Costume Crimes in the Office

Asshat of the Day: Costume Crimes in the Office

Published: October 31, 2025

When your coworkers treat Halloween like Coachella meets courtroom drama — and HR has already started drinking.

It’s Halloween. Your office always goes too far. Fluorescent lights flicker. The snack table groans under cookies that double as coasters. The playlist is stuck on “Pump Up the Jam” and “Freakazoid,” and suddenly the accounting department is doing the running man.

You came in grey suit, normal shoes, regular Tuesday energy — because you’re grown, and this is work. But you’re trapped in a funk of costumes, bad decisions, and presentation slides that have nothing to do with business.

There’s Boo-barella — the usually stoic business professional who’s dismantled her tailored blouse and replaced it with six inches of cleavage and a devil’s tail. Everyone knows she’s boffing Stan from Marketing, who thinks a toga + gold oil = “Greek god of synergy.”

Speaking of Stan — he’s oiled up, baby-tanned, clutching a flask under his toga like he’s smuggling productivity. You somehow know he’s been spiking the punch. Your stomach drops. HR does not survive this level of ambition.

Then there’s Intern Cat Girl — not just a seasonal accessory with cat ears and a faux-leather skirt — but a full-blown history buff and part-time social justice warrior. She’s standing next to Jamal, who showed up in a minstrel costume, proudly declaring it “historically accurate” like that’s going to save him from HR hellfire.

But here’s the twist: she’s STANNING for him. Outraged? Yes. Offended? Deeply. But also? Weirdly invested. She’s holding an actual history book — not her phone, a whole damn hardcover — and she’s quoting abolitionist essays while circling him like a prosecutor trying to rehabilitate a client she knows is guilty but tragically educable.

“Jamal. I admire the commitment. I do. But this is peak ‘right costume, wrong century.’ You could’ve been Frederick Douglass and we’d all be clapping. Instead, you’re one blindfold away from a DEI lawsuit.”

He blinks. He still doesn’t get it. You suspect he thinks she’s flirting.

The snack table? It’s a mixture of homemade chemistry experiments disguised as “gourmet dips” and bakery items so cardboard-hard they could qualify as ergonomic office tools. Your donut sits next to a bowl labeled “Ghoul Guac” that smells like regret and vat cheese.

The music blasts — 80s dance anthems loop like a virus. Someone’s spiking themselves into a blur of sweat, toner, and questionable HR compliance.

Meanwhile, you sit at your desk, notebook open — but you wrote nothing. You’re just watching the chaos. Your coffee is black. Your costume? Business casual. You’re not here for this. You’re just here. Which somehow makes you the most sane person in the room.

Public Service Announcement

If your costume includes a flask, a mythological identity crisis, unverified snack chemistry, or a wig you forgot you owned — you are the office hazard. Please grab a drink (not from the punch) and reconsider your life choices.

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🖼️ Firefly Image Prompt

"Office Halloween party with overly sexualized costumes, man in toga with gold oil, racially problematic costume, angry intern holding a history book, bad snacks, solo cups, and confused coworkers in the background."

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Related Posts

• 🌊 Autumn Beach Bliss-tered
• 🌟 The Self-Checkout Saboteur

#AsshatOfTheDay #OfficeHalloweenFails #HRViolationSeason #SexyTogaStan #ObservationalHumor #WorkplaceSatire

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Coming Up Tomorrow

November 1: TBA — Depends how many HR meetings come out of this mess.

Autumn Beach Bliss-tered

Asshat of the Day: Autumn Beach Bliss-tered

Published: October 30, 2025

#AsshatOfTheDay #BeachZombies #SocialMediaFails #BluntCloudsAndBluetooth #ADHDPitbulls #LocalsOnlyEnergy #ObservationalHumor

When your relaxing beach day gets hijacked by content creators, pitbull zoomies, and secondhand skunk clouds.

It’s October. The tourists are finally gone. No more inflatable unicorns. No more screaming about sunscreen. No more dad-bods in neon tank tops trying to parallel park.

The beach is calm. Locals are reclaiming their natural habitat — towels spaced out, dogs chasing sand ghosts, people reading books that don’t require ring lights.

And then…

They arrive. Dragging tripods, filters, and more main character energy than the sun can handle. Social. Media. Zombies.

A woman in a flowy, linen cult robe — sorry, “maxi dress” — is doing a dramatic slow-motion spin next to the tide. She’s barefoot but clearly wearing a full face of stage makeup. Her boyfriend — let’s assume unpaid intern — is filming her with the seriousness of a wildlife documentarian. She shrieks, “NOOOO the wave wasn’t BIG ENOUGH,” and resets for take seven. Nature stares back in silent judgment.

Not to be outdone, a shirtless crypto bro is pacing in the shallows with a wireless mic, podcasting into the void:

“You gotta manifest wave frequency into your mindset if you wanna rise like the tide.”

You hope Poseidon himself will snatch the mic and drag him to Atlantis.

Then, the soundtrack kicks in: TikToks. On. Speaker. Because nothing says “peaceful coastal recharge” like 90 seconds of poorly lit prank content and a laugh track made entirely of trauma.

A couple is nearby, performing a “spontaneous romantic splash moment.” She fake-giggles. He fake-lifts her. He slips. She screeches. They argue about camera angles while you consider walking into the sea like a Victorian widow.

Just when you think the cringe parade might be winding down… you smell it.

Not the ocean breeze. Not the salt air. Nope. Blunt. Thick. Skunky. Instantly hostile to the senses.

You turn, already regretting it.

There he is — urban beach disruptor with dreds, a blunt, and a Bluetooth speaker. But that’s not all. He’s also holding his phone up, vlogging the entire scene like he’s filming a beach day highlight reel for his 200 followers.

“Aye, he wildin’ right now — look at my boy go!” he laughs into the mic, camera trained on his unleashed pitbull tearing across the sand like it’s qualifying for the Daytona 500.

The dog? Eyes wide. Tongue flapping. Running like it just got paroled from the apartment. It launches across the sand, skidding through towels, kicking granules into eyes, mouths, and sandwiches. It charges the shoreline like it owes the tide money, splashing strangers and spraying water like a wet grenade.

Then it circles back — wet paws, sandy belly, joyful chaos — and repeats the loop, faster and with more enthusiasm. An emotional support blender powered by chaos and pitbull joy.

The guy? Still narrating. Still puffing clouds like a sea witch. Still vibing like he’s bringing culture to the coastline, completely unaware that his dog is turning the beach into a sandblasted obstacle course behind him.

Your lungs are full of secondhand skunk. Your towel is wet. You’ve been exfoliated against your will. You came to heal — now you need to recover from this recovery attempt.

Public Service Announcement

The beach isn’t your stage, your studio, or your blunt lounge. If your “me time” invades everyone else’s peace, you’re the problem. Pack up your ring light, leash your dog, and let the locals vibe in peace. We’ve earned it.

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🖼️ Firefly Image Prompt

"Sunset beach scene with dramatic influencer in flowy dress filming by the tide, shirtless man podcasting near waves, dreadlocked man vlogging with phone while vaping a blunt, unleashed pitbull running in circles, chaotic sand kicking, annoyed locals watching."

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Related Posts

• 🌟 The Self-Checkout Saboteur
• 👻 Halloween Costume Crimes in the Office

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Coming Up Tomorrow

October 31: Halloween Costume Crimes in the Office — because your coworker dressing as “sexy HR violation” was not on your Q4 bingo card.

The Self-Checkout Saboteur

Asshat of the Day: The Self-Checkout Saboteur

Published: October 29, 2025

#SelfCheckoutFails #AsshatOfTheDay #BeverlyHillsProblems #GroceryStoreDrama #LashLiftCrisis #ObservationalHumor

"It’s giving lash detachment and public breakdown energy."

It was supposed to be a hit-and-run. Almond milk, cilantro, maybe a rogue chocolate bar. In. Out. No witness statements required. You dodge the lines, the cart traffic, and the forced small talk — straight to the self-checkout. Like a boss.

But not today. Because you’ve just pulled up behind the walking, talking embodiment of overprivileged inconvenience.

Blonde. Bougie. Branded head to toe. This isn’t just any shopper — this is Beverly Hills Royalty. She’s wearing UGGs because it’s “fall,” even though it’s 78 degrees out. Her handbag costs more than your car. And the car? An 800-series BMW convertible. Parked diagonally. Across two spaces. Obviously.

Normally, the housekeeper does the groceries, but she “needed air” and wanted to be “grounded” today — so now she’s here. In public. Scanning her own items. Like a peasant.

She approaches the self-checkout like it’s a prop on a movie set. Waving a cereal box like she’s trying to cast a spell. Beep. She gasps. Like the machine dared to acknowledge her.

Then she hits the real challenge: Produce.

She scrolls through the options with the confusion of someone who thinks “organic” means “fewer calories.” Can’t find bananas. Can’t tell the difference between apples unless they’re candied. She finally selects “fruit” and sighs, like this entire process has been deeply personal.

ASSISTANCE NEEDED. The red light flashes like a Vegas slot machine in crisis. A teenage employee appears, hits override like they’re defusing a bomb, and disappears into the void.

That’s when it happens. She freezes. Eyes go glassy. She steps back from the scanner — clutching her oversized designer tote like it’s a therapy dog made of calfskin and entitlement.

She whispers — dramatic but delicate — “I think I’m having, like... an actual anxiety attack.”

A single tear wells up — trails down her cheek — and then, tragedy strikes: her eyelash glue gives up. The outer corner lifts like a tiny flag of surrender. She gasps. Touches her face in horror. She is disheveled. In public. Under fluorescent lighting. She pulls out her phone — not to call for help, but to check the damage in selfie mode.

You? You’re still standing behind her, clutching almond milk and cilantro like emotional support items, Googling if rage migraines are covered by your HMO.

Public Service Announcement

If your grocery experience requires tech support, a full meltdown, and cosmetic casualty — you are not self-checkout ready. Please return to your Beemer, hand the keys to your housekeeper, and shop online like the rest of Beverly Hills.

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🖼️ Firefly Image Prompt

"High-end grocery store self-checkout scene, young blonde woman in designer clothes and UGGs panicking at the register, tear coming down her cheek, one eyelash lifting, red assistance light flashing, long line of annoyed shoppers behind her."

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Related Posts

• 🍔 The Drive-Thru Office Hero
• 📱 Social Media Zombies in the Queue

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Coming Up Tomorrow

October 30: Social Media Zombies — the people who forget how to move in public spaces because they’re too busy scrolling TikTok at full volume with zero shame.

The Drive-Thru Office Hero

October 28: The Drive-Thru Office hero - One car, fifteen orders, zero shame. #AsshatOfTheDay

Asshat of the Day: The Drive-Thru Office Hero

Published: October 28, 2025

#DriveThruFails #OfficeLife #FastFoodFury #AsshatOfTheDay #LunchRushLogic #ObservationalHumor

It’s 12:15 PM. You’re starving but optimistic — there’s only one car ahead of you in the drive-thru. Lunch salvation is near.

Or so you thought.

The car doesn’t move. The line doesn’t budge. You check your phone, glance at the menu, look back — nothing. What’s the holdup?

Then you hear it. The voice over the speaker is loud. Too loud. And way too... organized.

“Okay, first order is for Sharon — grilled chicken wrap, no wrap, just the chicken in a box.”

Beep.

“Second order’s Jason — double burger, no cheese, extra bacon, but he’s lactose intolerant so scratch that cheese, thanks.”

You’re now listening to a grown adult recite a spreadsheet of lunch orders into a drive-thru speaker like he’s dictating launch codes to mission control.

You’ve found him: the Drive-Thru Office Hero.

This overachiever has decided that the best way to feed his entire department is one order at a time. From his car. At peak lunch hour.

Ten meals. Ten bags. Ten separate receipts.

Each one lovingly recited, customized, and — wait for it — paid for individually.
One with a corporate card. One with cash. One with a Starbucks gift card. One with Venmo. At one point, he holds his phone up to the speaker to read a coworker’s order off Slack.

You glance in your mirror. The line now wraps around the building. A guy behind you is gripping his steering wheel like he’s in a hostage situation. Someone’s kid is crying. You kind of want to join them.

Meanwhile, this guy is chilling. Smiling. Proud of himself for “saving the team time.”

No, dude. You just shifted your entire department’s lunchtime burden onto a 17-year-old working the window and everyone else in line who just wanted a cheeseburger and silence.

Public Service Announcement

If your lunch order involves more than three coworkers and multiple payment methods — you don’t belong in the drive-thru. You belong inside. Preferably with a clipboard and a deep sense of shame.

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🖼️ Firefly Image Prompt

“Cartoon of a chaotic fast food drive-thru with one car at the window, surrounded by labeled food bags, driver holding multiple receipts, long angry line behind him.”

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Related Posts

• 🅰️ The Parking Lot Princess
• 🛒 The Self-Checkout Saboteur

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Coming Up Tomorrow

The Parking Lot Princess

It’s a calm morning at the credit union — birds singing, sunlight glinting off windshields, my faith in humanity holding steady at a cautious 52%. I pull into that awkward, one-and-a-half-wide end spot — the kind that looks like it was designed by someone who’s only ever parked golf carts.

I park neatly to one side, hugging the curb and leaving enough space for a motorcycle if one happens to show up. Because that’s what considerate people do — we plan ahead and avoid making strangers hate us.

Enter: The Parking Lot Princess.

A white Toyota Camry swoops in from nowhere, locks onto that half-space like a heat-seeking missile of bad judgment, and slides in with the grace of a drunk shopping cart. Her front tire climbs the curb. Her mirror’s practically spooning mine. I’m frozen in disbelief, staring at this spatial disaster like it’s performance art titled “Entitlement in Motion.”

I walk around the back of my truck, just standing there, slack-jawed, trying to understand the physics of it all. And then — she gets out.

She actually gets out, turns, sees me standing there clearly mid-WTF, and says —

“Sorry! I’m just in a hurry. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment!”

Ah. Of course. The sacred excuse of the chronically oblivious. Clearly, parking etiquette is suspended in cases of mild inconvenience.

I open my mouth, but no words come out — mostly because my brain is still rebooting. She’s already power-walking away, purse flapping, ponytail bouncing, conscience unbothered. Meanwhile, I’m left conducting a full risk assessment of my spine.

Because now, the only way into my truck is acrobatics.

I’m climbing the curb like a mountain goat, trying to wedge myself through a six-inch gap that would make a yoga instructor weep. One knee on the frame, one foot in the air, muttering prayers to the god of lumbar support. Somewhere, a chiropractor just felt a disturbance in the force.

By the time I’m seated, she’s vanished into the building, probably telling the receptionist how “tight” the parking is out there.

Diagnosis (Case Notes):

• Acute Urgency Syndrome with secondary Delusions of Spatial Competence.
• Chronic resistance to walking more than twelve steps.
• Root cause: lifetime subscription to “I’ll only be a minute.”

Recommended Treatment:

• One tow truck, two orange cones, and a week of mindfulness practice in a crowded Target lot.
• Daily mantra: “Other people exist.”
• Write “I will not weaponize my Camry” fifty times.

Moral of the Story:

If spatial awareness and common sense were contagious, she’d still test negative.

#AsshatOfTheDay #ParkingLotPrincess #ParkingFails #SuburbanJustice #RUDE4U #PublicEtiquette #HumanBehavior #Comedy #HumorBlog #DumbDecisionsDaily

Mexican Restaurant Mayhem

Mexican Restaurant Mayhem

It’s Sunday at our favorite Mexican restaurant — the kind of day where every table is full, every child is sticky, and every adult just wants queso and quiet. The hostess says there’s a forty-five-minute wait unless we sit in the bar. Sold.

We slide into a booth among other families who’ve clearly had the same idea: grab a margarita, pretend it’s not chaos.

Enter: The Barstool Asshat.

He’s alone, already three Long Islands deep, and auditioning for “America’s Loudest Victim.” He’s berating the poor bartender because, and I quote, “There ain’t enough liquor in this drink!” She’s being polite — overly polite — trying to keep her job while he keeps losing his dignity.

His volume climbs. Her patience thins. The rest of us pretend to read our menus, silently praying for divine intervention or sudden power failure.

And then, from the booth next to him, Heaven delivers a messenger. The unlikeliest warrior rises.

She looks like she’s on her way to a church bake sale, handing out bulletins instead of smoke — soft pink sweater, pearls, hair sprayed into architectural compliance. Her husband blinks, already mourning what’s about to happen but powerless to stop it.

She lowers her fork with the slow precision of a sniper, turns toward the bar, and in a voice that could split granite and carries the vocal fry of an industrial metal vocalist who smokes three packs of Marlboro Reds a day, she barks:

“HEY.”

The drunk man turns, grinning, ready to flirt his way out of trouble.

Big mistake. He has no idea he’s about to get spiritually curb-stomped by June Cleaver on Judgment Day.

“Do you HAVE to be such a FUCKING ASSHOLE?!”

You could feel the air pressure drop.

“You’re making EVERYONE in here miserable! If that poor girl wasn’t so nice, she’d call you a cab and toss your sorry ass straight into the parking lot!”

Silence. Utter, holy silence. Forks suspended mid-bite. Even the mariachi music seems to tiptoe away.

The drunk blinks. He’s just been verbally neutered and spiritually declawed by a woman who probably says “heck” when she stubs her toe. He slaps a few bills on the counter, mutters something unintelligible, and wobbles out into the sunlight — reborn, humiliated, and possibly sober.

The bartender exhales like she just survived combat. The bar collectively exhales with her. Pink-Sweater Fury? She calmly dabs her mouth with a napkin, takes another bite of enchilada, and returns to her regularly scheduled sainthood. Somewhere, a child whispers, “Mommy won.”

Diagnosis (Case Notes)

• Chronic Booze-Loudmouth Syndrome with secondary Entitlement Outbreak.
• Sudden exposure to Holy Rage in a Cardigan produced rapid behavioral correction.
• Witnesses reported chills, awe, and mild applause.

Recommended Treatment

• For Staff: Keep one pearl-clad avenger on standby; stronger deterrent than tequila shots.
• For Patrons: When diplomacy fails, unleash the Suzy Homemaker of Doom.
• For the Asshat: Two bottles of water, one deep apology, and forty years of reflection.

Moral of the Story

Never mistake quiet manners for weakness. Some angels carry pepper spray and a perfectly pressed sweater.

Queso was extra that day, but so was she.

#AsshatOfTheDay #RestaurantEtiquette #BartenderLife #DumbDecisionsDaily #PublicMeltdowns #SuburbanJustice #HolyRageInPastels #FamilyDining #Humor #MexicanRestaurantMayhem

Scene Stealers & Saboteurs: When the Real Drama Happens Offstage

“It’s community theater for kids. But backstage? It’s Machiavelli in yoga pants.”

Act I: A New Beginning, Sans Bullshit

After escaping a flaming dumpster fire of a former social group implosion, our protagonist built something fresh: a youth drama class. Structured. Peaceful. No whispering moms. No fake consensus circles. Just kids learning to act, and adults staying in their lane.

Enter Rhonda — a relic from the previous implosion. Her daughter joins the class. No problem there. The kid’s lovely. Rhonda, however, is the human equivalent of a group text that won’t die.

One Wednesday evening, Rhonda messages with a “heads up.” Translation: a manipulative advance notice that doesn’t leave room for your consent. She’s been hanging out with her friend Karen, and Karen’s son — a walking red flag who’d been suspended from school a multitude of times for “independent learning” that looked a lot like low-level stalking — wants to join the class.

Rhonda makes it sound like this is a done deal. Karen is coming Friday. No questions. No signup form. Just entitlement on wheels.

Act II: No Means… Challenge Accepted?

Our protagonist — let’s call her Lauren’s mom — shuts it down. Directly. Politely. Firmly. **Karen is not welcome. Her son is not joining.** The message is relayed with all the diplomacy that still leaves no cracks in the boundary.

Karen responds like any manipulator would: with threats. She’s “going to talk to the class director.” She’s showing up anyway. Of course she is.

A call is placed to the director. Under no circumstances is Karen’s son to be added to the class. This isn’t a debate. It’s a boundary. Period.

Act III: Gaslight Gala, Live on Location

Friday hits. Rhonda arrives early. And when Lauren’s mom walks in, she pounces like she’s been rehearsing all week for her role as Overbearing Matriarch Who Has Never Been Wrong in Her Life.

“DID YOU HAVE MY DAUGHTER REMOVED FROM HER GROUP? WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?”

The truth? Lauren’s mom had requested the teens be rotated to help them engage with new peers — a simple idea that Rhonda, naturally, took as a personal exile.

“I’m not discussing this,” she says. “It’s done.”

But Rhonda refuses to stop. She presses. Louder. Closer. So Lauren’s mom shifts her position toward someone else — the class’s artistic director. The same guy Rhonda had whispered to the week before during a smoke break moment, trying to smear Lauren’s mom and rewrite the history of the previous group meltdown.

What Rhonda didn’t count on? **He told her.** Immediately.

And now, with an audience of parents, staff, and poor, unsuspecting theater kids, Lauren’s mom lets it fly:

“Did you really think he wouldn’t tell me?”
“You have ignored every boundary I’ve set.”
“You tried to manipulate this class like you did the last group — and I’m done.”

Mic. Dropped. Right there between the poster of Romeo & Juliet and the juice box table.

And then? Rhonda’s daughter starts crying.

Lauren’s mom immediately turns and says: “This has nothing to do with you. You’re great. But I can’t have your mother in my space anymore.”

Act IV: Denial Isn’t Just a River — It’s a Matinee Ticket

Ten minutes later, as if none of that had just occurred, Rhonda casually approaches Lauren.

“We’re going to the movies after this. Want to come with us?”

Like the entire public takedown, the boundary enforcement, the absolute exposure of manipulation and lies **didn’t happen.**

She wasn’t being generous. She was rewriting the ending. And hoping that by pulling Lauren in, she could paint herself as the sane one and rewrite the narrative as “two moms just having a misunderstanding.”

But the script was already written. And her audition? Failed.

Diagnosis:

Advanced Boundary Blindness with Delusional Entitlement Disorder. Symptoms include gaslighting, sabotage, strategic memory loss, and using children to stage emotional comebacks.

Recommended Treatment:

Public confrontation followed by permanent removal from all group chats, meetups, activities, and any place where emotional maturity is required.

Moral:

You can build something peaceful. You can create something beautiful. But if you don’t reinforce the exits, Rhonda will always find a way back in — with a smile, a plan, and an uninvited movie invitation.

Labels: Group Drama, Toxic Parents, Manipulation, Leadership Boundaries

Hashtags: #DumbDecisionsDaily #DramaClassDropout #BoundaryBreaches #GroupSaboteurs

Search Description: When a mother sets boundaries and an old manipulator tries to rewrite the script — badly — it becomes a drama worth documenting.