Tell Us Your Delicious Tales of Sweet Revenge


Welcome to Pissing Contest, a weekly story sharing circle for the the ass-draggiest time of the afternoon on the ass-draggiest time of the last day between you and the weekend. Every week, we’ll ask a question, you’ll share stories, and we’ll pick a winner that’s featured in the next week’s post. It’s like a pyramid scheme of outdoing each other!

There are few things in life more satisfying than getting back at someone who wronged us in some way. This week’s edition of Pissing Contest is an ode to that feeling. A revengeapalooza, if you will.

The reason I was thinking about REVENGE this week (REVENGE in all caps looks so crazy that I had to type it that way. REVENGE REVENGE REVENGE. Heh) is that on Monday, I read a piece in the New York Times entitled, “Spite Is Good. Spite Works” that’s kind of gotten stuck in my craw. In the piece, author Nancy Angier argues that despite its bad reputation, spite serves an evolutionary purpose to humans; it enforces social mores on an individual level and, in its own petty way, encourages order. Rules — whether they’re rules of traffic, rules of etiquette, or rules of interpersonal relationships — aren’t rules at all if there are no consequences for breaking them, are they? Spite is the micro punishment of perceived slights, which, ultimately, are what happens when the slighted believe that they’ve been wronged, that a rule has been broken. Without spiteful folk, society would fall apart! It’s certainly why if an overzealous and unoccupied cab is trying to make a right turn and is obstructing the crosswalk, I always go out of my way to walk very slowly in front of them. I’ve only been hit once (but that gave me the opportunity to slam the heel of my hand down on the cab’s hood as hard as I could, Midnight Cowboy style, and call a stranger a “motherfucker” really loudly, so: worth it.)

But what we’re going to share today, dear readers, goes beyond simple spite. I don’t want to hear about the time you were taking your sweet time helping a rude customer who was in a hurry. I’m talking about the time you punished a regular customer who annoyed you with overly personal questions by filling a pastry so full of jelly that when he tried to take a bite of it, it exploded all over his work shirt (my grandma actually did this when she was a teenager working in a bakery in Superior, Wisconsin). I’m talking about the time your boyfriend cheated on you so you told the IRS that he was committing tax fraud and then he got audited. Or the time you got back at your scummy boss by writing an exposé about him in the New York Daily News and then getting called a “cunt” by said boss’s underling (momentary pause/salute to Olivia Nuzzi, who is currently kicking ass over at The Daily Beast as a political reporter).

To get you started, here’s the winner of last week’s Pissing Contest: Sex, Interrupted edition. Take it away, CharlotteWebby:

Upscale hotel in Boston, weekend getaway. I booked a regular room but it was REALLY NICE. Like, a lot nicer than I thought from the pictures and what not. Whatevs. After a lovely dinner, me and my guy are going at it on the king bed I don’t remember booking? (*shrug* I’ll take it) and mid-moan, mid-thrust, my guy is ALMOST THERE and we hear that sound of the key card BEEP BEEP BEEP. We both freeze like deer in headlights and hold our breath. In walks a couple. We’re in the dark but with the hallway light filtering in, I see: tuxedo, white dress, veil, flowers and he’s carrying her over the thresh-hold. YUP. They accidentally booked us into the bridal suite. Tuxedo blurts out a clumsy, Hugh Grantish “PARDON PARDON” in a British accent and backs the fuck out, bride in arms. Laughter for DAYSSSSSSSSSSSSS I tell you.

[CW’s story beat out an honorable mention story by midwestlez that was so unsurprisingly gross that I almost horked after I read it. If you’re steel-stomached, I advise reading that one, too. You won’t be disappointed.]

All warmed up, revenge-getters? Spill. No murder confessions, plz. Save those for your clergy, or the cops.

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