People Tell Their Act Of Revenge That Complied With The Rules
16. I'm Annoying You? Good Luck Passing This Class
“So, the middle school I went to was a bit… non-traditional. It was a private school, meaning it wasn’t exactly constrained by the same rules as a public one, and so it got away with doing things quite a bit different than what most schools (at least to my knowledge) did at that age.
One of the biggest things in this area was our Science Fair Project.
This project wasn’t just the classic baking soda volcano crap, oh no, this was more equivalent to a freaking capstone project.
Think I’m kidding? We were given the whole year to work on it, (some kids had known about it beforehand and had been working for longer), and it was worth, I kid you not, a good 85% of our Science grade for the entire year.
There were kids who legit didn’t do anything in science class because they knew that it was the project, not the class, that mattered. And it was competitive, too. Every project would be judged, and if you did well at the school fair, you’d get sent to a regional fair, and if you did well there, you’d get sent to the statewide fair, which was a big deal.
Now, given how gigantically huge this project was, we were supposed to do it in partners at the very least, though the teacher actually recommended working in large groups of up to 5 people, just because of how much work this project entailed. You probably already know where this is going, but before I get to the action of it there are a few things you need to understand, because I want you all to know that what I did wasn’t just out of nowhere, it was the result of a cumulation of bullcrap.
So, ever since I was old enough to actually display a personality beyond screaming flesh gremlin, I’ve been noticeably, to use a term I kind of hate, “quirky.”
There were things that were just a bit out of place when I was a toddler, things like seemingly inexplicable tantrums and overly aggressive behavior at times, but nothing that couldn’t be chalked up to just “kids being kids,” with the assumption that I’d grow out of it.
Well, I didn’t. While I had indeed grown out of the actual tantrum part, the underlying problem was still there, only becoming more and more obvious as I got older. I got upset over things that seemed pointless to other people. I didn’t understand jokes or sarcasm very well.
Other kids said I was “creepy” because I wouldn’t look them in the eyes and was generally pretty quiet and robotic for an 8-year-old, and I often blurted out some pretty weird and upsetting stuff with no real warning, unable to “read the mood” and know that it was inappropriate.
We found out later that, much to the surprise of absolutely no one who actually knew me, I am autistic.
However, this wasn’t officially diagnosed until I was in my sophomore year of high school, likely due to the fact that I am both high-functioning and a girl (for some reason this stuff doesn’t get noticed as often in girls?), so up until then I was just that weird, hyper-dense kid that nobody really knew what to make of.
At best, I was entertaining. There were often other kids who seemed to find my social disconnect to be ‘cute’, much in the way that a duckling with a limp is ‘cute’, and kept me around as a sort of mascot, a funny little oddity for them to enjoy.
At worst… well, you know how it goes. Nothing ever got physical or anything like that, quite possibly because I hit puberty at a pretty young age and was, therefore, a fair bit bigger than most of my peers, and had a known record for getting violent when pushed (a story for a different day), but they were terrible all the same.
As I mentioned before, a lot of things that seem inconsequential to other people really, really bother me, and that’s what these kids tended to capitalize on. They’d stand uncomfortably close to me and/or bump into me constantly, knowing full well that I hated being touched.
They’d move my stuff and sit in my area knowing how territorial I was. They’d purposefully chew extra loudly and smack their lips knowing I hate the sound. You get the idea. All really petty stuff that they couldn’t really get in trouble for, and that I would get mocked for complaining about because it was ‘your own fault for being so sensitive!’
Well, fast forward back to the early fall of 7th grade, and my science teacher says we should partner up for our projects.
I was doing my thing of sitting there in stone-cold silence because no way in heck am I actually going to ask someone (way too awkward), when this girl, who I’ll call Katie walks up to me and basically announces that we’re going to be partners.
Doesn’t ask, mind you, just sort of declares it.
Now, Katie was one of the people who took the most pleasure in messing with me. She went the extra goddam mile to get up in my personal space, blow down the back of my neck, touch my stuff, etc., and then laugh when I got upset.
So you may be wondering, why would she want to partner up with someone she so clearly disliked?
Exploitation, of course. On top of being a general freakazoid, I was also pretty darn book smart, making me the perfect person to use for this type of project.
Deep down, I knew that’s what she was doing, but I wanted so desperately to be liked that I went along with it and didn’t protest the partnership at all.
I emailed her that night asking politely about some pretty basic questions. What was our subject gonna be, how were we gonna divide up the work, etc., and I get no response.
She ignores me in class, and I’m too shy to push it in person, so I keep emailing her until finally, after about 4 days, I get a response.
It was a short reply, something to the effect of ‘Oh my god, you’re being so annoying! Would you just shut up and leave me alone already?? Jeez!’
It wasn’t as though I’d been expecting otherwise, but still, it hurt.
Except for this time, I’d finally had enough. This witch wanted me to leave her alone? My pleasure.
I tell my science teacher, Mrs. G, the next day that Katie and I were no longer partners, and that I’d be doing the project on my own.
She tried to talk me out of it, saying that this was a ridiculous amount of work for one person to do all by themselves, but I told her I wanted to work alone, so she let me.
I told Katie about none of this.
Over the next several months, I went hard on this project.
I ended up choosing to study behavioral science, specifically choosing to experiment on learning effectiveness in various environments. I went out and got rats to use in my experiment (don’t worry, I loved those little suckers and they were not at all harmed), I researched daily, I taught myself standard deviation and basic statistics, the works.
I ended up writing a 32-page paper on the topic, along with creating a big old three-sided presentation board with my graphs from each individual experiment displayed proudly on the surface. This whole time, I didn’t say a single word to Katie.
Well, the day before the science fair, Katie walks up to me, super casual, and asks, ‘Hey so how’s our project coming along?’
I pretend to look surprised.
‘Our project? What do you mean?’
She looks at me like I’m stupid.
‘Uh, our science fair project? You know, the one due tomorrow that’s worth, like, our entire grade in the class?’ She said it with the same speed and intonation that one would use when talking to a toddler.
‘No, I know about the project,’ I said, blandly. ‘I was just wondering what you meant by ‘our’ project. We aren’t working together.’
Getting angry, she replied: ‘Uh, yes we are! I told you on the first day, remember? We’re partners!’
‘Yeah, and then you told me to leave you alone, and never said anything about the project, so I assumed you didn’t want to work together anymore.
I told Mrs. G and she said it was okay for me to work by myself, so I did,’ I replied. Her face goes white, then red.
‘What?!’ She barks. ‘You mean you bailed on me??? How could you?!?’
‘You said you didn’t want to be partners.’
‘I NEVER SAID THAT YOU DUMB JERK!!’
G snapped. ‘We don’t use that kind of language in here, especially not directed at our fellow students!’
Katie was about to keep talking when the bell rang, and I dashed out. She would’ve followed me, had Mrs. G not pulled her aside, presumably to discipline her.
The Science Fair comes around the next day and I pull up proudly with my stuff, ready to roll. I slap my monster of a paper down on a very proud-looking Mrs. G’s desk, and set up my table in the cafeteria, getting ready for the judges to start making their rounds.
I’m in the middle of trying to get my stupid posterboard to stop falling over when Katie storms up to me.
I don’t remember what exactly she said, as I was full-on ignoring her, but it was a lot of insults and threats and the like, as well as multiple demands that she be allowed to take credit for the project as well because she “never actually ended the partnership”.
I basically just laughed in her face.
She goes away when the judges come through, probably because she knew how suspicious it’d look if she actually got caught arguing with me like this, and I’m given gold by the judges, who seem very impressed by my project.
A gold means I get to move on to regionals.
Naturally, Katie tries to circumvent me and take credit for it anyway by just going to Mrs. G, claiming that, ‘Oh haha OP just forgot to put my name on it too while she was editing’ but Mrs.
G was having none of it. She very clearly told Katie that I had approached her months ago asking to work solo, to which Katie argued that I hadn’t told her I’d be doing that (she dropped that first lie so quickly lol) so it ‘wasn’t fair!’ Again, Mrs.
G just coldly replied that essentially, it was Katie’s own fault for not bothering to check in, as well as adding that if she seriously hadn’t known, that indicated she’d been planning on just making me do it all and claiming credit anyway, which obviously wasn’t allowed.
Temporarily defeated, Katie slunk away. She made sure to amp up the making my life heck thing, but I found I didn’t care as much because she was just being petty and desperate, and it was actually kinda fun to watch her be so upset.
I won gold at regionals, then went on to state where, holy crap, I won gold again.
I tell you this not to flex (okay maybe a little bit to flex) but to highlight just how much work I put into this crap, as well as just how infuriated Katie must’ve been with all this.
When our project grades come out is when crap really hits the fan. I got like, 99.8% with that 0.2% taken off for a stupid error on the axis labels of one of my graphs or something similar.
Katie got a big fat 0.
Pretty much the day after these grades came out, I get called to the office.
There, waiting for me alongside the principal, are Katie, her furious-looking mother, and an exasperated Mrs. G. From the moment I walk in, both Katie and her mom glare at me as if I’ve just murdered their firstborn and they were intending to return the favor.
I sit and am told a remarkable tale.
Apparently, Katie had switched tactics from her earlier ‘forgot to include my name’ lie, and was now trying to claim that she’d done all of the work, only to have me swoop in and put my name on it, then cut her out completely.
She had crocodile tears running down her face and everything. Her mother rubbed her back comfortingly, trying to burn holes in my skull with her eyes, and Mrs. G looked ready to slap her.
Naturally, I explained my side of the story, with Mrs. G backing me up and vouching for the fact that I’d said I was working alone months ago.
Of course, this wasn’t enough. Katie’s mom then tried to argue that I had unfairly kicked Katie from the partnership and that I should be punished for it, even going so far as to suggest that I should be, I kid you not, expelled for ‘sabotaging’ Katie by refusing to work with her.
I calmly replied that actually, Katie had been the one to cut ties with me, and I had just been doing what I thought she wanted.
She called me a liar, of course, so I pulled out my school laptop and showed her the multiple emails I’d sent asking Katie about the project, as well as the email Katie sent back telling me to ‘shut up and leave her alone already.’
After a moment, Katie tries to recover, claiming that she’d just been mad I was ’emailing her constantly!!!’ and that she hadn’t actually said she wanted to stop being partners, but she didn’t really have a leg to stand on here.
She failed the class, and I take no shame in admitting that watching her cry her eyes out at the end of the year over it gave me a truly euphoric sense of happiness.”
15. Pick Up The Phone? It'll Go Straight On Hold
But you can’t say the phone was never picked up.
“Background: Part of my job involves taking calls from the public to offer various types of support, this can range from tech support to helping people find services in our county that they need. My ‘team’ is me and one other person, between us we have to cover 07:30 – 19:30 Mon-Fri and weekends as well.
Because of this, and the fact that the company won’t invest in call waiting for us, we can only take one call at a time.
Our voicemail quite clearly states that we’re a small team but if you leave your name and number we aim to get back to you within 5 minutes.
Normally people are rather understanding of our situation and are happy to wait for us to call them back but, as the world is full of impatient jerks, we often get voicemails just criticizing us.
Now, this happened today and I’ve been wanting to react this way for a long time and finally got the opportunity to!
Jerk Caller: (Voicemail) This is freaking ridiculous, I was told to call this number but what’s the point in telling people to call if there’s nobody to answer the phone!?
-Jerk Caller calls again-
Me: ‘Hello you’re through to -company name- OP speaking, how can I help?’
Jerk Caller: ‘Oh, so now you answer the phone.
What is the point of having a number if you never answer it!?’
Me: ‘Ah, did you leave us a voicemail? I’ve just listened to it but unfortunately, you didn’t leave any contact details so I was unable to return your call. Thank you for calling back, how can I help?’
Jerk Caller: ‘You should answer every call that comes through!!’
Me: ‘Well, unfortunately, there are only two people in my team, including myself and there tends to only be one of us in at a time so if I answered every call I’d end up having to keep putting people on hold and that really doesn’t seem fair.
Regardless though, you’re through at the moment and I’m happy to help you however I can.’
Jerk Caller: ‘You can help me by doing your job and answering the phone when it rings!’
At this point, I’m like, forget you lady. So sod it, I’ll comply.
Me: ‘Ok, sure.
I’m sorry that I’ve annoyed you, I’ll make sure to answer the phone whenever it rings. Now, how can I help?’
-Jerk Caller starts to describe her problem-
Me: ‘Oh, I’m sorry, the phone is ringing. I’ll have to place you on hold.’
Jerk Caller: Wai…
I then help the person calling, taking my sweet, sweet time.
Like going above and beyond just to keep this other jerk waiting… plus, y’know it’s nice to help people.
-Take Jerk Caller off hold-
Me: ‘Thanks for your patience, now you were saying?’
Jerk Caller: ‘How dare you put me on hold, especi…’
Me: ‘Oh, I’m sorry, the phone is ringing. I’ll have to place you on hold.’
You can see where this goes. I think I managed to keep this going for about 15/20 minutes before she hung up and I’m in for the next 10 hours…. god I hope she calls back.”
14. Refuse To Believe That My Wash Won't Damage Your Car? We'll See What Happens
Pray to the car gods.
“Concrete mixers are big, ungainly things.
Trying to maneuver them around a crowded job site is like trying to play miniature golf with a tennis ball. The biggest problem is, of course, other people, specifically other people’s cars. Nobody is going to lug 50 pounds of tools any further than they have to, so if there is an open space near where they want to be, they park there, never mind that it is right next to a sidewalk or directly across from a driveway that a crew is obviously prepping.
It only makes things worse when it’s done by people who should know better (and done intentionally).
So, we’re pumping grout walls in the late afternoon, which already has me in a bit of a mood.
Grout jobs tend to be very slow. Each cinder block has two cells, and the crew pumps the grout into those cells filling them all the way to the top of the wall.
Grout is really just a term for a weak concrete mix that is pumped super wet. It has to be that wet to make it all the way to the bottom of the wall, otherwise, it sticks to the sides of the cinder blocks (or gets caught up on steel reinforcement).
There is a lot of stopping and starting, as well as a lot of moving the pump. It all takes time, during which that concrete starts to go off and stiffen up.
Things only get worse on a hot day, and the subs will do anything to get more water in the load (addicts looking for a fix have nothing on grout pumpers eyeballing your last 20 gallons).
As we move to a new street, we find a line of cars parked all along the side of the street we are working on, just far enough apart to take up as much space as possible without leaving enough room to get the pump in there.
Turns out it is another concrete crew setting up to do patios. No problem, we’re all concrete guys here, and they know how it is. We ask them to move.
That I am writing this post tells you what their response was. It turns out they are waiting for their own pump and mixer to show up, and they intentionally blocked the street because they don’t want us to be in their way.
Their crew chief tells us we can wait for them to finish and move on, or we can just work around them.
It’s pretty obvious he expects us to wait.
Waiting is, of course, going to make the concrete go off even more and will rack up standby charges for the customer, but trying to work around their cars is going to mean blocking the street and rolling up the hose every time we move (normally the crew just drags/carries it down the sidewalk, but we can’t do that with the cars in the way).
It would take much longer; depending on when their pump shows up, it might not even save us any time. Still, Todd the pumper rolls his pump right up next to the lead car and feeds his hose out around it.
At the best of times, a concrete pump farts and sputters like a nervous chihuahua, flinging small globs of concrete out of the hopper.
If the driver isn’t paying attention and accidentally lets the concrete level get too low, the pump sucks in air. Feeding a concrete pump air is like feeding a hippopotamus Olestra; stuff’s not pretty, and it gets everywhere. We probably end up moving that pump twice as many times as we have to, but it ensures that every single one of those cars gets to spend some quality time next to the hopper.
We finish with the job and are washing out the pump when the crew chief (whose own concrete and pump still haven’t shown up yet) storms over to complain about all the concrete splatter on their cars. I point out that we told them we’d be pumping there and asked them to move, but they refused.
At this point, he sees that I have a truck wash bucket strapped to my water tank and demands I let him use it to clean off his car.
I tell him that is a terrible idea, smoking lounge on the Hindenburg levels of terrible. The stuff we use is designed to dissolve dried concrete, and it will probably damage his car.
The concrete is fresh enough that he can probably just rinse it off with water. He isn’t having it. He tells me to stop lying because if it doesn’t damage my truck, it won’t hurt his car. Besides, he’s done this before and knows what he is doing.
Now, keeping a concrete mixer clean is a downright Sisyphean task. No matter how hard you try, chutes overflow, pumps splatter, and plants huff cement powder all over your truck. There are a variety of chemicals used to clean off the concrete, and most of the modern mixes are relatively safe (for something that can dissolve concrete).
Our plants provide a phosphoric acid mix (relatively safe isn’t the same as actually safe) to any drivers that need it, so it quite common for there to be a bucket of it stashed somewhere on the truck.
Of course, part of what makes these chemicals safer also makes them somewhat less effective.
That’s why some of us will bring in our own cleaning products to fortify the company mix. These are not the friendly chemicals that will just leave you with a mild chemical burn; My bucket of fun dips down to the good old days of leaded gasoline, asbestos, and red dye no.
2. Still, I warned him, and he assured me he knew what he was doing. Besides, he’s intentionally being a jerk and expected my sub to pay standby for his convenience. I let him have the bucket.
I half expect him to stop when he pulls the lid off.
The witch’s brew in the bucket smells like Walter White’s bathtub. Somehow, the fact that his nose hairs are curling up like a spider in a flame doesn’t seem to faze him. The brush goes in the bucket. The brush comes out of the bucket.
Brush slams onto the hood of the car with a wet slap. I can only watch in mute horror as the man proceeds to not just clear off the concrete, but bathe his entire hood in hydrochloric acid, rubbing it in to get out all those nasty water spots.
It’s like watching an orphan unwittingly skin his favorite puppy. None of us stick around long enough to see the final result, but it is already apparent that he has scrubbed off the clear coat and is in the process of etching brush marks in the paint.
I don’t want to be anywhere near him when that hood dries out. I let him keep the bucket.”
13. Won't Be Paid Overtime Even Though It's Legally Required? We'll Come Up With A Plan
“Sometimes as a consultant, you get to see how an office functions from an outsider’s perspective. Since you are an independent contractor, the company treats you differently than an employee. Also, just due to the nature of contract work, your engagement is usually short-term. This makes you a temporary fixture, and sometimes you are just treated as the “fly on the wall” like you do not exist.
And this can lead to some interesting observations including seeing train wrecks in progress.
This is one of those tales. Not so much about the nuts and bolts of tech support, but more about the people and some good old fashion just deserts.
As a consultant, you are always going to be the “IT Guy,” whether you like it or not.
No matter how you market your services, every single company is going to assume you can do anything with a computer. And, when business is slow, this is not necessarily a bad thing if you just need work.
About 10 years ago, I found myself in a situation.
I got an inquiry through my website asking about assistance deploying some workstations and other mundane tasks. Usually, I would pass on this kind of work, but it was winter and the other client work was dry that month. A guy still has to pay the bills so I followed up and within a day the scope of work was signed.
The company had its own IT department but just needed some extra hands. I was going to be one of three outside contractors that would deploy some workstations, do some server admin work, and set up some other equipment for a new department. The money wasn’t the best, but it was time I had free and it was all swing shift work (meaning no traffic and I get to sleep in).
The First Day
I report as requested at about 3 PM and talk to our contact. He was a Senior Engineer in charge of part of the IT department there, saying he really doesn’t have time to do anything more than a quick introduction as they are slammed with work.
He shows us the ropes and leaves us to it. Between the three of us, we break down our specialties and parse out the work. Everyone knows this is a cakewalk of a job and wants to just get it done fast as the pay was flat rate.
I take the server work and see my contact who is the System Administrator.
Figuring he was probably gone for the day as it was mid-evening, I was just going to leave him a note asking him to call me, but to my surprise, he is at his desk. In fact, just about everyone in the IT department is milling around.
Didn’t think much of it at the time, just that it was one busy department and the guys must be pulling double shifts. He shows me the systems and I get to work. Around midnight, we are wrapping up for the night and the three of us break down what we have left with the Senior Engineer who is still on site.
The plan is to wait until Friday night to deploy the workstations and get everything in place. The Senior Engineer says most of his team will probably be there all weekend anyhow so doesn’t matter to him.
I left thinking, “Man, that is a busy place.
Those guys must really be pulling down the overtime. I wonder what is going on they have so much work,” as I walked out the door that night.
Soon enough, I would find out the deal.
Head to the worksite a little early on Friday figuring if we all pull a long night, we should be able to wrap it up and all get our weekend back.
Things are going great and we are ahead of schedule, so the Senior Engineer offers to take us out to a local diner while we wait for the office to close up, so we can deploy workstations without tripping over people.
At the diner:
Senior Engineer (SE): “I want to thank you guys for all your hard work.
We are all overworked, and when we got approval to contract out this job, everyone was excited.”
IT Guy (me): “Hey, glad to be of service. Looks like you guys are crazy busy. Is everyone pulling doubles and doing weekends to handle your ticket load?”
SE: “Oh, we are understaffed, so we all have to pull extra hours.”
Me: “That sucks, but must be some great overtime.”
SE: “Overtime….not really.
We are all salaried, some loophole or something. We just put in the time because we all need the job right now…”
The conversation trailed off from there, but it left me thinking, “In this state, most IT workers are eligible for overtime as a matter of law.
There is no loophole like that. Something isn’t right.”
Back at the Worksite
I’m in the network closet with the Systems Administrator hooking up some ports and finishing the server work. He is a friendly guy so we start chatting.
Me: “I was talking to your buddy and it seems like you guys work insane hours here.” (I ask trying to fish for a little information.)
Systems Admin (SA): “Oh yeah, it has been like this for a year.
60 hours is a light week these days. It is bullcrap.”
Me: “Yeah, the other guy said you don’t get overtime.”
SA: Laughs. “That is what the boss tells us. Let me show you something.”
He pulls up an email exchange he had with his manager. It is dated about 10 months ago and makes the very point I thought that the entire department should be getting overtime and the law requires it.
His boss’s response in bold and caps was, “IT IS COMPANY POLICY TO NOT PAY ANY OVERTIME. WORKING MORE THAN 40 HOURS IS PART OF THE JOB. DEAL WITH IT OR FIND ANOTHER PLACE TO WORK.” Then the SA smirks and shows me his response to the boss, “Sure.
OK. Whatever” (his emphasis). And that was the end of the exchange.
Me: “Look I’m not a lawyer, but you might want to call up the labor department. I’m pretty sure it is illegal for you to not be getting overtime.”
Then to my surprise, the SA pulls up another email from his personal account.
“Oh, it is blatantly illegal. I asked a lawyer and this was his response.” (He showed me a memo explaining the law and that most likely a lawsuit would be successful. This was dated about nine months ago.)
Me: (confused) “So you guys know you should be getting overtime but not getting paid, and everyone is OK with that…?”
SA: “We all make sure to log all of our hours and document the time.”
Me: (still confused) “But you still aren’t getting actually paid overtime?”
SA: “No, but we will.
Here is the kicker. According to the lawyer, the labor department will look back at the hours we put in for the last 12 months and award us retroactive overtime. So all of us just log our time and keep records, then in about a month, we are going to file a claim altogether.
The company is going to be on the hook for all that overtime and they won’t be allowed to fire any of us for reporting them either.”
(Then the coup de grace…)
SA: “We all figured when this whole thing started, if we pressed the point back, then they would just figure out a way to screw us.
So we just all decided to stay quiet, put in the time they tell us to work, and we will get our ‘bonus’ check when it is all said and done if this stuff is all backdated.”
Darn. That is some cold-stone strategizing.
Me: “How many hours do you think you guys have piled up?”
SA: “Hard to tell.
Everyone keeps their own paper logs to keep it quiet. We also don’t talk about it too much, so nothing gets out, but last time we met outside of work, it was a boatload of time. I figure, for myself, they will owe me about 13-14 months of salary in overtime, and when it is all said and done, add up damages, penalties, interest, it will probably total almost two years of pay.”
SA: “So if the guys won’t talk about it and seem eager to work all these long hours, now you know why.”
We finished up the job that night.
I exchanged contact information with a few guys and said if they had any other contract work to give me a call. That was it, until…
Three Months Later
I am at another job and see an email come in from the Systems Administrator, subject line “Overtime Claim:”
“Hey IT Guy – Hope you are doing well.
We all ended up filing a big overtime claim with the state and the company fired us for supposedly falsifying our timesheets. The lawyer is sorting it all out, but anyway, I wanted to know if I could give your name to an investigator who is looking for witnesses to verify some of the extra hours we worked (some details followed).”
I agreed to talk to the investigator and got a call about a week later.
He asked me some routine questions about times and dates and wanted me to email him over some proof I did the job. Then he started going into the details of the case.
“We got this company for probably a million in overtime and damages between all the guys in the department, plus the firing is probably illegal, so that is going to be another few hundred thousand on top of it.
The insurance company wants to settle and once we wrap up the due diligence work I think these guys are all going to make out rather nicely.”
I didn’t hear anything for a while, until another email came in from the Systems Administrator, subject line “RE: Overtime Claim:”
“Just wanted to let you know we settled this whole thing.
The company caved pretty quickly once it was clear we kept honest logs of our time and the local management violated parent company regulations for the sake of making their site budget look better. Can’t go into details, but we all got sizable checks, enough to pay off some loans and go back to school.
I’ll have to find a new job, but after I get my grad degree, that shouldn’t be an issue. Appreciate you talking to the investigators. Thanks, IT Guy.””
Another User Comments:
“I did this to a fast-food company that’s gotta go fast. Sat back, kept my mouth shut, then slam-dunked a case that benefitted 40 other people.” intensiveduality
12. Bring You A Small Banana? I Can Do That
“My office building is located right next to a grocery store that is a popular lunch destination due to the proximity and its variety of quick lunch options.
I am often the first on my team to take lunch and often ask if they want me to pick up something while I’m out.
My colleague Daniel frequently asks me to pick up bananas.
This was another day at the office and another planned trip to the supermarket next door for lunch. When I told my team I was heading out and asked if anyone wanted anything, Daniel gave a slight variation of his frequent request.
‘One banana. Just a small one.’
He handed me a dollar to buy the banana, which I handed back to him because I wasn’t worried about buying something that would cost less than a quarter.
I headed to the store, picked up my lunch, and headed over to the produce section and the giant banana display.
This time I spotted something at the top corner of the display. Mini bananas. And thus, an idea was born.
The mini bananas were sold by weight and the bunches were already bagged in plastic, so I couldn’t just break off one from a bunch. They were about the same price per pound as their normal-sized counterparts, so I grabbed a bunch of the mini bananas and one regular-but-small banana that Daniel asked for, and went to check out.
For the record, the bunch of mini bananas was roughly fifty cents.
I walked back to the office, and while I was in the elevator heading up to my department’s floor, I opened the bag containing the mini bananas and broke one off the bunch. I got back to my desk, dropped my stuff off, and headed over to Daniel’s desk with the single mini banana.
I placed the tiny banana on his desk wordlessly and started to walk away.
Immediately, Daniel starts laughing. He showed the person sitting behind him the single mini banana, which made her laugh, too. I reminded him that he asked for just one small banana. Still laughing, Daniel proclaimed this tiny cavendish to be awesome.
I did bring him the normal banana he asked for after a few minutes of laughter. I told him that I could only buy the minis by the bunch and that he could have the rest if he wanted them, which he happily accepted.”
11. Make The Quesadillas Just How You Asked? Sure, But You Won't Be Smiling Soon
“Back at the beginning of the 21st century, I was working in a cafe/sandwich shop. It was a 24/7 shop in a prime location (in an area with a lot of uni students and very active nightlife and the road was a major artery for anyone traveling in or out of the city).
When I started, as a first-year uni student trying to make some coin, the shop was one of four of a small chain. Gary, the owner/manager had bought the rights from the original shop. Gary was also doing Quality Control for the shop, because at that point, every shop had separate vendors.
Fast forward two years. The original owners decide to incorporate because they have a lot of offers for franchising and a couple of problems with Quality Control have appeared. So, they bought back all the shops and instituted a more centralized approach to vendors. That was good for Gary because he was the owner of the building, so he basically became a salaried manager and got extra income from the rent.
Initially, nothing changed. We were still number 2 in sales; product was good. Then Door Knob entered the picture.
Door Knob was the new regional manager (the small chain had become big enough to reach the national level) and the person responsible for Quality Control. He was considered something of a golden boy, having a business degree, and helping with the expansion.
The problem came from his ego. You see, Door Knob had done a cooking workshop (that provides a certificate but nothing more) and considered himself something of a chef.
His first major change was installing a crepe station. Not restaurant quality crepes but crepes on the go (folded like a triangle).
That is important for later. While annoying to learn at the beginning, it quickly became one of our best sellers. We usually used over 10L of crepe mixture on a slow day. Having success with his first change, Door Knob decided to apply his “chef” training and implement some new things.
At that point in time, Mexican cuisine was becoming popular in my country, due mostly to cooking shows.
Door Knob decides to ride the trend and starts putting “Mexican” options on the menu. In reality, that meant two more “set” sandwiches and crepes (the ones on the board) and a few more customization options for sandwiches and crepes. And here begins the problem.
As I said, Mexican cuisine was quite the new thing.
Our country’s cuisine is wayyyy different than Mexican, especially on the spice level. A lot of the produce used for Mexican food was either rare or nonexistent. But Door Knob was adamant it was another win for him that he found a vendor. And the quality started to fail.
We started to receive buckets of premade chili and queso and jars of picked “jalapenos” and premade guacamole and pico de gallo dips.
Also, blocks of white cheese labeled “queso blanco.” The “queso” was an orange paste with some red bits in it (according to hubby, under a bad light, it could pass for bad queso) and left a very plastic taste (it reminded me of clay), one taste of that kept me away from Mexican food for a while.
The “jalapenos” weren’t jalapenos. They were pickled Thai Green chilies, labeled as “jalapenos,” meaning they were way hotter than expected. I’ve never tasted the rest, but some adventurous customers that tried them weren’t impressed. The only new thing that kind of sold was a plate of nachos.
Basically, because it was Doritos covered in queso (when it was heated, it became an orange liquid), a lot of bacon, and a lot of sausage. We have complained about the quality to Gary, but he couldn’t do anything anymore and Door Knob doesn’t back down.
Door Knob is a bit upset about the low sales.
He blames us (“you’re not pushing them enough”) and the customers (“those barbarians couldn’t recognize a fillet mignon from a shank”), but he sticks to his guns. And then brings corporate to the shop.
Door Knob comes in with four people from HQ, two of them are the owners.
They sit and Door Knob comes and places an order of five “quesadillas” (it’s a self-service shop). I ask how he wants them.
“Exactly as it says on the board and prepared exactly as I told you,” he replies.
“Ok, sir. I will call you when they’re ready,” I replied smiling.
Now Door Knob, in all his “chefy” wisdom, has given us very specific instructions for the “quesadillas.” First, to take out of the way, it wasn’t a proper quesadilla; it was a crepe.
The instructions were: “reheat the chili, start the crepe, place one and a half ladle of reheated queso, add one ladle of the chili, add a tablespoon of chopped jalapenos, one tablespoon of queso blanco, half a tablespoon of guacamole, and fold.” Doing that produced a liquid mess, which tried really hard to escape from a thin crepe.
We usually reheated the queso only for nachos. Especially in a crepe, we put it cold and let it reheat with the plate’s heat to avoid the aforementioned mess.
Cue malicious compliance:
We (me and the other girl working) make 5 “quesadillas” exactly as instructed. I took the order to the table (it was corporate after all) and waited for the results.
Five people, wearing white shirts and suits bite into the “quesadillas.” The “quesadillas” almost simultaneously explode, raining melted cheese and red chili on them.
Some of them have bitten a “jalapeno” and the heat is hitting them hard. A few choice words were heard. We brought them two bottles of water for the heat and two full packs of napkins to clean what they could. Let’s say the new menu wasn’t a blast with HQ.
After they left, Door Knob came back.
He was beyond angry. He approached the bench, bypassing the line (it was during one of our rush hours), and made a scene.
The following dialogue is a bit censored:
“You stupid witch! You made me look bad because you don’t like Mexican food! You can’t even follow basic instructions! The cleaning of your mess will be deducted from your pay!” and some other more offensive stuff.
I was standing there dumbfounded, along with a long line of customers hearing his outburst.
And then Gary intervened.
“Shut the freak up!”
“What the flip did you say?” Door Knob replied.
“I said SHUT THE HECK UP! The girls followed your instructions to the letter. Don’t try to blame them for your mistake. Or make them pay for your dry cleaning.”
Door Knob: “I can do what the heck I want.
And when I’m finished with them, maybe I’ll find another manager for this shop.”
Gary: “I would love to see you try.”
Door Knob: “Oh, I will! I will!” and he stormed out.
Immediately Gary called HQ and was notified about what happened. He also gave an ultimatum.
If something happened to his staff, the company would need to find a new location.
Three days later, we were notified that Door Knob was fired. While his outburst was the main reason, one of the owners had a really bad reaction to the “jalapenos.” A week later, the Mexican menu was removed.
During that part, they found out that Door Knob had used the cheapest vendor for the new menu. The vendor had a reputation for shady practices, which partly explained the weird products.
I stayed there until I finished uni and got a job in my field.
The Mexican menu made a huge comeback two years before I left. This time, HQ had hired a proper Chef to consult and find vendors. Now the ingredients are as authentic as possible and pico and guac are made daily in-house. They also have good queso now, although it took me a long time to try it. And no prepackaged, premade chili. In fact, no chili at all. My repulsion to Mexican food ended when my husband took me to a proper Mexican restaurant and finally tested a proper Mexican meal.”
10. Have To Wear A Tie To Work? Hope You Like My Taste
“I worked for a computer warehouse-type superstore. Right after I was hired I learned it was not a great job.
Almost everyone hated it, but you had some potential to make good commissions in sales so people kept their heads down and never questioned anything. Most competent people never stayed longer than a year and employee turnover was huge.
Truly a terrible place to work.
I had recently sold my computer store and was taking a year off. After a few months, I got bored and got this job part-time to get me out of the house and supplement the cash out from the computer store sale.
Being in this position gave me some freedoms some of the other people who worked there didn’t have.
If someone was complaining about something, I was more than happy to bring it up with management since I didn’t care if I got fired. I’m pretty sure the store manager hated me.
Dress code for guys was a white button-down shirt, tie, and some form of Dockers-type pants. Since this job didn’t pay much for the non-sales staff, many employees had cheap ill-fitting button-down shirts and one cheap tie. Honestly, the staff would have looked better in a store-branded t-shirt or polo shirt.
But since this store was crazy cheap, that would cost them overhead, and you can’t have that.
I’ve got a collection of some really nice ties I’d collected over the past 15 or so years – mostly vintage silks from the ’50s and ’60s. I actually hardly ever wore ties, but collecting them was a little hobby of mine.
If I saw a particularly nice one, I’d nab it.
One morning I was getting ready and managed to forget my tie. It was about a 40-minute drive to work and I noticed my missing tie when I got out of the car at work. No big deal I thought.
About an hour into my shift I get pulled aside by my direct manager.
I explain I somehow forgot about my tie and didn’t really think it was a big deal. I also explained I was 40 minutes away from home and didn’t have time to go back before my shift started.
My direct manager was pretty cool, but he has his stupid rules to follow so I got passed over to HR and the store manager.
The store manager acted like I just poured epoxy into all the toilets. He was crazy angry at me. He lectured me for 25 minutes about the importance of the dress code, how those that don’t follow it aren’t ‘team players,’ and how, if it happens again, I’ll be looking for a new job.
He actually made me read the section in the employee handbook on the dress code ‘so I knew it and could follow it to the letter.’ All this over a tie.
I got written up and sent home to get my tie.
Since I was 40 minutes from home I just went to a local store, bought a cheap tie, and hung out at a cafe for an hour.
That weekend, I went thrift store shopping. I spent all day hitting every thrift store I could find. I found the ugliest, widest, most horrendous ties I could find. Massive 1970s brown vomit-colored ties, ugly green avocado-colored ties as large as a lobster bib, patterns that made eyes bleed – polyester atrocities time forgot.
I also bought some Christmas ties with Santa and holiday wreaths (it was summertime). To top it off I bought some terrible oversized white button-down shirts – a few were just off-white enough that they looked almost dirty.
My next day at work I went from being the guy who looked fairly sharp to someone who looked like they escaped a mental ward in the 70s.
My direct manager saw me and started to laugh. He got it. He just patted me on the back and I was back to work. The store manager saw me later in the day and was not pleased, but since there was no wording in the employee guidelines on ties being within reason, or shirts fitting, he couldn’t do anything.
I’m sure he thought it was just a fluke for the day. Sadly, he was wrong.
My ties just got worse and worse as I uncovered them in thrift stores and garage sales over the next few weeks. I’d tie them short or uneven so the back hung lower from the front.
I’d triple wrap a Four in Hand knot to make it look wrong and sideways. I found so many I started giving other people these terrible ties and within a few weeks, 1/4 of the people in my department looked completely ridiculous. I ended up quitting about a month or so later.
On my last day at work, I distributed all my atrocities to everyone I knew at work to let my tie legacy live on.”
9. Sure, We Can Put Everything On Your Burger
“My first job was waitressing at a 50s diner style burger-joint. I think I was about 16? It was a sweet gig. My coworkers were generally nice, the customers were a mixed bag. Though we did have one homeless guy that would come in and do our food challenge weekly for a free meal.
He was cool.
Anyways, I had a family come in. If I remember correctly it was the traditional dad, mom, two kids. It was lunch rush and basically, all the tables were filled.
So, I’m taking their order and the dad asks for a burger.
Me: ‘What would you like on that burger?’
Me: ‘Well we have a lot of options.’
I gesture to the menu section containing the topping choices.
The dad does a once-over (clearly not long enough to read) looks back at me and states.
At this point, I should note we had a bunch of choices:
Grilled Bell Peppers
I feel like there were even more choices when I worked there.
The place also had 4-5 cheese options.
I ask the dad a few more times if he’s sure. Even tried to list the toppings.
His wife even tried to explain the situation. I could tell he was getting agitated but I also knew he didn’t know what ‘everything’ meant.
Eventually, I take his word for it and attempt to get the rest of his order.
Me: ‘Do you want cheese?’
Dad: ‘I said everything!’
Me: ‘Well we have 4 –’
Yikes. I want to point out he’s literally yelling here. Those exclamation points are not for emphasis
Well, I finish taking the table’s order.
On the ticket, I remember specifically taking the time to meticulously write out every ingredient as clearly as I could. The tickets were small and each ingredient was denoted by an acronym so it was a challenge to fit ‘everything.’ I also made sure to include every possible cheese.
I knew this monstrosity was going to be sent back. I knew it was an abomination, but I was determined to give that man what he asked for. The line cooks looked at me like, ‘You sure?’ With a simple nod, I pulled the trigger.
I walked that burger out to the man with the biggest poop-eating grin. It had to have been 2 pounds of sloppy, wet burger. The annoyance on his face would have been reward enough, but as predicted, the father called my manager over and complained.
My manager came to me fuming. Clearly, he had been chewed out by the man.
‘You know you have to ask the customers what they want on their burgers?!’
‘I did. I –’
‘Well, the man at table 11 said he didn’t ask for that.’
Mind you I was still 16 at this point and timid.
Still, I explained the situation. My manager’s demeanor changes and he had a little smirk on his face. My manager asked me to follow him back to the table and grabbed a menu on the way.
Manager: ‘Hi sir, I need some clarity. What exactly did you ask for on your burger?’
Customer: ‘Uh, everything but –’
My manager opened the menu on the table pointing to the topping options.
Manager: ‘Sir, this is everything. This is what’s on your burger. I’ll be happy to remake the burger to your specifications if you can give them this time, but we are very busy and it could take a while. OP, please take his order.’
So I did.
I can’t remember his actual order anymore, but it was definitely a more traditional burger. It probably took about 10 minutes to come out so his family was mostly done with their meal while he was beginning. We could’ve taken another burger off the line to make his, but why make a chill table wait?”
8. I Thought Being The Best Employee Meant Following The Rules
Back in 2018, I started working at a delivery company. When I started working, they gave me a rule book that stated that all drivers cannot exceed 5mph over the designated speed limit. All drivers were required to take their lunch breaks (30 minutes unpaid) on the way back to our facility at the end of their first run (most drivers had 2 runs in a day).
And we were also required to load our vans ourselves in the morning and unload any undelivered items when we got back. Our delivery vans were equipped with trackers that monitored our speed and would beep loudly if you went over 74mph.
I had been working at this company for over a year without any issue, and I had quickly become one of the more valuable drivers by taking on extra runs and staying late to help out other drivers.
Most of the time, my delivery routes took me on highways that were listed at 65mph, but if I was covering another driver’s route, there was a chance that the highways were listed at 55mph.
I was the driver that finished their runs in record time by not taking my lunch break and driving just under the van trackers’ max speed trigger even if it meant going 20mph above the listed speed limit.
I did this because our company prided itself on having fast response time on same-day deliveries, and my supervisors turned a blind eye to my speeding. That is until they gave me a verbal warning about speeding. I’m not sure what happened to make them change.
All I know is that as soon as I got the warning, I initiated malicious compliance mode.
I started doing everything by the book. I drove at exactly the listed speed limit and started taking my lunch breaks. My efficiency tanked and the company was falling behind on deliveries because I wasn’t there to take on any last-minute orders, so they had to hire more drivers.
I would just sit in a parking lot somewhere listening to Reddit stories on YouTube during the entirety of my lunch breaks. And to make things even better, if there were slower vehicles on the highway, I would make sure to stay behind them and drive at their speed, even if it meant driving at 10-20mph under the speed limit.
My supervisors were extremely angry at me for causing them so many issues, but they couldn’t really do anything about it.
And oh boy, did they try. They tried changing my routes, giving me only one run for the day, and telling me that I was required to take my lunch break after I returned from my run. I ended up getting them off my back by going to my supervisors’ supervisor and explaining everything to them, which in turn basically made me untouchable to my supervisors.
I simply continued following the rules, and if I ended up with overtime because of it, oh well. That’s on the supervisor’s head, not mine.
Edit: I want to clear a few things up.
Even though I was required to drive above the speed limit due to being threatened with termination if I was late making deliveries.
I was never driving faster than the flow of traffic; in fact, I was still slower than drivers in the slow lane.
Speeding is illegal and dangerous, yes. However, driving slower than the flow of traffic is also dangerous. In my state, police will stop you if you are driving faster than the flow of traffic, or if you are driving slower than the flow of traffic, as both scenarios are dangerous.
I used to ride motorcycles, so whenever I am driving any vehicle, I am in a hyperaware state of mind and I keep large distances between my vehicle and the surrounding vehicles.
I have only been in one accident while at work and three total in my life, all of which I was not at fault for.
I was rear-ended at work by a distracted driver on their phone while I was stopped and waiting for traffic to move on an off-ramp.
I was rear-ended again on an off-ramp by a driver on their phone, except this time in my own personal car.
I crashed my motorcycle into the front driver side of a car that attempted to make a u-turn in front of me from the shoulder of the road without indicating.
And yet again this was due to the driver being on their phone.
5. I realize that my supervisors can’t legally force me to break the law, but they can do so illegally, which they did in my case, and I only did what they wanted because I needed the job, and I was still too naive.”
7. Too Good To Take The First Aid Class? Fail The Test
“This happened in 2018. My husband and I own a company that works with companies to provide doctors and nurses for factories and construction, OSHA and First Aid training, and some other things. One of our major accounts is a power company. We not only provide on-site personnel but also train them in First Aid.
This particular company is very strict on its Health and Safety protocols. They require all their crew members to have an up-to-date First Aid certificate, and they had a decent budget to equip each of their sites (including their offices) with two AEDs (Automatic Electric Dischargers).
We were also required to provide adjusted training for their staff and crews. Because of the nature of the job, we trained them in a 3-hour, 2-day schedule. One day was theory (because in a factory environment, instead of ABC, you EABC) with a written test at the end, and the next day was a practical exam.
We were scheduled for a two-day training with this company.
We were told it would be a small class, around 40 people, so I booked myself and our senior trainer. We arrive for the training, set up, get the roll call and there was when it happened.
John= our Senior Trainer, Karen=VERY IMPORTANT PERSON, Chad=COO.
As I said, this company is very hardcore in their Health and Safety.
Except for the crews, they require every person that has even the slightest chance of visiting a power plant to have a current First Aid certificate. This means we trained a lot of suits. As the room is filling up, I notice John talking with a woman I didn’t know.
The conversation is heated and I approach to see what’s happening.
Me: “Is everything ok?”
Karen: “No, it’s not. As I was saying to this man, I don’t need to take the class. I did First Aid in my previous company and I have VERY IMPORTANT WORK (yes, you could actually hear the capital letters) to do!”
John: “As I explained madam, we follow the company policies about training.”
Karen: “But I already know everything!”
Me: “Madam, your manager booked you for the class.
He probably thinks it’s more important than anything else.”
Karen: “No. I’m very high in the company. If you don’t release me immediately, you may lose your contract!”
At that point, she looked at us with crossed arms and a smug face. John, being a no-nonsense former trainer for the Army’s Medic Corps, was ready to explode.
Cue Malicious compliance:
There was a rule for the training, set by the company, that any person that could provide an up-to-date certificate, could sign a waiver for the in-person training, BUT they had to take the test.
I quickly provided this as an option for Karen.
She wasn’t completely happy, but she took it. I explained there were two tests, one in writing, one practical. She said fine and to notify her when it was time to take them.
So, two and a half hours later, she is sitting to take the written test.
Immediately, I can see she is struggling, since most of the questions are tailored for an industrial setting. The test ends and we collect the papers. At a quick glance, I knew she had, at best, passed with a very low grade. Despite her struggling in theory, she just came for the test the next day.
In this case, I knew she was going to fail. Along with their normal CPR, we had added an AED training (per company rules), and despite being a fairly easy and straightforward machine to use, she had serious trouble.
So, we pack up, go back to base.
We rate the tests and as expected she was the only one who had failed both spectacularly. Of the rest 39 people, only one had failed the written test. We sent the results and certificates to the company.
Monday morning, just after we opened, I got a call from Chad, the company’s COO.
He is one of our major contacts because the training was part of his responsibilities. The call went like this:
Chad: “Good morning Wak (me). I’m calling about the results of the training.”
Me: “Good morning Chad. I had a feeling you would call.”
Chad: “Can you tell me why my Assistant COO failed?”
Me: “Is Karen your Assistant?”
Me: “Well, she said she had very important work to do and already had a certificate and she signed the waiver.”
Chad: “Of course she did…”
I could hear the frustration in his voice.
Chad: “Can we arrange a quick training for today? I want you to do it.”
Me: “Let me check.
It has to be a late one, otherwise tomorrow at 10.”
Chad, after some thinking: “Tomorrow then. See you at the office.”
The next day rolls up and at 10 sharp, I’m at the offices. I’m led to a conference room, glass all around, and told to wait.
A few minutes later, Chad and Karen step into the room. She looked chastised. She sat across me, while Chad stood. Chad asked for the waiver, which I handed to him. He took a look at it and gave it back.
Chad: “As I explained when you were hired, you had to pass this training.
The certificate you gave us was coming up and you came from a different field. Now, do the training properly and pass it. It is one of the prerequisites for the job.”
Karen took the training properly this time and passed. Since then, she has never complained about First Aid training again.”
Another User Comments:
“I never understand this mentality.
If your boss tells you to take training you think you already know, sit back and chillax. Daydream. Take frequent bathroom breaks. I’ve journaled, written grocery lists, and done essay outlines during stupid work training under the guise of taking notes. I’ve gotten chastised for being too talkative and goofing around with my coworkers — but short of getting kicked out, nobody ever reports to your boss, so it doesn’t really matter especially if it’s an external trainer.
I can’t understand people who don’t want to leave their usual assigned duties for a while. I love the opportunity to break up the humdrum routine, even if it’s going to be a boring training. And I’ve yet to hear of the boss who has the audacity to force you into a training session and do overtime to fulfill your usual duties.
I’m sure they exist, but they’re extremely rare.
My experience has been that coworkers and bosses who don’t like doing training are just people who like to feel self-important and resent the role of student. They don’t like someone else being in charge, let alone, someone they often view as beneath them or external to their direct hierarchy being in charge.
It’s always been purely ego and power. (The only exception is when staff wasn’t given adequate notice beforehand, so they had to scramble to rearrange stuff and drop tasks in the middle).
Worst case scenario is you’re getting paid your usual rate to daydream for a few hours. There are worse tasks you could have been given. And even if you do resent being there, that’s literally not at all the trainer’s fault, so how the heck are you gonna give them attitude? These types are the absolute worst.” ZookeepergameMost100
6. He'll Stand There Holding A Rock As Long As He Can
“I was at a church camping trip for boys at Yosemite. One of the guys in charge was new and a real weirdo. He made it his goal in life to punish every kid. I was a real rule-follower, so he couldn’t punish me and he started getting angry about that.
He would even drop comments like ‘your turn is coming,’ etc.
Now, when I was younger, I was really thin and small, but in my mind, I was like all the other kids and mentally tough, so this got me in trouble. I would get injured on these trips and the head guy was always getting in trouble with my parents for not keeping me safe.
So one of the rules is that nobody can ever be alone. If you are caught alone at any time, you are in trouble. So, we’re getting the campfire ready for lunch, and some kid comes running up to the group and says that there’s a woman bathing in her birthday suit in the river.
All the kids get up and run to go see. So, to not be alone, I have to go with the group. Now, I don’t go to the edge and look, because I didn’t feel like it was right to go spy on the poor woman just trying to enjoy nature.
Anyway, weirdo sees his opportunity and says that since I got up and went over with the group, I was also in trouble, despite the fact that I had no other choice.
Punishment at this camp was holding a giant rock over your head. Somehow, I was the only one that got in trouble (not everyone else that looked, proving that he didn’t care about actual rules but just that he had power over everyone).
I was supposed to hold this rock over my head for 15 minutes and then come back. Of course, he was too lazy to oversee punishments, so I was supposed to do this alone (which is another problem, since there are bears around, no kid is supposed to be alone).
So finally, since I didn’t deserve this punishment, I was going to take this guy down. So I dropped the rock on my head on purpose. Then I just lay there. I could feel a large bump rising on my head. I must have laid there for about 35 minutes.
Finally, they realized that I didn’t show up for lunch and someone asked where I was and then everyone ran over to see me laying there with a rock next to my head.
I said that the last thing that I remembered is that my arms were getting weak holding the rock over my head.
Then the leader checked my head and found the bump. He was livid because now he had to tell my mom I got hurt again.
When asked why I was holding a rock over my head, I made sure to let them know that it was jerk-face’s punishment.
He tried to deny it, but 25 young voices called him ‘liar’ simultaneously since they had all endured the same punishment.
Weirdo was stripped of his power and spent the rest of the camp as just another camper. In fact, he called someone and left a day early.
It was his first and last activity with the group.”
5. Tell Me You're Going To Fire Me? I'll Act Like I'm Fired Then
Why work for someone who doesn’t want you to work there anyway?
“Worked for a crappy airline company. Let’s just make up a name… United Blairlines.
At this company, they started a smaller company that could hire and train people to run the planes but pay them way less at certain airports.
Where my colleagues at other airports were making over $20 an hour, I was getting paid $10.25 for the same – and sometimes more – work. It honestly would scare you to know how little the people who are the ones that make sure your plane takes off safely are paid.
All of us had two to three jobs to be able to pay rent, and we were all in the job for the benefits – free flights to anywhere in the country – on standby. Anyway, I had a boss; we’ll call him Jim. I could tell many stories about how terrible of a boss he was, but this one has actual malicious compliance.
I had to go to the hospital from the airport because of intense pain in my stomach. It turns out that because of stress caused by that job, my intestines decided to stop functioning. I spend the day in the hospital and then they gave me a note saying that I didn’t have to work for the next two days.
I told Jim’s boss that (since I hated talking to Jim).
When I went back to work three days later. We had five people total to load all luggage, load the water, and push out five planes in a little over an hour. Already an incredible amount of work for so few people.
We had our morning work meeting to discuss how screwed we were, then Jim asked me into his office. “Your attendance is unacceptable.” He said. Dumbfounded, I asked what he meant. “You’ve been late a couple of times and now missing the past three days…” I said “Jim, I have the note from the hospital.
According to work policy, that shouldn’t affect my attendance.” “I don’t care what work policy says. I’m going to fire you.” Again I cited work policy since we were “protected” by a union. I said, “Jim you have to give me an attendance warning before you’re allowed to fire me for attendance.
This is the first time I’m hearing about attendance, so you can’t fire me right now.” Jim said, “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to give you a warning right now, and when I get back from vacation next week, you’re going to be fired. Now go back to work.
My decision is final.”
So, I told my coworkers what happened. Then I decided, alright, well, if next week he’s firing me, I’ll just leave now. Even though their day was about to be messed up since now four people were working five planes, they all said forget this place; get out of here! So I left and went to get breakfast (this all happened at 4 am).
As I’m enjoying my meal, Jim calls me.
I happily ignore. He calls three more times and then texts me, asking where I was at. I told him, “You fired me. Why would I keep working for you?” No response. I try to soak in the sight of Jim running between planes like a chicken with his head cut off.
I don’t imagine any plane took off on time that morning. I get a call from HR, the union rep, and the General manager, who is Jim’s boss. They all said Jim was wrong and asked me if I could come back to work it out.
But quitting felt so good, and I felt such a weight lifted off my shoulders thinking about not working there anymore, so I never went back.
Some more info. Although this isn’t so satisfying, it’s more a testament to United Blairlines’ complete lack of ethics… Jim got in really big trouble when he had a guy who had a shoulder injury and had a note and told Jim several times he couldn’t do super heavy labor.
Jim sent him to the bag room by himself anyway. Imagine having to lift 300 to 700 50-70 pound bags over your head per hour all while running between bag carts and the belt. Needless to say, the guy tore his shoulder and had to get surgery on it. They still didn’t fire Jim. Instead they “promoted” him to manage the workers who did ticketing and no manual labor. As far as I know, Jim still works for United. My coworker still cannot move the way he used to two years later.”
4. Can't Leave The Table Until My Plate Is Empty? Fine By Me
“Let me paint a picture. My grandfather, rest his soul, is the most stubborn person I have ever met.
My grandmother and he are devout Roman Catholics very much from the era of what the man of the house says goes, no matter what that is, to the point I had never seen her argue with him except two times in my entire life, which is the time I will be referencing and a time he straight up called me ugly (he was a gruff grump of a man, obviously) for black fingernail polish.
He did apologize for that, but my grandma tore him up beforehand. That tongue-lashing was nothing compared to the time in question.
My grandfather, being old-fashioned, was big on the ‘you eat what you are given, you don’t leave until your plate is clean’ mentality.
Now, I was under six in this story, but I remember it so clearly, mostly because my grandma still seethes about it and brings it up regularly.
It was one of the first times I was staying with them without my parents due largely to my parents divorcing, meaning it was their (Read: grandpa’s) first time making my plate.
The plate I was served was huge. I mean, thinking back the plate they served me matched theirs.
That’s HUGE to someone as young and tiny as I was (I was born premature and incredibly petite until puberty, and still petite after that.) It was dinner time, and grandpa would not budge in his ways.
I was crying, he was angry, and all because I was so full I could not eat anymore.
My grandpa yelled and berated me, as a child, that I WAS going to finish my plate and I would not leave the table until I did.
Okay. I don’t leave the table. He sits there, expecting me to fold, but the problem is I have always been just as stubborn as he is if not more, but only if you give me a reason to be, which he did.
My bedtime was supposed to be around 8 pm because it was the summer.
I sat at the table, growing more and more irate (tiny tot unable to move and exhausted level temper tantrum) all the while. I do not eat. I do not leave the table.
I follow his instructions.
Grandpa finally gives in around four in the morning, per my grandmother, and lets me leave. Ah, but of course, only if grandma saves my now ten-hour-old plate for tomorrow. I didn’t finish it, so now I would eat nothing else until that plate was finished.
Whatever. Grandma does that and happily takes me to bed at last.
I think I slept basically until lunch, but grandma convinced him to allow me to (he was also the ‘everyone gets up at six in the morning’ type).
True to his word, he served me the plate.
True to my resolve, I ate nothing. You don’t leave until you finish the nasty plate, so I don’t leave.
Cut to the chase, this went on between us so long that my grandma, pillar of patience and everything that is good and a woman who has hidden all but two arguments between her and her 50-year husband behind closed doors, freaking LOSES it.
By the time she does, mold has grown on this plate. I haven’t eaten, at six or fewer years old, in actual days.
You can imagine how my temperament had deteriorated.
You can imagine how far my grandfather and I had pushed my grandma. You can imagine how long this went on, how long it took to crack my grandma at long last.
My grandma absolutely lost her everlovin’ mind. She took the plate and flung it, moldy food and all, across the room and SCREAMED at my grandfather. I was silent, stunned, terrified. Grandpa was the same. I had followed instructions, she tells him. I had told him I couldn’t eat that much when he first set the plate in front of me, as had she repeatedly when he was making it apparently, and he had pushed the issue too far.
She had tried to lightly stop this for days now, but lightly hadn’t worked and she went all out.
Eventually, terrified and starving, I completely deteriorate and am full-on sobbing, and she’s basically force-feeding me Poptarts and that Honeycomb cereal (I remember because it was the only cereal I ate for three years following this incident for whatever reason) while going absolutely berserk on my grandfather and telling him that he’s the adult and he shouldn’t have pushed it so far just to be right and if anything is wrong with me he is explaining to my father, their son and a VERY overprotective father at the time due to my mom literally trying to kidnap me which was why I was in their care, to begin with, what happened and why he refused to feed his only granddaughter.
When my grandma every now and again brings this story up, mostly when I end up not finishing my plate which is rare but certain foods make me sick and my family still goes by oldest male makes the plates for holidays, she makes sure to hit three points hard.
1.) I followed every rule my grandfather set forth like the stubborn, spiteful, little gremlin I am.
2.) My grandfather was undoubtedly in the wrong, because the reason I didn’t eat the food that next day was because it had already basically gone bad and tasted poorly after sitting out for so long, plus my picky eater behind had already been force-feeding myself, to begin with, the night before.
3.) She has only ever met one person in her lifetime as stubborn and absolutely unmoving in resolve as my grandfather, and that’s me.
I distinctly remember my grandma made all of my plates, outside of holidays when for a while my dad did instead of my grandpa which was a BIG DEAL with our traditions until I was old enough to make them for myself if I was staying alone with them.
And yes, grandpa got chewed out again when dad found out about it.
RIP grandpa though, he’s still one of my favorite family members and I miss him every day. Grandma is still my favorite female family member, though.
Grandma got my back and turns out she’s a straight-up savage when pushed.”
3. We'll Give Them The Test Just Like You Asked
“Just as a quick introduction, at the time this story took place, I was the youngest instructor within the brigade, at age 16 teaching people that were sometimes three times my age. However, as the youngest instructor, I was often the first choice when younger students were being taught a course.
That was the case in this session.
This story comes from when I was co-teaching a rather large class with one of the Master Instructors for the brigade. Our students were a brigade of Navy Cadets, and their captain, sergeant? I don’t know ranks, honestly, but this guy might as well have been a Drill Sergeant with the way he was treating the Cadets.
We will call this fellow Kevin.
The course was a short one. CPR with AED training, roughly a 3-hour course with one break. We go over the ABCs (Airway, Breathing, Circulation), Choking, CPR, CPR in a Pair, and how to use the Automated External Defibrillator (or AED).
The instructions we got from their command were extremely specific, as this was the Military, and had to follow exact instructions. (For context, the Master Instructor was the first aid instructor for this base before anyone asks. Technically, Kevin outranked him, and I guess that makes me a civilian consultant?)
We got through the first part of the class with little issue, but Kevin was being a jerk toward us instructors telling us it wasn’t necessary to say that; that’s common knowledge.
Obviously, he didn’t want to be there. I wish I can say this isn’t a common thing to experience while teaching these shorter lessons, but I’d be lying.
After the break, we were going to be teaching the AED and then have the final test. Kevin wasn’t having it.
“The AED literally walks you through every single step; there is no need to go over it.”
It is true that AEDs do have voice directions instructing the user exactly how to use it, and visual references on the pads themselves on where to put them on the body.
There are no settings on the AED other than the volume of the machine. It does all the readings itself and adjusts accordingly. In all terms, they are designed so that anyone can use them, and in some parts of Canada, you don’t actually need a certification to be permitted to use them.
However, as explained, this is technically a military course, and we needed to teach exactly the way the higher-ups tell us.
We tried to explain that to Kevin, but he said “Just give them the test.”
As the Master Instructor was a lower rank than him, he had to obey. However, when Kevin turned away to go have a smoke during the break, the Master Instructor took the Remotes for the AED out of the cases and threw one to me.
I knew exactly what he wanted me to do.
For context, the AEDs we use for training are not real AEDs. They are nothing more than glorified tape recorders that cost almost $500 per unit, plus the replacement pads. All they do is light up, convey the instructions on how to use it, and then it waits for two minutes to repeat the cycle.
However, the remote for this thing is where things get interesting.
One remote works on the nearest AED to it, not just the one it comes with. With the remote, we can simulate complications with the AED. Low batteries, moisture on the pads, too much hair on the body, no shock required.
The AED is pretty much plugin and use, but it is also intelligent enough when it was too dangerous to deliver a shock, and we were going to simulate that.
Normally, we don’t use these remotes for the final test; they are normally just used to show the different failures the machines can have and how to fix them, but the Master Instructor seemed to want to stick it to Kevin.
We applied a little moisture to the training dummies, and when the students returned from the break, we explained we were going right to the hands-on test at their sergeant’s request.
We explained that the AED would walk everyone through how to use it and handed them out.
They were required to do 5 minutes of CPR in pairs for the hands-on test while using the AED, showing they are capable of doing it. We let them get through their first set of compressions and had the AED activate once, and then we started using the remote.
Suddenly, all the AEDs were freaking out, alarms everywhere.
“Wii U, Wii U, Moisture, Moisture” kept echoing through the room. Kevin asked us what was going on, but Master Instructor simply said, “You told us to give them the test, so we did.”
Only one of the pairs out of the twenty was able to understand what was happening and took the towel that was provided to them in the AED kit and dry off the training dummy before continuing their 5 minutes.
2 students passed; 38 students failed that course.
The Master Instructor told me that Kevin got chewed out by his superiors after he had to explain to them (and our organization) why nearly everyone in the course failed. Two weeks later, I was asked to return to the base and help teach the lesson again.
Another easy paycheck – nothing to complain about there. The DS was there again, but he was strangely quiet, and we got through the lesson proper in half the time it took when DS was interrupting every 5 minutes.
As an added bonus, Kevin was so impressed by the class, he purchased pocket CPR Masks for everyone in the class with his own savings using the order form provided in the back of the First Aid Handbooks, giving me a fat commission check for the course as well. Master Instructor told me that the superiors insisted the full commission went to me for “being a Civilian putting up with Kevin” or something along those lines; I don’t recall exactly why. Either way, more money for me, and no complaints from me.”
2. Don't Drive The Work Truck? Got It
“A long, long time ago, in a city not far away, I had a terrible summer job.
Right after high school, my friend and I were looking for practically anything to make some money and his older brother told us about a job he once had working for this guy washing windows.
Now, this guy owns what appears to be a semi-legitimate business, he has a full shop/garage where he stores cleaning products, big fancy tubs that use sonic waves to wash blinds in, and a new (at the time) work truck.
He’s also a HARDCORE penny pincher and buys the cheapest, crappiest insurance he can on the truck. Initially, when we got hired on, he would meet us at the shop at 7 am, give us the work orders and ride out with us for on-the-job training.
After a couple of weeks, he would just leave the work orders in his office and then leave us to our own devices.
Now I want to preface with, we weren’t lazy, we got paid hourly like $9/hour, but we commissioned based on the # of individual windows we cleaned in a day + how many windows required a ladder (those paid an extra $0.50 each), so if we knocked out 3-4 jobs in one day, we could take home approximately $14-15/hour.
Another important fact is that this was RIGHT after high school, so we were both 18, and for whatever reason, the boss didn’t bother to ask or check our hiring paperwork to confirm this.
Well after a month or so, he finds out how old we are and has come apart.
Turns out his insurance on his truck has a clause that anyone driving has to be at least 25 years old with a clean driving record (no DUIs or anything like that), or his monthly payment triples. So he makes it very, VERY clear to us that we are NOT to drive the truck, and if he finds out we’re doing it anyway, he’ll fire us and dock any bonus pay from our final checks (legally he can do that because it’s bonus, not hourly.)
I need to drive home the fact that he was so gosh darn delusional that he never paid attention to ANYTHING, so one day, we come into the shop and see a stack of about 15 jobs; however, he didn’t schedule anyone else (never actually scheduled himself because he expected the shop to just run itself) except for the two of us that day.
Cue Malicious Compliance.
He liked to micromanage but simultaneously NEVER picked up his phone if WE called HIM.
So despite calling him numerous times to let him know we can’t do anything, we end up just sitting in the shop and listening to the radio for most of the day. This was also only a year or two after smartphones came out, so things like streaming music/movies or playing games on your phone were essentially non-existent unless you had a spare $1,000.00 lying around to buy the fancy new iPhone 2!!
Fast-forward about 5 hours and he calls one of us to ask how things are going, how many jobs we’d finished, and if we needed help to get any completed.
We explained that we’d been sitting in the shop all day waiting for him to come in, so we could get started. Well, at this point he goes freaking ballistic and starts just tearing us up one side and down the other about wasting his time, etc.
and blah blah blah. “Why didn’t you call me!?” “Who else is there?!” “Has anyone finished any of the jobs?!”
Needless to say, that was our last day there, but we threatened to report him if he didn’t pay us for the time we sat in the shop that day, so we still got paid almost a full day’s wages, and from what I heard, within a year or so later, his shop folded, so win-win I guess.”
1. Here's Your Pizza, Just As You Wanted
Technically, she can’t really complain.
“This happened today while I was at work. I work at a gas station that has a pretty good pizza place in it and tonight I was working pretty much alone getting hammered with orders coming in nonstop.
About halfway through my rush, an online order comes through and almost immediately the phone rings.
I drop what I’m doing and go answer expecting another order but it was just a customer (let’s call her Karen) wanting to confirm that her online order had come through.
I asked the name and confirmed the order with the Karen, it was one large all-meat pizza and I very specifically remember confirming this because she said that was correct and she would be using a coupon for it.
I didn’t really think anything of it and went back to work making the pies.
Jump ahead about an hour toward the end of the rush and the phone rings, I again prepare to take another order but instead am greeted by an angry customer saying that I messed up their pizza.
I apologized and asked for the name so that I could look up the order and she says Karen. It has not been that long and I remember the name saying absent-minded ‘oh yeah, I remember the order. You called to confirm and I remember we agreed the order was correct.’
Karen: ‘Well the order I put in was for all meat but I wanted it with only double pepperoni on one half and only cheese on the other half.’
Me: ‘Ok, let me just pull up the record and we can get this sorted out for you.’
Karen: ‘The only way to sort it out is for you to make me what I ordered.’
By this time I had the order slip pulled up on the screen and could clearly see that there were no special instructions but was not really looking forward to telling that to Karen.
So I politely ask if she would mind holding while I talk with my manager to solve the issue and she agrees.
I head over to the manager’s office and explain the situation to her, she is a very easygoing person and I love working for her because she will almost always just tell us to use our best judgment (the pizza here is super overpriced and the profit margin for a single pie is somewhere around 400%).
She said to just make whatever she wants and I agreed.
Back on the phone, I tell Karen that I would be happy to make the correct order for her and asked her exactly what she wanted.
She said it exactly like this. ‘I want a large hand-tossed crust with only double pepperoni on one half and only cheese on the other half.’ I repeated exactly what she said and was told yes that it was correct.
I tell Karen to give me 15 minutes and she could pick up her pizza.
Here is where the MC comes into play. I make exactly what she ordered. I rolled out the large crust, tossed it out to a large size, put it in a pan, added a layer of pepperoni on one half then put cheese over the other half.
I’m sure most of you know how a pizza is prepared and can tell that there was a skipped step in there. You know, pizza sauce. Karen did not ask for the sauce on the pizza and I made sure that I let my manager know that I made exactly what she ordered to help cover my backside when she called in to complain.
When Karen came to pick up her pizza I had my manager take it out to her and ask her if the order was correct reading from the slip. Large hand-tossed crust with only double pepperoni on one half and only cheese on the other half.
Karen smiled and said yes, then took the pie and left.
Jump to the end of my shift and my manager let me know that Karen had called in to demand a refund for her pizza because it had no sauce and was dry. The manager refused because she went over the order with Karen before she left with the pizza and told her she got exactly what she ordered.”
Another User Comments:
“Had to have a hamburger made 4 times at McD’s.
Order (very clearly) only mustard and extra pickles. The order came out, and since I know they seldom get a special order right, I looked at the burger. Onions, ketchup, mustard, and pickles. Sent it back reiterating the mustard and extra pickles. The next one came out, and there was still ketchup on it.
I got a bit loud and told them it was still wrong, and the only thing I wanted on this burger was mustard and extra pickles. I was looking at one of the “managers” right in the eyes when I said this. He was in the kitchen.
The third burger came out, and naturally, I checked it. No onions…good. No ketchup….good. Mustard…good. and one, single solitary lonely little pickle. Naturally, it went back too. After a few choice words, but not swearing words, as in HOW DIFFICULT CAN THIS BE, the fourth burger was OK. I checked. I was not a happy camper when I left and never to return to McD’s again.” QAGUY47