Quiet Quitting

I remember “quiet quitting” when I was a serf in Minsk in 1749.

I’d just finished digging a mile-long sewage trench, when my feudal lord told me I had to cut down two wheat fields by noon.

I sighed and mumbled, “Oh boy, I can’t wait to get to that, your majesty,” as I dragged my scythe on the ground, purposefully dulling the blade.