“My dad (64) has always been a patient man, back when I (32) was younger. But lately, his patience is getting thinner than my receding hairline, lol. Maybe it comes with age, but please do correct me if I’m wrong. He gets frustrated easily with ordinary moments such as long lines, light traffic, or waiting for people, even if he’s early for his appointment. I hope I got my point across.

A while ago, I called my supplier to order some copper wires to replenish our stock as I was doing inventory (we own a small contracting firm).

My dad told me to drop what I was currently doing and drive him somewhere before we went to our supplier to pick up the goods. As I started the car, our supplier texted me to confirm the orders and avoid any errors.

My dad immediately blurted, “That stuff can wait, let’s go.”

Me: “But Dad, this is from our-”

Dad, somehow irritated: “That. Can. Wait. Let’s. Go.”

Me: “Okay, whatever you say.”

When we arrived at our supplier’s store, my dad was surprised, as the receptionist told him that we had not ordered anything because they had not received any confirmation from us.

Annoyed, Dad told me, “I thought you had already called them to order?”

Me: “Remember the text to which I was replying?

Yes, it’s the supplier asking for confirmation. You can’t make me wait for 30 freaking seconds to reply; you’ll be waiting here for 30 minutes or so for it to be done.”

In the end, we waited for more than an hour as there were a lot of orders before they could process ours. He was annoyed as heck but didn’t have any choice but to bear the consequences of his impatience. His torment worsened as he couldn’t change the channel on the TV because it was showing a crappy afternoon drama. Me? I always have my portable game console with me.

Time passed like a breeze.”

“I work in a highly regulated industry, the town has rules, the state has rules, we have independent certifications to maintain, and corporate oversight. I hate bureaucracy and being told what to do, so there’s a bit of a poor fit there, TBH.

Anyway, we had a bathroom that was in a weird spot and had some layout issues too, so it was never used. There were two others, 15 feet away. We didn’t use or need it, but we did need storage space badly.

So, we put a lock on the door and stored stuff in there.

The bathroom wasn’t needed for town rules, the state didn’t care, and we didn’t need it to maintain our certifications… but… CORPORATE.

Corporate HQ had a rule that you couldn’t store things in a bathroom. Good idea! That could be gross. But we locked it up and it’s not used as a bathroom. No one can even get in there.

Too bad, we are “cited” for breaking the rules and have to provide evidence to HQ that we have resolved this horrible failure.

We are annoyed that no one can get their heads out of their butts to see that it makes no sense.

So, I called our plumbers. Compliance letter sent: “The toilet has been removed from the storage closet.”

“This happened a few years ago. I received a phone call from an HR person from a staffing agency I almost worked for at one point (that’s another funny story for another day). I got through the greetings and small talk and got down to business.

HR: I have a person you know applying for a job with one of our customers.

Me: I was sort of confused; no one gave me a heads up. Who are we talking about?

HR: Your friend Moe.

Me: Who?

HR: Moe Lastname, he said he worked with you at the email company.

Me: Oh, okay, I remember him.

But I’m not sure why he’d put my name down; we didn’t work all that closely. I interacted with his team only peripherally because we had equipment in his office. I don’t really feel comfortable providing a reference.

HR: Well, that’s sort of our fault; we sort of pressured him to cough up references on the fly.

Me: I don’t feel comfortable providing a reference.

HR: Come on, OP, we know each other; help me out.

Me: Well, not being his manager, I can’t discuss his performance.

HR: Okay, can I ask you about his technical skills and have you comment on those?

Me: Fine, ask away.

HR: How is Moe with Software package #1?

Me: Okay, I guess maybe 2.5 out of 5.

(5/5 is extremely rare for this software.

I might be 4.7, and I’ve used the software for 20+ years and even flown to the vendor’s HQ to work on technology issues and help design future versions of products with them.)

HR: Great! How is he with Hardware Platform #1?

Me: Well, in the time he was at the email company, he never touched the platform. If he gained knowledge from elsewhere, I can’t comment.

HR: Wait, that can’t be right. He said he led the Hardware Platform #1 refresh project.

Me: Well, that’s not true.

HR: The email company is huge. Is it possible you weren’t aware of the project?

Me: No.

I’m very aware of the project, and he wasn’t leading it.

HR: How can you be so sure?

Me: Because “I” led that project.

HR: (Very uncomfortably) Oh.

Me: I think it’s best for everyone if we end the call here. I think you have a phone call to make.

HR: Yeah, that’s probably best.

I didn’t necessarily bash him but just set the record straight.”

“Back on February 23, 2014 (Sunday), I was driving home from clothes shopping for my new job that I was starting in a week when my car literally caught on fire with me and my then 4-year-old son in it. I had just bought $200 worth of clothes, and my laundry from the laundromat (including my work shirt and white lab coat) was in my car.

I had already given my notice to my boss that I was leaving, and the next day (Monday), I called to tell her what had happened and that I would not be in because of smoke inhalation issues and because I needed to go buy a new car.

This was supposed to be my last day. She told me then that I needed to return my 3 work shirts and both lab coats, or I would have the costs garnished from my last check. I told her that they were a pile of ashes at the salvage yard. She told me I had to bring them in.

Okay. Will do. (Insert eye roll and a certain finger flashing from my side of the phone)

Tuesday, I walked in with a picture of my laundry basket melted in my car and a Ziplock filled with ashes and mud. I recorded myself giving them to her and telling her again what had happened.

I got a side-eye and a “What the heck?!”

I walked out with a smirk.”

“Years back, in my early days of employment in the early 2000s, when I worked on the loading dock, we were expecting a big load of tech and products for the new office layout; some fancy upgrades and big tech sending the latest computers and network equipment—plenty of expensive equipment. My boss told me to keep the trucks coming and going as smoothly as possible, so we had the team on with a few extras. My responsibility was to get the unloaded pallets and stack them out of the way and ready for return to their owner (company-owned pallets have to be returned).

6 am, I re-caffeinated and started the forklift, and began stacking the Chep pallets for collection.

Around 8:30, one of the main representatives came in early and parked on the dock. This was a problem, as the trucks were scheduled to roll in at 9 am. I asked him to use the main carpark; he told me to screw off and do my job. My job was to make sure the truckies had unobstructed access to the loading dock. I interpreted this as “I am too important, put it somewhere for me.” So, to keep from damaging the car too much, I slid a Chep pallet under it, lifted it, and put the offending BMW up on a stack of pallets—all the while singing, “nothing lifts like a Crown, for picking it up and putting it down” (we had a Crown forklift). The rest of the crew were in stitches, laughing.

Many of the truckies rolled up and knew immediately I was on duty. Those guys always had the best stories; some of them had a good chuckle and made off with a fresh cup of coffee. The day was going smoothly, and we worked that forklift dry, as the last pallet came off and the tank on the forklift emptied. As I dropped off the last pallet, we got that unpacked and used a tug (small electric cart puller) to drag the forklift out of the way.

So, I contacted the boss and told him to get me a payment slip to go get the tank filled at a fuel station.

He came down with the form and the representative—he was all smiles and thanks for the purchase of bulk computers and hardware—but that changed when he spotted his BMW. He was upset and threatened my job, demanding from my boss that I be fired. I just looked at my boss and said, “We should look at the security cameras.” When my boss reviewed the security footage, he pointed out that I did ask him to move and park elsewhere. He then looked at me and said, “Thanks for another day, see you tomorrow.”

The representative wanted the car down immediately. I said, “We can’t; the propane tank for the forklift is empty and gas delivery is tomorrow at 6am.” My boss handed me the payment slip for refilling the forklift tank and said to get the gas in the morning.

The representative spat some more obscenities and said, “This will be tagged onto the bill if your car was damaged; it won’t take much more than a postage stamp to send his boss the footage of you obstructing their loading dock.” Then my boss looked at him and tapped the sign that said, “This is a loading dock, park at your own risk; we are not liable for towing or moving your vehicle – fines apply.”

The next day: After detaching the tank from the forklift, I lugged that thing to my car and drove off to get it filled.

Upon returning with a charged tank of liquid work juice for the forklift, I started that thing and got to moving the BMW down from its perch and ready for the representative to collect.

So, it’s 6:30am, and he has not arrived, so I decided to place this thing in the nearest accessible parking spot—on the street, ticketed spot—as our carpark was not open yet; it was the only safe place available. I contacted my boss and said, “Call the representative; it’s ready for collection. It’s in spot XX, on the parking meter line.” He responded with an “ok.”

Then I got to work sending off the pallets for the day.

It was a half-shift day for me. Now, as for Mr. Representative, he did manage to collect his car before it was ticketed for not feeding the meter, and I heard through my boss that the representative got chewed out and screwed out of his “sales bonus” for acting like a jerk. I miss that boss.”

“A couple of years ago, I was working with a really obnoxious co-worker. He was super lazy, always complaining, extremely unmotivated to do anything actually related to his job, and very motivated to mess around at any given opportunity.

Anyway, this one night, I was doing the big closing mop. At my store, this meant filling a bucket with water and floor cleaner, splashing it all over the store, scrubbing with a hard brush, and vacuuming everything with a wet vac. Clean, fast, and effective.

So I get around to the front counter, and there he is, just standing in the middle of my path with a crap-eating grin on his face.

I’m like “Bro, can you move?”

“No jerks here.”

“Seriously. I need to get this done fast.”

“Yeah, No jerks here.”

“Dude, you don’t move, I’mma dump water all over you.”

“Go on then. I dare you!”

Okay. One thing about me is I never make a threat I won’t follow through. I immediately pour what’s left in my bucket directly into his sneakers. He shrieks and jumps out of my way. He spends the next hour complaining that his socks are full of water.”

“I’m a contracts attorney. I once had a good, long-term client of mine ask for a “simple, one-page contract” for something. Well, the “boilerplate” language is usually at least one page, so it really isn’t feasible to do a one-page contract without leaving out something potentially very important (you never know what someone on a bench, in a robe, with a gavel might think is important, which is why you include EVERYTHING).

So, I wrote the contract the way it should be, keeping it as tight as possible. It was two pages plus a signature page. Then, I moved the margins to 0.25″ (from 1.0″).

Next, I selected all and started decreasing the font size until it all fit on one page. We’re talking Times New Roman, size 2 font. Tiny.”

“About 2 and a half years ago, my apartment was broken into during a camping trip. Some things were stolen, including multiple firearms. A year and a half ago, one of my firearms was found with some kids selling crack in a small city right over the border of the next state. The plea deals fell through and the girl the cops had initially mentioned was going to trial. I received a letter in the mail telling me of the court date and location, but it is explicitly NOT a summons.

Whatever, I want my gun back sooner rather than later, so I’ll go. Both the prosecutor and the assistant prosecutor are out sick, one with a contagious illness. They make us hang around for a while for no reason, and eventually, I just leave. They didn’t like that, but whatever, being there was legally voluntary. I tell them they can mail me the new date, and I’ll deal with it then.

Three weeks go by, and here we are this morning. I get home from work and I check my mail. There are two letters, one for the first girl, and another’s for a guy I know just as an accomplice from the updates about the girl.

His trial is today, and hers is tomorrow.

I go to the courthouse 40 minutes away and let them know I’m here, everything is fine. They bring in the jury pool and spend two hours getting down to seven jurors. The trial starts, and we’re just patiently waiting, four cops and one other civilian victim/witness. They tell us no worries, this will be super quick; they basically just need to ask if it’s the firearm I reported stolen, and I’ll be on my way. They call in all the cops, who are getting paid this whole time, first. It’s now 1 pm.

I’ve been up for 24 hours, on three hours of sleep the day before, after working a 12+ hour overnight shift. My entire body is cramping, I’m super uncomfortable, and I’m exhausted. I last ate at 10 pm. The assistant district attorney comes out and tells us they’re taking an hour lunch break. I tell her I can’t stay, and I need to leave. She tells me I’m not allowed to, I already presented as a witness to the judge, I’d been summoned (I hadn’t), they can charge me with this or that, one of the cops tells me they could detain me, the judge could order me (after I point out I haven’t been summoned and again, this is voluntary). They try to strong-arm me when all I want to do is go home. I point out that this guy isn’t even who I was told was found with my gun. The assistant DA starts explaining how, oh no, he totally was, I don’t know who you heard that from (my local PD mentioned the girl by name originally), giving me all these details about the case. Then, reemphasizing, I really MUST stay, or I’ll be charged with a crime. Don’t worry, though, we’ll get you in right away, so you can leave soon (soon being in more than an hour, minimum).

Here’s the thing: the judge issued a sequester order first thing in the morning before jury selection.

I say fine and wait. Here comes the single greatest act of malicious compliance I’ve ever committed in my life.

All the attorneys come in, all the jury come in. The judge makes me swear to tell the truth. I do. As soon as I finish, I blurt out that the prosecutor broke the sequester and was telling me about the case during the break. STOP. Everyone, except the lawyers, out. Including me. Eventually, they bring just me back in. The judge again makes me swear to tell the truth, confirms I understand what’s happening, tells me the importance of a fair trial (maybe don’t tamper with witnesses then?), and explains that witnesses are never to volunteer information and are to only answer the questions.

You’ve been summoned, and it’s a legal obligation. I let him finish and mentioned that I have NEVER been summoned. He says, “Then I’m ordering you, understood?” Yes.

Everyone comes back in. We all take our oaths again. The prosecutor who was threatening me started asking questions. Here’s the thing: I swore to tell the truth. I never agreed to tell it in a way that makes her life easier. She asks me some basic questions—name, age, what I do for work, etc. Then she gets into the actual questions: do I own weapons, did I report any stolen around this date, did I own one of this model, did I report this model stolen, etc.

“Is this your gun?” “It certainly looks like it.” “Did the XXXX police contact you when it was recovered?” “No.” “Who did?” “YYYY police department” (my local PD). “Did they give you any details regarding how it was recovered?” “They said it was allegedly used in a crime by a girl named.” Defense objects, and the judge strikes that from the testimony. By now, the DA is realizing that she’s giving me too much leeway and starts asking for yes or no answers, eventually asking if I’d recognize the serial number if I saw it. I tell her no, and that roughly sums up her questions for me.

Then it’s the defendant’s turn, and it goes exactly as you would expect by now. I answer truthfully, but in favorable wording. “You said it looks like your gun, but you can’t confirm?” “I’d need to compare the serial number against the police report or the gun shop which still has it on record.” “Do you know who stole your firearm?” “No.” “Do you recognize zzzz?” “No.” She asked a few more plausible deniability questions and then I was free to go.

I can’t wait to be back tomorrow for the girls’ trial.

I’ll probably be much less malicious, but I know the DA will be nervous when she sees me. Court is officially over so the sequester order is no longer in effect, good times, and don’t worry, if I botched her case in this regard, that kid had more than enough charges; he should have taken the plea deal.”

“I have worked in public education on-site for over 25 years. The “supervisor” was a new one with a questionable past. I was a newly elected Union President. The “supervisor” did not like me, and I think he felt threatened by my mere existence and went after me. Wrong move, Skippy!!

From the beginning of the educational term, my supervisor (ND) and I clashed. He seemed to go out of his way to find something to talk with me about, write me up for, or simply question me about.

At first, I chalked it up as an attempt to figure out what I did and how things ran, but it became obvious that he was going after me and trying to get me fired! Well, let’s just say that as a long-term employee in a public education system with a STRONG UNION, I am fairly protected. Add to that the fact that I am the Union President of that STRONG UNION—add KEVLAR to that protection. That is not to say I could not lose my job; it just needed to be criminal and a felony!

I will try to keep the rest of the story short.

After multiple petty meetings, conference summaries, and write-ups, I got tired of it! I started to push back and refused to talk, even in public spaces, to ND. He was invisible to me. I did not hear him; I did not talk with him. In fact, I would ask someone to give him a message while I was standing in front of him. Needless to say, this made him frustrated. If he wanted to talk with me, there was always another person from the Union in the room with me. On one occasion, during what I refer to as a fishing exposition, his reply was, “I will not answer those questions with my attorney present.” And no, it was not an investigation of a criminal nature. ND kept rephrasing the questions, hoping I would slip up or answer, but no—I was smarter than him. I answered questions that did not follow ND’s intended path, but I would not answer the questions he wanted to use to nail me. This frustrated him so much that he started to threaten my job and reassign me. “Nope, Skippy, you cannot do that.” He sent me a directive stating that I was to check in with his assistant each morning, check out for lunch and then check in again, and finally check out at the end of each day. If the assistant was not present, I was directed to text both ND and the assistant if I was away from my desk. I was also instructed to only work during my duty time, and I could not work outside my designated hours. OK, not a problem!

Each morning, I would walk past ND’s office and check in. Every time I had to go to the copier, I would text both of them; every time I used the restroom, I would text both of them; and every time I had to talk with someone away from my desk, I texted both of them. This quickly became fun. If I was called into a meeting by the Dean or another higher administration official, I told them that I was not allowed to leave my desk, office, or classroom without ND’s permission and that they needed to call him to obtain that permission.

Needless to say, I was following the directive to the letter and handling things with a smile. This continued for about two weeks before the Dean and others started to get annoyed by ND’s actions and directives. The increased pressure on ND became increased pressure on me. Yep, he was not getting the message and was digging his heels in because he’s the boss and I was just a subordinate. When I was fed up, I brought in the Regional Union Representative, and they made it very clear—with not only ND but also the President of the Educational Institution—that the next meeting would involve the Union Attorneys. We would be filing legal action under State and Federal laws in regard to “Union Busting!” Big dollars in attorney fees to even begin addressing the complaint. By the way, it costs us nothing for our attorneys and filing.

Long story short, my life got much easier. He was not allowed to talk with me, and he was placed on Administrative Leave for the remainder of the year and never returned to educational employment in the area. And for me, life is great, and I am happy to work more hours than I am paid for and I do not need to text anyone when I have to pee!

Winner!”

“A decade ago, my primary school had a lollipop man to help the kids cross the road (for anyone not in the know – they wear hi-vis and hold a stop sign). He was nearly 80 and had come out of retirement many years earlier to help out since nobody else wanted to do the job.

He and his pensioner friends would go on an annual holiday together, and it was the same time each year so he could give the council plenty of notice. The council outright told him no because it’s in the middle of term time, refused to compromise and let anyone else cover for a week, and said that if he went ahead, then he shouldn’t even think about returning to work when he got back.

Well, they overestimated how much he wanted that job. He went on his holiday, didn’t come back to work, and that stuck up the council’s bum meant that instead of being without a lollipop man for a week, they’ve been without one ever since.”

“I work at a small casino, and last year management decided that all employees had to wear name tags with their hometown on them as “conversation starters’ with guests. As you can probably imagine, a lot of us had issues with that, but there was no arguing with them. Some people tried not to put their hometown down, but managers wrote it in for them to the best of their memories. A few people tried to be smart and write down places like Nunya, Peru, or Heck, Michigan. Those also got vetoed.

I, however, being a bit more creative than most and being a big horror fan, as well as a writer, chose a hometown that wouldn’t raise any eyebrows unless you were actually paying attention. My choice actually slipped through the cracks, although it is certainly a conversation starter if you know.

My name tag lists my hometown as Derry, Maine.

Anyone want a balloon?”

“Well, this happened a few years ago, when I was working as a techno-manager in a startup IT firm. It was a small firm with fewer than 50 employees, and there were two founders. Let’s call them Vicky and Joel. Vicky had worked for a short time in an MNC, but she was not able to stand authority and had to resign, whereas Joel had no real workplace experience. Vicky managed the place like a king, throwing tantrums and displaying anger, etc. Joel was simply a yes man to Vicky.

Now we had an HR lady who was okayish with the older employees and strict with the newer ones.

As for me, I was not as good technically compared to my colleagues, but I was good at people management. Also, I was one of the longest-serving employees, too. I was friendly with most of the employees, especially the new ones. This was because I knew it was not easy to work with the founders, and I wanted the show to continue since it was my first company as well. So a new joinee, named Bob, joined, and after 6 months he was assigned to a project. Because of the time zone difference, he worked up to 4–5 am, and the client was happy with him too.

Since he was sleeping late, this guy always reported at nearly 11:30 am at the office.

Out of the blue, a founder called me and HR and asked why Bob was late to the office, and said he had to be in the office by 10:00 am like the other guys. (By the way, I forgot to mention that Vicky and Joel came into the office only once in a while, and it was pre–public health crisis times; but since they are founders, let’s ignore that.) The HR lady took responsibility for asking Bob about that. At this point, since the HR lady was not aware of Bob’s working hours, I interrupted and said that he was leaving the office only between 2–4 am, and it’s kind of unfair to ask him to come in early.

Vicky interrupted me and said, “No, he has to follow the rules, and this is the basic etiquette when working in this office.” I said, “Okay.” The HR lady called Bob into her office and questioned him about the timings, to which Bob said, “Okay, ma’am, I will comply.”

Now Bob and I have a good rapport, and he came directly to me and told me what happened with HR. Then I asked him, “What are you going to do?” to which he replied, “I will ask for clarification via mail and then will comply.” I understood where it was going and wished him the best of luck, trying hard to contain my laughter.

After 10 minutes, HR came to me in a panic, carrying her laptop, and showed me the mail that Bob had sent.

He had cc’d the founders and the client head he was reporting to, and had written something along these lines: “Hi Client head name, this is to inform you that, as a request from my office to comply with the office timings, from tomorrow onwards, my working hours will be 10 am IST to 7 pm IST (i.e., 10:30 pm to 7:30 am Chicago time). I request you to change your meeting times to when I am available, and if there are any inconveniences, please contact HR, Vicky, or Joel. Thanks, Bob” I asked HR if this was mentioned somewhere in the offer letter, and she nodded yes. Then I told her to take the matter to Vicky.

In Vicky’s room, since the narcissist he was, he scolded HR for not having mentioned this in the offer letter.

Then he asked her to correct it. She went to Bob and asked for a correction, to which Bob firmly said no. The HR lady, being foolish, said that she had mentioned it because Vicky told her to, and Bob still stood firm and asked HR that if Vicky had said it, then ask Vicky to formally reply in the email thread, requesting to revert to his old timings. Bob also said that he was not going to switch back to his old timings unless Vicky sent an email, and they had approximately 4 hours to do so before the client reacted.

HR came to me for help, and we went together to Vicky’s room to brief him.

Vicky lashed out at HR, and at this point, I interrupted and said, “It’s better to address the issue, as in 4 hours the client will get involved and we have to make a decision before that.” Vicky hesitantly sent out an email saying that it was a mistake, as Bob’s special case was not considered during the decision-making process, and that Bob could continue his earlier timings. As I walked back to the office, I saw Bob looking at me and laughing really hard, and I had to hold a straight face since the HR lady was also behind me. Needless to say, Bob maintained his timings intact!”