Confessions of a Bot Buster: How I Accidentally Became HR’s Worst Nightmare

Last night, my phone rang. And no, it wasn’t a recruiter calling to say, “We loved your background.” It wasn’t Sam the Concrete Man begging me one more time to repave my driveway. It wasn’t even that relentless voice about my car’s extended warranty.

It was something far rarer. Something practically extinct in 2025.

A real, live HR person.

That’s right. A breathing human being, tethered to a headset, tasked with a mission so bleak I almost felt bad for them: calling me to say, “Please stop messing with our AI assistant bots.”

Apparently, my job applications have been flagged. Not for brilliance, not for fraud, but for “bot breaking.” I guess the algorithm didn’t appreciate my creativity. Who knew?

See, when a chatbot asks, “Why do you want to work here?” I don’t give it the corporate safe answer about “long-term goals” or “aligning with company values.” I write, “Because your CEO looks like he smells faintly of cinnamon rolls, and that’s the kind of leadership I respect.” When it demands my weaknesses, I don’t type “perfectionism.” I type: “Free pizza Fridays. I physically cannot resist.”

Turns out, the bots don’t like jokes. Their logs apparently show I’ve broken three this week. One froze when I wrote: “Honestly, you shouldn’t hire me. I need benefits, and you seem desperate.” Another rerouted me to Facilities because I told it my leadership style was “Gandalf with better Wi-Fi.” And the third? It just sat there in existential crisis, repeating “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that,” until it flatlined. Somewhere in a server farm, an AI collapsed because I couldn’t take “Where do you see yourself in five years?” seriously.

The HR rep called this “a misuse of company systems.” Misuse? Please. This is unpaid quality assurance. I’m performing free stress tests to ensure their robo-hiring army doesn’t implode when a candidate dares to type “LOL” in a cover letter field. I’m basically volunteering my time as a public service. You’re welcome.

But here’s what they didn’t realize: the very fact I got a phone call means I won. I broke through the chatbot dungeon. I forced an actual human to acknowledge my existence. That’s not misuse—that’s hacking the Matrix. In 2025, getting a real HR phone call is like catching a golden snitch, winning the lottery, and getting Taylor Swift tickets all at once.

By the end of the call, she sounded defeated. “Please,” she said, voice weary, “just answer the questions normally.” I told her I’d try. But we both knew I wouldn’t. Because normal answers vanish into the black hole of ATS software, while chaos gets me noticed.

So yes, I’ll proudly wear the title of Bot Buster. Because in this broken hiring circus, wit, sarcasm, and a little mischief travel farther than buzzwords, cover letters, and the thousandth “results-oriented team player” ever will.

So the next time a chatbot asks me, “Are you authorized to work in the United States?” I’m not clicking “Yes.” I’m typing: “Only if the United States authorizes me back.”

And if that earns me another HR phone call? Even better. Because apparently, the only surefire way to get a real human’s attention in 2025 isn’t by applying politely. It’s by confusing their robots until one of them cries for help and an exhausted HR rep has no choice but to dial my number.

That, my friends, is progress.