Picture this: you’re in the ER, the fluorescent lights flicker like a disco ball, and your shift partner is—well—let’s just say they’re not exactly the golden child of teamwork. Call them “J.” J has a knack for turning every minor mishap into a full‑blown drama, and she’s managed to snag a 12‑hour shift almost every time you’re scheduled. That’s half of the day and a half of the night, depending on how you look at it.

A few weeks ago, J begged for the 10th and 11th of the month off so she could catch a concert. The 10th got the green light. The 11th? Not so much. But J, ever the diva, announced to anyone who would listen, “I’ve got the whole week off!” and casually mentioned she’d “call in sick” whenever it suited her. Because apparently, a “sick call” is just another word for “I’m not actually sick, but I’m a hero and I’ll show up anyway.”

You’re the one who knows the real story: J was planning to show up at 11:00 PM, a full 24 hours after the concert, and you’ll be left in the ER alone, no break, no backup. So you wait. Then, a miracle—another coworker who had already clocked a 12‑hour day shift works an extra 6 hours just so you can grab a coffee break. The universe (or at least the universe’s HR department) is merciful, but the real irony remains: J’s “sick call” gets away with it, while you get the short end of the stick.

So here’s the moral: If you’re planning to “fake call in sick” after a concert, maybe consider swapping a day shift instead of a night. At least then you won’t be the one staying up all night on your own.

Ever wondered at what point in life you stop buying yourself a pair of shiny red slippers and start asking the hard questions? One Reddit thread had us all re‑examining the evidence and the evidence for… Santa’s existence.

Question:
How old were you and how did you find out Santa isn’t real?

It sounds like a typical “I’m still a child” rant, but the responses turned out to be a goldmine of holiday heartbreak, sock‑theory, and a few accidental truths. Below are the comments, cleaned up, and the story they tell.

Ever stumbled across a headline that made you think, “Wait, is this a reality‑TV plot?” and then realized it was just a Reddit thread about an ordinary office worker who once made a living shaking a drum set? That’s exactly what we’re digging into today. Spoiler: it involves an oncologist, a band called The Offspring, and a courtroom that decided it was safer to postpone a trial than to risk a juror’s heart racing at a drum solo.

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The Post​

Has anyone met someone that was once famous (actor, musician, etc.) but now works a regular job? Who was it?

Only the title was posted—no extra description, so the real fun began in the comments.

Picture this: an insurance office that’s busier than a squirrel on a caffeine binge. The only Customer‑Service Representative (CSR) left after a brutal budget cut is now the office’s emotional and operational lifeline. Meanwhile, the sales team—three folks, two of whom think “service” is a typo in the word “sales”—are on a quest to avoid actual work.

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The Daily Soap Opera​

Every time the CSR steps out—just a few hours, or a full day—the sales crew starts a symphony of frantic calls, frantic texts, and frantic “can you look at this billing thing?” requests. They’re basically shouting, “Help! I can’t handle my own customers!” and then immediately proceed to chat about lunch plans or the latest office gossip.

The plot twist? They still want to do the actual changes to the customers’ accounts while the CSR is on a coffee break. In other words, they’re using the CSR as a human remote‑control.

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The New Rule of the Day​

Rule #1: Don’t let the sales team call or text you while you’re off.
Rule #2: If you’re the only one who can fix billing, you’re not a safety net—you’re a paid lifeguard.
Rule #3: Set boundaries. Let the chaos ensue, but only if you’re ready for popcorn.

So I’ve decided: every Wednesday, I will be off—no email, no phone, no “call me back” from anyone. I’ll be at home, sipping tea, and not being paid to think about the office. If they try to ping me, they’ll get the silent treatment, and I’ll let them figure it out on their own.

I can already hear the office chatter: “Did you hear? The CSR is off! What’s going to happen?” The answer? Chaos, a little panic, and probably a very confused sales rep who will have to learn how to actually do their job.

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TL;DR​

I’m taking Wednesdays off, and the office is about to learn a lesson in self‑sufficiency. If you’re a sales rep who can’t handle a billing inquiry, maybe try doing it yourself before you ask the CSR. Popcorn’s ready—watch the chaos.

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It was the late 1990s, high‑schooler‑turned‑cash‑register‑hero, and a burger joint that could have been a sitcom set. I was still in class, juggling a lunch break and a job at a popular fast‑food franchise. The layout was the classic: a big lobby, a dining area, a drive‑through that never stopped, and an indoor playground that was basically a kid‑version of a nightclub with slides and a ball pit. I was standing behind the counter, taking orders, when the chaos started.

The Unlikely Villain: Stewie​

Enter Stewie, the fry cook who apparently had a problem with the manager’s “no restroom breaks during rush hour” policy. Twice he tried to sneak a bathroom break and was denied. He stormed back to the kitchen, grumbling, and then… something happened. After a few minutes of me drowning in fries, I saw him walk past me, not towards the restroom, but straight into the main dining area. Then he vanished through the glass door that led to the indoor playground. I watched him reappear, this time heading straight for the bathrooms.

The manager came running, asking if I’d seen Stewie. I told him, and he dashed to the restrooms—only to find the place empty except for staff. The whole building was suddenly a ghost town. The manager, realizing the situation, locked the doors, turned off the lights, and the entire crew made their way to the lobby. That’s when a mysterious stench hit us all.

The Great Dookie Trail​

What followed was a trail of doom that went from the lobby, through the dining area, into the playground, up the kiddie slide, and out the handicap‑access door next to the restrooms. The culprit? Stewie, who apparently had a loose bowel and chose to “share” his misfortune with everyone except the bathrooms. The trail was everywhere—except where it belonged.

The manager, probably still in a hurry to get the place closed, didn’t notice until it was too late. The restaurant stayed shut for two days, the playground was closed longer, and the ball pit had to be replaced. I, a seventeen‑year‑old still in school, clocked out before midnight and left the chaos behind. I’ve never seen Stewie again, but he’s my hero… for a very specific reason.

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So here’s the drama: my dad passed away a few years back and the house suddenly turned into a man‑of‑the‑house playground for my brother. He quit college (no big deal—he was never a big “smart” guy, so why bother?), works construction, and occasionally fixes our cars, does a bit of plumbing, or whacks a cabinet into place. He calls that “helping with the bills.”

One sunny afternoon, I stroll back from a three‑lecture marathon (plus a lab, because nursing school hates the easy life) and find him elbow‑deep in a cabinet. The first thing he says, with the smugness of a man who has just fixed a broken part of the house:

“The sink is full. Why didn’t you do the dishes? It’s been two days!”

I shoot him back, “I always do my dishes. Those are literally yours and Mom’s. I’m not your maid.”

Cue the guilt‑trip. He launches into a full‑blown emotional manipulation routine:

• “I just came home from a 13‑hour day, fixed this junk, Mom works six days a week. The least you could do is clean the house and do the dishes.”
• “You’re a leech.”

I remind him I’m juggling nursing finals, not a full‑time cleaning crew. He snaps, “Typical females of this generation. I’ll do the dishes. Go to the mechanic next time. Don’t come to me again.”

I ignored him, retreated to my room, and later received a bank transfer request for $600 with a note: “Brake and oil change. Parts and labour.”

Context check: I’m third in the house, doing my one‑third share: kitchen and bathroom clean‑up two to three days a week. I’m studying nursing; he dropped out of business school; Mom rarely defends me and treats him like an angel. I’m exhausted, plan to move out once I finish my degree and can afford it.

TL;DR: Brother thinks a few car repairs every few months earns him the right to boss me around and charge me for his “services.” I’m studying nursing and can’t be his maid. Am I the asshole?

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The Original Drama​

I work for my mom’s small business and, honestly, I act like a normal employee—fixed schedule, supervisor on call, company equipment, all that jazz. The only thing that’s been a real head‑scratcher is her refusal to put me on the official employee roster. Every time I suggest proper paperwork, she calls me “annoying” or “making it complicated.”

Fast‑forward: I quit (or got fired—blame the cosmic irony) in October. Suddenly, my mom’s big revelation: “I’ll file you as a 1099 independent contractor.”

Now, I’m not a freelancer. I don’t own a company, I don’t set my own hours, and I definitely don’t have a “client list.” I’m an employee, and if she misclassifies me, I’ll end up paying the entire tax bill twice—because the IRS will see the red flag and make me pay both the employer’s and employee’s side.

I tried to keep it chill. “If you file me as a 1099, I’ll file an SS‑8 to get the IRS to officially say, ‘Nah, this is an employee.’”
Her reply via email:

“It breaks my heart to see things going in this direction. If you really want to take things to that level, I could mention the years of cash bartending income that was never reported, but I prefer to move forward.”

So, Mom, if you’re going to play the “tax villain,” maybe start by playing the “employee” role.

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The Comments – Reddit Style​

“People who want to cheat on taxes are so tiresome. I was married to one.”

Bottom line: Don’t let the IRS come to your house and demand you pay for Mom’s laziness. She’ll feel the heat—literally.

“NTA. I feel like you already know this, but your mom sucks so much you have to question it.”

If Mom’s boss moves, you’re the employee, not the “tax‑fraud suspect.”

“Has she deducted any payroll taxes from your paychecks?”

If your paycheck is a straight‑up “gross” number, Mom’s probably already set you up for a tax nightmare.

“Sure, but OP's mom is trying to pass the employer's tax burden to OP as well.”

Because nothing screams “family business” like double‑taxing your own kid.

“When an employee is misclassified as an independent contractor the proper way to handle it is to file Form SS‑8 and to include Form 8919.”

That’s the IRS’s way of saying, “We’ll do the math, you just pay the tax. No guilt trips.”

“This may not however, result in as much of a tax savings as someone might think.”

Spoiler: You still owe regular income tax. Mom still owes the employer share. It’s a tax tango.

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TL;DR​

Mom thinks she can reclassify her employee as a 1099 contractor to dodge payroll taxes. I calmly threatened an SS‑8, and she tried to guilt‑trip me with “cash bartending income” drama. Bottom line: I’m the employee, not a fraudster. If Mom wants to play “tax villain,” she better start paying her side of the bill.

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The Great Cookbook Heist​

A decade ago, the family’s beloved mother‑in‑law of my sister‑in‑law (yes, that’s a mouthful) passed away. Like a well‑timed episode of House‑Clean‑and‑Throw, the house was swept, boxes were packed, and every last item deemed “unnecessary” was tossed out. One of those unfortunate relics? An old, dusty cookbook that had sat on the kitchen table for who knows how long.

Fast forward to today: I’m scrolling through my feed, looking for a recipe that will wow my guests. I snap a photo of my island—complete with a mountain of cookbooks—because, you know, visual inspiration is everything. My brother‑in‑law (BIL) spots the picture, immediately recognizes the familiar cover of the cookbook, and demands its return. I say no. I keep it. The family erupts: some side‑by‑side with me, others with him. I’ve even had to block a handful of people who were getting “REALLY rude.” The question now is: Am I the asshole for holding onto a book that was destined for the trash?

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Ever had a “what if” moment so wild it could rewrite history? Imagine the Rebel Alliance doing a little early‑bird thing: blowing up the Death Star before blowing up Alderaan. Suddenly the Empire gets a shiny propaganda victory that would make even the most seasoned political pundits blush. Instead of “We’re the good guys, we’re saving the galaxy,” the Empire could go: “Look, the Rebels are real terrorists. They blew up a planet without a warning shot.” Sounds like a plot twist from a low‑budget sci‑fi spin‑off, but hey, the galaxy’s already a bit of a mess.

Why This Would Be a Masterstroke​

1. Rebels = Mass Murderers – The Empire could claim the Rebels deliberately destroyed a planet (Alderaan) to “prove they’re willing to kill millions.”
2. Tech Leaks – The Rebels would have the Death Star’s schematics. The Empire could pretend they intercepted the plans and use them to “show the galaxy our advanced weaponry is real.”
3. Propaganda 2.0 – With the Empire’s media arm, they could paint the Rebels as a threat, rallying the populace to fight back against the “evil” rebels who actually killed an entire planet.

Of course, the Empire would have to convince everyone that those schematics were fake or that the Death Star was never meant to be used, but hey, the Empire’s master of spin is legendary. And if they could get a bunch of cannon fodder to sign up for a fight, that’s a win.

The Big Question​

What would the galaxy actually do? Would people really buy into the Empire’s narrative? Or would the Rebels’ heroic act of blowing up the Death Star (and saving the universe from a nuclear catastrophe) win out? Either way, it’s a wild “alternate universe” scenario that would make the internet a mess of memes and memes about memes.

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“Didn’t even make it until tomorrow. They are already complaining about how busy they were.”
“I imagine I’m going to hear even more complaining tomorrow about this not working.”
“Well, take it up with the boss. It’s not my problem because it wasn’t my idea.”

“Although, it didn’t take me long to get used to this having a day off every week.”
“My husband and I figured out how to budget my working 4 days a week, and we can do it.”
“I may decide to not go back to 5 days. As long as boss is on board, you’ll be out of luck.”
“Should have appreciated me more when I was full time I suppose.”
“(The two of them have spent the last 4 years bullying me. That’s a whole entire other story. A book.)”

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The Great Wednesday Caper​

Picture this: you’re the office’s unofficial Wednesdays Off champion. You’ve just turned a boring 5‑day grind into a 4‑day sprint, and your coworkers are already auditioning for the role of “Professional Problem‑Creator” in the “How to Test Your Boss’s Patience” sitcom. The boss, bless their heart, is still trying to figure out whether to send a thank‑you card or a stern warning.

You’re practically a superhero—only your cape is a spreadsheet, and your superpower is budgeting your own sanity. “I’ve been doing this for four years,” you mutter, “and the only thing I’ve been bullying is my own calendar.” Meanwhile, the office is buzzing louder than a beehive on a sugar rush. They’re complaining about being busy, about the “not working” system, about the boss—oh, the drama!

And yet, you’re still on the path to becoming the Wednesdays Off legend. Because if you can survive a day off in a world that runs on caffeine and deadlines, you can survive anything. (Maybe not the boss’s angry stare, but we’ll get to that later.)

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