Sometimes life piles up on us so fast that we forget what it even feels like to laugh. You deal with work, bills, family problems, and all the other things that come with being an adult, and it wears you down. So when a good revenge story comes along, it hits in exactly the right way.
There is something oddly comforting about hearing how regular people handle unfair situations with a bit of creativity. It reminds you that even when life feels heavy, there is room for humor and small wins that lift your spirits. These stories do not fix life, but they definitely take the edge off.
If you need a quick break from the stress of everything, these revenge stories will give you that little spark of joy. Keep reading and enjoy the laughs.
1. Sure, We’ll Dress Our Best
“I was working in a small accountant’s office, there’s only 7 of us. We were part of a larger ‘chain’ so occasionally, the owner/managing director would visit. Now, our office was located on the outskirts of an industrial estate and the attire was smart casual.
Very relaxed atmosphere and we had a reputation for being the ‘fun’ branch. We had a new manager start with the company, and on his first day (Thursday), we can see he’s going to be difficult. He turns up in a gleaming BMW, full suit and tie.
Full-on professional look. Attitude to match.
At the end of his second day (Friday), he sent a branch-wide memo that he expected us to dress more appropriately.
That all staff was to wear full business suits, men with ties, women with ascots. He also complained that the staff cars were ‘too grubby,’ our desks were untidy and did not reflect our profession.
He also insisted that when referring to each other in phone calls or e-mails, we called each other, ‘Mr. Smith,’ or ‘Miss Jones,’ instead of ‘Larry’ or ‘Susan.’
Now, as I mentioned – we’re located on an industrial estate and the vast majority of our clients were small self-owned businesses – they already thought we were dressed well because they’d turn up in messy jeans and t-shirts driving beat-up old vans.
After work, we all went to the pub (without the new manager), moaned a bit but thought, ‘he’s just flexing his managerial muscles, humor him and he’ll start to relax.’ The following week, we turn up as requested and had our cars washed, desks somewhat tidier.
Everything seems to be going fairly well, until the next Friday when we receive another e-mail:
“To all,
Whilst I recognize that there has been some improvement in the staff’s and office appearance, I feel there is still significant room for further improvement.
As you may know, [Owner] is visiting at 10:30 am on Monday.
I expect all staff to wear their best clothing, for desks to be tidy and vehicles to be washed. (etc)
(New Manager)”
Again, we went to the pub. This time, we schemed. He wanted a good impression, he’ll b****y get one. I’m sure a lot of you are thinking, ‘Oh, you just turned up in really nice suits, better than his, and showed him up.” We did, but we did much more too.
We contacted the cleaner, who cleaned our office on Saturdays. Ask her if she’s okay going overboard on the cleaning. She agrees. Extra work for her means more money for her.
One of our clients happens to be in the classic car business, mainly weddings.
He’s been a client for years and we get on really well. We ask if we can borrow a couple of cars (as all who needed to drive could all carpool in two).
He agrees as business was quiet, so long as we pay for the petrol – which split 7-ways was totally worth it.
Roll on to Monday morning: A Rolls Royce Phantom III & a Lagonda 14/60, meticulously polished are sitting in our car park, sunlight glinting off the bodywork. Inside, the desks are completely clear, the metal bins polished, door handles polished, even our filing cabinet handles and our pencil sharpeners had been polished.
It looked better than new. The men are all wearing black-tie dinner suits with waistcoats (US: Tuxedo), with a fresh rose in the button-hole. Sterling silver cuff links. Beards are trimmed or totally shaven, two of us even waxed our mustaches. Women are in stunning evening dresses, sparkly jewelry, fancy hair (self-styled, didn’t waste money on hairdressers).
Even brought in a hat stand, and placed bowlers and top hats on it for extra fanciness.
Essentially, we looked like we were expecting to see the Queen walk in.
New Manager (NM) pulls up with the Owner as a passenger. You can see them both look briefly puzzled, but they must have assumed that the classic car client must be visiting, so they walk in chatting.
NM’s face drops, he stops mid-sentence. He is the worst dressed (barring the owner, who was smart-casual), had the scruffiest car and his desk was the messiest.
We get eyes that say, ‘If I could kill you all right now, I would.’ The owner and NM go into NM’s office to discuss something.
Eventually, the owner comes out, NM remains in his office to deal with something. The owner catches one of my colleagues to ask what the heck we’re doing. Colleague just pulls up the e-mail and says, ‘He insisted we wore our absolute best for you, so we did.’ The owner stifles a laugh.
He can see exactly what we’ve done. Fortunately, we all knew him and his relaxed attitude so we knew we’d probably get away with it. He half-heartedly ‘chides’ us for being petty when NM is coming out of the office. Once the owner has gone, and NM returns, he writes us a blazing e-mail saying something along the lines of, ‘You might think you’re funny, I don’t.
If you all want to turn up to work scruffy, go ahead. Look unprofessional.’
We return to our usual casualness the day after, clearly to his disfavor, and after a few weeks, NM transfers to a different branch. Our new-new Manager was one of us lower-ranks promoted, so the casual atmosphere continued to reign.
NM snubbed us whenever we saw him, which was fortunately rare.”
2. Block My Driveway? No More Vehicles For You
“Friday night here in the country can get a little crazy sometimes so I don’t mind when my neighbors cause a ruckus or loud party as long as it’s not too crazy.
Tonight I’m on call for Virginia State Police towing rotation which means I’ve got 25 minutes to get to where ever the wreck/DUI/impound/etc., is.
As luck would have it, my neighbors are having a party and guess what’s blocking my driveway?
That’s right, about 25-30 cars.
I live down a dirt road at the end of a cul-de-sac, and it’s pretty narrow. One in one out type of deal, and with this rain we’ve been having, parking in the grass/clay/mud is really not the best idea.
Even with a 4×4, it can still get tricky.
I noticed a few cars coming in early this evening and walked over to my neighbor’s and made it clear I was on call and as long as they didn’t block the road or my driveway all would be good.
No problems here. Well, I get a call from my boss asking if I can go warm up the Rotator and the light-duty flatbed (tow trucks).
It’s about 12:30 AM so I get my boots on and other gear because if I’m up, I might as well stay at the shop and clean a few things to stay busy and make the night move along.
I get in my car and as I’m backing out of the driveway, I notice I’m blocked in. I don’t mean by one truck, but by nearly 15 different vehicles. I calmly walk over to my neighbor’s about a 1/8th-mile hike and as I’m looking for them through the crowd of wild teenagers, some idiot wants to know why I’m on his property (he’s not the property owner, I’ve never seen this classy gentleman before).
Finally, I find my neighbor and ask her if she can move the cars, I’ve got to go to work she says in a normal tone (doesn’t yell over the music) into the house, ‘whoever’s blocking the driveway next door move your trucks!’ Then slams the door in my face.
I knock again and she answers with a slurred ‘Oh God, this witch again?’ (internally I’m thinking, ‘Alright then…’). I do my best to explain, I’m on call and need to get out of my driveway to go to work, she comes back sloshing a Natural Light exclaiming, ‘It’s a party, relax!!!!!” Shuts the door in my face and yells, ‘Forget that witch,’ I smile and as I’m walking away, macho man throws a can at me and cackles, ‘Yeah you best leave, go on!”
I get on the phone with dispatch and call for as many trucks as we have available tonight (about ten) and tell them to come on over, momma’s got some PPI’s (private property impounds).
I call police dispatch and ask if they’d send out an officer in case things get out of hand and as soon as he gets to my place, my rigs start rolling up and hooking vehicles up and taking them to the impound yard.
We get down to the last three vehicles. A yellow Civic, gold Silverado and an old F-150
The Civic owner bolts to his car and takes off. The Silverado girl (pretty wasted) gets stuck and starts tearing up my property. The officer walks over and she throws a fit.
Long story short, she gets arrested.
The Ford owner doesn’t even show up.
I get to work after all the impounds and with me, I brought coffees and snacks for my drivers. Tomorrow is not a business day which means if these tools want their cars back, it’s going to be the regular $289.50 plus two days of storage at $55 a day and a $100 gate fee.
I make a note on every single storage sheet (papers that the vehicle owners get) to thank the girl who had the party for getting towed. Several of the kids’ parents called wanting to know where their cars or trucks were.
I gave them the yard address and told them they can come anytime.
As soon as they started shouting about illegal tows and threatening with lawyers, I showed them pictures of their cars with no parking signs. And explained that I tried to reason with the owner of the property (me) but she was tired of being blocked in by rowdy teenagers.
There are signs on my road saying no parking, and not to block the driveway. Don’t mess with a tow truck driver, she’ll legally take ALL your vehicles.”
3. Cut Me Off And Expect ME To Pump YOUR Gas? Talk To The Police
“I was on my way home after a very long day working at the hospital. As much as I would have rather just kept driving, the gaslight blazing away on my dash told me to stop being lazy and just fill the tank.
After hopping off the highway, I head for the small station I frequently use. It only has two pumps (both sides, so 4 spots). Even though it has great prices, I rarely have to wait more than a car or two for an open spot. Other than the station, the road is pretty much empty nearby.
The station was on my side of the road, so I turned on my right-hand directional. As I begin to turn the wheel into the station, this lunatic in a Mercedes, coming from the other direction, sliced through the out-lane and inches across my front bumper to beat me into the parking lot.
I slammed on my breaks, sending my gym bag and a stack of folders shooting off the passenger seat into a jumbled mess on the floor. I am not a big swearer, but that had me cussing like a sailor.
As I pulled in, I noticed a police car in a parking spot outside the building that houses the cashier and the tiny convenience store.
My hopes rose as I prayed the officer saw the crazy lady’s stunt and I was about to witness instant karma. No such luck. Sigh.
She pulled to one side of the pumps. I pulled to the other. I got out, swiped my card, and started the gas flowing.
Then clear as a bell, I hear the snottiest sounding voice issuing from the Mercedes.
“This is unbelievable. I was clearly here first, but this idiot is filling up the other car first. No! He hasn’t even started me yet. I swear these people are stupid as smack out here.
Hold on, Sie. I have to deal with this moron, or I will be here all day.” Now the dreaded, “Excuse ME!” is aimed right at me. “You know you don’t need to wait for the tank to be full before you start another car?
Now come here and take this,” she said waggling a credit card at me. “If I am late because of you, I will be calling your boss. And just so you know, it is very rude to service customers out of order. I was here ahead of that guy.”
I looked down, and sure enough, she has a New Jersey license plate. In NJ, you don’t pump your own gas; an attendant does it for you. My state may have a few full-service stations left, but honestly, I haven’t seen one in ages.
Here, you pump for yourself. If she had gotten out of her car, she would have seen I WAS “that guy,” but the pump blocked her line of sight. I considered an ‘I don’t work here lady’ style response, but the primped-up entitled expression on this self-absorbed B required more from me.
She stared harder at me, raising her brows, and waggled the card even more emphatically before I knew what to do. I let go of my pump, stepped closer, and took the card from her manicured fingers. As she sneered at me, I looked her right in the eyes and snapped my hand downward, flinging her card straight into the trash barrel beside the pump.
Someone must have thrown a slushy or milkshake in there because the card made an awesome splat sound when it hit the bottom.
The harpy-shrill screech that ensued made the thought of sorting out all the files on the floor of my car almost worth it.
It could have stopped there, and I would have happily driven away with my half-full tank, but it was not over yet.
She was screaming obscenities at me as I turned away, broiling out the Mercedes in her designer outfit, completely losing her mind. That was when the officer came dashing out of the store.
“Excuse me, miss. Are you alright? What is going on?”
“This man assaulted me and stole my card. He threw it in there.” She says stabbing a three-inch-long nail at the barrel.
“Is that correct, sir?”
“Barely. She insisted, and I mean INSISTED, I take her card.
Since I am under no obligation to provide her service with the card, nor did I want it, I disposed of it in the most expedient manner available to me,” I replied, gesturing at the wonderful trash receptacle myself.
“That was a pretty petty thing to do.
I think you should get it for her,” the officer decreed. The NJ B was beaming with smug malice at that.
“I will under one condition. You detain us both then go look at the store’s parking lot camera. Once you see how we entered the lot, you can decide who goes dumpster-diving.”
He raised a brow at me, but says, “Fine.” He takes our licenses and tells us both to wait there.
She is a bit perplexed at first, but her natural entitlement must have convinced her she HAS TO BE in the right. It is not long before she began to hiss a handful of pretty vile threats at me.
I ignored her and finished filling my tank. My passive smiling confidence must have unnerved her eventually. She crept back into the driver’s seat and began talking about lawyers with Sie. About 20 minutes later, the officer returned. He handed me back my license and told me I’m free to go.
Before New Jersey can get a word out, he very sternly rounds on her and said, “Registration, ma’am.”
That made cleaning up her mess totally worth it!”
