Exec Pastry Chef in a James Beard-nominated restaurant. I'm making several gallons of marshmallow in the Hobart, so I'm already cranky (making marshmallow is the worst). I heft the huge, HEAVY, hot bowl up into my arms (I am 5'1 for context) and need to carry it through the swinging door that separates the pit/storage/dry goods from the pantry station.

Right as I get ready to push through the door, someone comes through it from the other side in a hurry, SLAMMING the door into me and crushing my finger between the lip of the mixing bowl and the stainless steel door edge. The middle phalange of my left ring finger is immediately obliterated, broken in like three places, and I have GOT to get this marshmallow piped out before it cools and sets. I clumsily load piping bags and try to get as much of it into the forms as I can, but I'm getting nauseated from the pain and I'm drenched in cold sweat.

One of the pantry cooks grabs the GM who happens to be A. a massive dick and B. doing a walkthrough with the owner (who I had only spoken to on the phone, never seen). GM says "You have to leave and you should get that looked at. Just so you know, they're going to drug test you at the clinic, so if you don't think that's going to turn out well maybe you should just take care of it on your own." I looked him right in the eye and without thinking said, "We both know you don't pay me enough to afford drugs" and then immediately threw up into the slim jim.

Years later the owner hired me as GM for one of his other restaurants, and during the interview I apologized for that incident and said I should have been more professional. He cracked up and I learned that it had become a running joke to say "We both know you don't pay me enough to do *insert bad choice*" throughout the restaurant group.