I’m driving from Michigan to South Dakota to go to the Badlands National Park. It’s a two-day drive, so I decide I’ll just go for one day and then turn around and go home.

My GPS gives me two options on how to get there. I can either go essentially 270 degrees around Chicago, through Wisconsin, across Minnesota, and then across South Dakota, or I can keep going west through Illinois, into Iowa, and then north to Minnesota. The second option is ten minutes longer and about $6 cheaper from the lack of tolls. I say great and go that route.

Being the little speed demon that I am, I end up passing an Illinois state trooper going seventy-four in a seventy-mile-an-hour zone. He pulls out behind me but doesn’t turn on his lights. I hope the universe is being merciful and get in the right-hand land going sixty-nine. He follows. I come up behind a semi that’s going sixty-five. I turn on my blinker, change lanes, pass the truck, turn on my blinker, and move back over.

The trooper then turns on his lights, and I pull off the side of the road.

Trooper: “Hello, ma’am. Illinois state law says that you need to have your blinker on for 300 feet before you change lanes. Now, I’m not going to write you a ticket for that, just give you a warning.”

Me: “Thank you, officer.”

Trooper: “Where are you going to?”

Me: “Badlands National Park.”

Trooper: “Oh, neat. How long will you be there for?”

Me: “I’m just driving out there, spending one day, and then coming back.”

Trooper: “Just a day?”

Me: “Yeah, I mean, the trip is going to take a week as it is.”

Trooper: “Huh. Can I have your license? I’ll just run that real quick and get you the warning, and you’ll be all set.”

I hand off the information and sit and wait. And wait.

A second car that says, “Sheriff,” pulls up behind the gentleman with too much time on his hands. Finally, the sheriff comes up to my window.

Sheriff: “Hello. Do you mind if we have the dog sniff your car? He will be checking for narcotics.”

I have six more hours left to drive and want to get a move on.

Me: “That’s fine.”

The dog circles my car. And I wait some more.

Trooper: “So, ma’am, we get people carrying drugs across the state. So, I just want to know, do you have any contraband on you?”

Me: “No, sir.”

Trooper: “Are you carrying large amounts of cash?”

Me: “I think I have a dollar bill in my wallet.”

Trooper: “Did anyone give you any little baggies or other packages to carry?”

Me: “No, sir.”

Trooper: “Okay. Do you mind stepping out so we can search your car?”

I am pretty sure I can tell him no, but again, I want to get back to driving, and agreeing seems like the fastest way out of this corn-filled state.

Me: “Just so long as you don’t judge how messy my car is, that’s fine.”

I step out, and they spend about thirty seconds glancing through my car with luggage in the back seat and craft supplies in my trunk. The trooper comes back to me with my license and a warning for going seventy-four in a seventy.

Trooper: “Sorry about that, ma’am. There seems to have been a misunderstanding. You drive safe now.”

Me: “Thank you, officer.”

I’m not really sure what was misunderstood there, but I didn’t go that way on my way back home.

A potential client phoned me to see if I’d produce a pilot episode for him. It was for a paranormal “reality” show set in a “legitimate” haunted house. He needed me to run casting, shooting, editing, and basically every job other than coming up with the idea and the location.

Client: “I can’t really afford to pay you for this, but I make a mean batch of [recreational substance] brownies.”

A few years back, I was developing a new vineyard. Due to the nature of the work, you end up going through a few men. I settled on a reasonably good crew of eight for the after-planting work that included a bloke we’ll call “Bobbie”.

When Bobbie started with me, he admitted that he had a past that involved some heavy drug use, but he claimed he was clean for his kids.

His brothers must have had other ideas because he was soon back on the gear (Australian slang for a particular drug), and his work was slipping. Being casual, I don’t mind being flexible with time worked as long as there’s communication, but Bobbie was coming in late, shooting through early, and at times simply not turning up.

One Monday, he didn’t turn up. When I messaged him to find out what was going on, he said something along the lines of:

Bobbie: “Sorry, mate. I’ve got a bit of gastro.”

This was clearly bulls*** given his history; he’d likely been on a bender and woken up at someone else’s place and didn’t know which side of town he was on.

This is where some malicious compliance came in. I had kids at daycare. I knew that once they got crook (Australian slang for illness) they were excluded for several days. Why should work be any different?

I checked the federal government’s health website which recommended exclusion for three days after symptoms passed to ensure the bug wasn’t spread. This was too easy.

Me: “That’s pretty s***. I can’t risk it going through the crew, and with the number of young kids on the farm, I can’t risk it spreading to them. The government recommends three days to let it clear properly, so take the rest of the week to get over it, mate.”

Bobbie’s one-day sickie to get over his hangover had suddenly turned into a week’s lost wages, and he couldn’t argue because, as thick as he was, he knew he was just digging himself a hole.

Amazingly, he seemed to have learned his lesson and didn’t try that bulls*** on me again.

I work in a facility that has a lumber yard, and I’ve only seen one person get fired.

This guy had only been working there for less than a day, maybe just a couple of hours even, and he decided to do some hard drugs in the lumber yard. You know, around heavy machinery and heavy materials, and where customers could see him.

He was very quickly escorted off the property after that — so quickly I never actually met him.

I’m working the front desk of a hotel by myself as one of my coworkers is on their lunch break. All of a sudden, one of our [Rewards] members comes down the elevator with all of his luggage and makes a beeline toward the desk. I put on my best smile, but internally, there are no smiles. The guest looks absolutely infuriated, and I can just tell this is going to be one of those situations where, no matter what I do, he will not be satisfied.

Me: *In my customer service voice* “Good afternoon sir, how can I assist you?”

Guest: “You can help me by telling me why the f*** I wasn’t placed in my usual room!”

Now, he’s a [Rewards] member — loyalty to the brand and all that — and he stays at this property a lot. I’m willing to work with him because, honestly, I get it. However, I’m a little perturbed because I don’t like being cursed at right out the gate; talk to me like a civilized human being first, at least.

I stop the task I’m doing and go over to my computer.

Me: “I will check and see what happened.”

I look through my computer and I see that his usual room was put out of order by maintenance as it needed to be repainted. Perfectly logical, right? Well, Mr. Shiny Member doesn’t think so. His face gets very red and he sputters a bit in absolute disbelief.

Guest: *Bellowing* “How can you do this to me?! You knew I was coming! I’m a [Rewards] member! I demand to speak to the manager!”

Internally, I’m rolling my eyes. “Of course, you do,” I think to myself.

Me: *Calmly* “I am the manager on duty. Maintenance doesn’t have access to our reservation records; therefore, they wouldn’t know that there was anyone who had a particular room preference.”

As you can imagine, the guest does not like that answer.

Guest: “You call maintenance right now and have them stop painting that room! Move me into it!”

It’s important to point out that maintenance started painting the room a couple of days ago and they are definitely not finished with it.

Me: “Sir, the room is quite literally in the middle of being painted.”

He starts going on and on about how he’ll have me fired, etc. Yeah, if I had a dollar.

I offer him a new room — honestly, a better one than he deserves at this point — as well as a free night and a free meal from the restaurant on site. The beast, however, will not be placated.

Guest: “You’re an idiot! You should have known that I was coming and made sure that my room was set aside for me!”

Now I’m not going to work with you at all. If you wanna play that game, we can, but I’ll win.

Guest: “I want to check out right here and now!”

Me: “I can check you out, but there will be an early departure fee.”

Of course, he doesn’t like this, either.

Guest: “I want to talk to the manager! They’ll waive the fee for me!”

Me: “Sir, as I said, I’m the manager on duty.”

Guest: “Eat s***!”

And he walked off. I checked him out and charged him the relevant fees.

I decided to share the experience on a website I frequent, and someone in the comments suggested that I should have maintenance go up and check if the guest had hidden anything in the room since he likes that particular room so much. I went up with maintenance and, lo and behold, there was something, indeed!

Wedged under the bed, we found a briefcase absolutely filled with adult magazines. Of course, there was no way to prove that the briefcase belonged to the guest, as we’ve had others stay in that room since his last visit, but I think they’re his.

Apparently, sometime after he left, he called my general manager directly using the phone number from one of the business cards we keep up front. He cursed [General Manager] out and was promptly added to our Do Not Rent list!

After I told [General Manager] about the briefcase we found, he had the room checked more thoroughly, and they found drug paraphernalia taped underneath the sink. He said he would be calling the guest himself to tell him that he was not only no longer allowed at our property but would no longer be able to stay at ANY hotel in our brand again!