long.

“Just… a little… more…” Nora was practically growling now, her fingers white from gripping the metal so tightly.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I managed to snap the support into place.

“Got it!” I gasped.

Nora let go of her side and stepped back, both of us panting like we’d just run a marathon.

She raised her hands to wipe sweat from her forehead when she suddenly noticed the pattern of small circular indentations all over her palms from the shelf’s perforations.

“Oh, screw me!” she exclaimed, staring at her hands in disgust.

Now, I should mention that I have an awful, inappropriate sense of humor that kicks in at the worst possible moments.

Without thinking, I sauntered over to her with an exaggerated swagger, gently ran my fingers up her arm and said in my best attempt at a seductive voice, “Well, if you insist, boss…”

Nora whirled around, eyes wide, and slapped my hand away.

“What the actual heck, Aisha?”

I immediately froze, realizing what I’d done. This was my BOSS. My very professional, usually serious boss. I’d just crossed about seventeen workplace boundaries in three seconds.

“I’m so sorry!” I stammered, backing away.

“You said ‘screw me’ and I just… my brain just… it was a joke! A really stupid, inappropriate joke!”

For one horrifying moment, Nora just stared at me, and I was mentally calculating how long my unemployment would last and whether I could move back in with my parents.

Then, to my eternal relief, her lips twitched.

And then she snorted. And then she burst into full-on laughter.

“Your FACE!” she wheezed. “You looked like you were about to pass out!”

“I thought you were going to fire me on the spot!” I admitted, starting to laugh too.

“For what?

The world’s most awkward attempt at seduction?” She doubled over, holding her stomach.

“Hey! I’ll have you know that move works great at bars!” I protested, which only made her laugh harder.

“Sure it does,” she gasped, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Next you’ll tell me you use pickup lines about checking price tags to see if they’re made in heaven.”

“Only on special occasions,” I shot back, and we both lost it again.

We ended up laughing so hard we had to sit on the floor, surrounded by shelf parts and tools, completely ignoring the half-finished shelving unit.

Every time one of us started to calm down, we’d make eye contact and start up again.

“These are very mixed signals, Nora,” I said in a serious tone, mimicking my earlier comment, which set us off again.

Finally, when we could breathe again, Nora stood up and offered me a hand.

“Come on, Casanova. Let’s finish this shelf before closing time.”

It took us another hour, but we got the whole thing assembled. Every time one of us would say something that could be remotely interpreted as suggestive – “push it in harder” or “it won’t fit” – we’d exchange glances and start giggling again.

The next morning when I came into work, I found a small gift bag on my register with a note that said, “For my favorite inappropriate employee.” Inside was a pair of work gloves with “NO MEANS NO” written across the knuckles in permanent marker.

I wore them proudly for the rest of the week, especially when we had to assemble three more shelving units for the holiday inventory.

Two years later, we still bring it up occasionally, usually when one of us is having a rough day.

Nora will dramatically clutch her heart and whisper “Oh, screw me!” and I’ll wiggle my eyebrows suggestively from across the store.

Who knew that almost harassing your boss could turn into an inside joke instead of a lawsuit?

Not that I recommend trying it. I got lucky that Nora has a sense of humor and didn’t immediately call HR. But it’s become one of those workplace stories that defines our weird but wonderful working relationship.

My first job was at SuperMart, one of those massive stores that sell everything from groceries to garden hoses. I started as a regular stocker but eventually got moved to what they called the “Sorting Department.” Basically, I had to go through these huge boxes of loose items – stuff like vitamins, shampoo, dog toys – things whose packaging broke in the warehouse or were too small to ship separately. My job was to sort them into labeled tubs by department, load them onto carts or pallets, and take them out to the sales floor.

The management at this place was a complete disaster. I could write a book about all the times they showed zero concern for employees or customers. There was this one time they told me to put a ruined pack of protein powder on the sales floor. The box was torn open, half the packets were missing, and the rest were soaking wet with blue fabric dye that had leaked from a broken bottle. When I said I was going to send it to claims (for damaged merchandise), my supervisor Sabrina actually said, “We need to prioritize store profits over everything else.” Can you believe that? I waited until she walked away, took that disgusting box straight to the trash compactor, and crushed it myself.

I’d already found another job and put in my notice – only three days because the new position wanted me to start right away. On my very last day, I was already pushing overtime. I’d been scheduled to leave at 5 PM, but it was already 7:30, and I was completely wiped out. I still had to be at my new job by 6 AM the next morning.

That’s when Sabrina and her boss Emily showed up with seven – SEVEN – shopping carts overflowing with customer returns that needed processing. We’re talking mountains of random stuff that had to be sorted, categorized, and taken to the correct departments.

I asked if maybe someone else could handle them tomorrow since I was already way past my shift and exhausted. Emily looked at me with that condescending smirk she always had and said, “No, these returns must be on pallets and on the sales floor before you leave.”

Something in me just snapped. I nodded and said, “You got it.” As soon as they walked away, I grabbed seven empty pallets from the back. For four of the shopping carts, I just pushed the entire cart onto a pallet, not removing a single item. ... Click here to continue reading