All right, Ramblers, let’s get rambling. As far as weeks go, this one’s been marked by hints of mediocrity, a dash of adrenaline, and just a splash of awareness that none of us are getting any younger. The perfect recipe for a summer stew of aging. Any way you cut it, it’s good to be here at Friday at last, when we can look the System in the eye and yell “SUCK IT, System! At least until Monday. I’ll see you then.” And, in that vein I posed this question to you on monday for the Survey:
Describe for the me the worst job you’ve ever held and why (I promise to keep names out). Major bonus points for an awesome firing or awkward workplace scenarios (caught-in-the-deep-freeze-with-the-boss’-wife kind of thing).
Your responses rolled in, awesome as ever, and I ranked them in a fit of misguided energy exertion. Why only nine, you ask? Because the tenth spot was reserved for the Lyrical Jackass who promised me a list-worthy story by deadline. And guess what? He flaked. Again. For the millionth or so time. And now, we all suffer with nine tales of misery with a black hole of humor where the Jackass frittered away yet another opportunity for fame and infamy. So here you have ’em:
I’d have to say, I have had some tedious jobs throughout my young career; but there is one that imprints it’s self the most clear. It took place while I was in holding for a military school; lots of precious time to kill! There was about a football field worth of grass accompanied by lovely patches of dirt. Apparently with out my knowledge when you sign up to become an Army Ranger, landscaping 101 is part of the process. The grass and dirt seemed strategically placed under the lovely shedding autumn leaves to produce hours of mind vegetating work. Armed with rakes and brooms a squad of future Rangers set out to ensure the production of parallel rake lines throughout all the grass and dirt. Of course the on going task was never completed, even after hours of work; partially to the fact that the piles of leaves some how teleported back onto the grass…(not to mention a rake can make for a good sword fight ha-ha). Call me crazy but raking clean dirt for twelve hours a day is just not my forte!
I always wondered what went into the training of an Army Ranger. Please keep future training secrets just that. You may well be jeopardizing the safety of our nation with your tales of the rake.
I was a gas station jockey, if you will, and I can easily say this was the worst job to date that I have ever held. I mean I did enjoy the undercover drug busts, watching these poor illegals get rolled and laughing when you see the undercover mini vans come up out of nowhere, only to find a big huge bag of something that looked similar and rhymed to “let it rain”… hidden in the trunk. I knew exactly who the guys at the payphones all day long were about. I even saw a guy try to commit suicide right in front of the pumps. The worst part of this entire job, was getting assigned Toilet Cleaning Duties. I would put on the bright rubber gloves, sometimes 2 pairs, and armed with bleach and an extra long-handled mop. The smell was that bad, sometimes. Others, it was the smell of fresh graffiti mixed with the kind of urine that tells you this/these individual(s) haven’t had a drip of water in a very long time. Absolute insanity.
Truly, not a job for the faint of gut. Surprising, considering what a slave to cleanliness you are, that you were able to clean up after others. I suspect you’re making this part up.
I guided llama treks through the Rockies. Sounds idyllic, right? After round one of getting nailed in the face with a gritty llama loogie — not so much.
Clearly, this event has molded you into the manly man that you are today; robust, hearty, hale and a lil’ llama juice coursing through your veins – I dig it.
The Plump Chicken! Buckets and buckets of dead raw chicken! I would toss them in the big industrial sink, wash them, pluck any extra feathers, remove all the yummy parts inside. It was just lovely. Then season them and slide a big metal skewer up their butts and let them spin on a rotisserie oven for hours. When they were cooked I would cut them up for customers. At the end of the day I had to remove the meat off of all the poor rejects that didn’t get purchased. They became BBQ sandwiches and chicken soup. Did I mention the HOT pink t-shirts with a big yellow chicken on them and the trucker hats!
Strangely enough, this story makes me crave bacon.
I worked EMS and was once based with my partner in a small town. Each person working had their own bedroom, so the occasional “visitor” was not uncommon. One night my partner had a “visit” from a married employee of where we worked (she had parked a ways away from the base and walked over) and they were in his room. That left me alone in the living area when her husband, an on duty police officer for the town we were based in, stopped by to shoot the shit and see what was happening. I had visions of being the only living witness (if I lived) after the blood shed. I told him my partner was sleeping and not feeling well so we went out side to enjoy the evening air, the cop stayed and BS’d for an hour. It was a very nervous hour of my life.
I can only dream of you getting caught up in what can only be described as a “hail of gunfire”. Ah, to dream.
I didn’t write any of my job stories because it would be too depressing for me, although I will regret that decision as soon as I have to read about all of the young hedge fund managers you seem to run with and their sorry stories of silver spooned opulence in the work place.
Your bitterness and vitriol have inspired me, sir. Tomorrow, I shall INSIST that I brush my own teeth, rather than have my man-servant do it for me, just so I can see “how the other half lives.”
Worked at the leather factory as assistant sales manger. Sold raw leather to quite a diverse group. Some clients were bondage gear manufactures that were always showing me there catalogs with let just say nice looking models in positions and gear on to explain what type of leather buckles and studs they needed. Then we sold to prisoners that I took collect calls from recorded by the prison for them ordering snake skins and stuff over the phone with me!!! Had many recurring prisoner calls that asked for me!! They were a fun bunch.
Let’s take a quick tally here, shall we? Leather, S&M folks, prison and and snake skins. If this isn’t a heavy metal album in the making, I don’t from nothin’!
Uli knows me. Most of you in out there in cyber-land don’t, so you won’t see the full irony in this particular ill-fitting job, but here it is anyway. I had a job. Photographing children. At the beginning of each new week I would travel to a lovely new town in my beige 1982 Volkswagen pickup, unload the equipment from my home-made plywood “camper”, and set-up my temporary “studio” in the local Wal-mart(s). It was the same every time. My week ran from Tuesday to Saturday. From Tuesday to Friday I would see the same meth-whore moms dragging the same snot-nosed kids by my “studio”. Every day. Kicking and screaming. Spitting and biting. Slapping. (Those were the moms. The kids were bad too.) So ten times a day I had to get on the Wal-mart(s) intercom and remind the lovely customers to stop by during the week because there would be a long wait on Saturday. Did they ever stop by during the week. NO. Every Saturday there it was. A freaking line of little pink dresses with matching bows stuck to their little skulls, with their mothers, standing four wide (and I do mean WIDE), backed up half way into the freaking parking lot. One begins to cry—THEY ALL FREAKING CRY.
I find myself screaming right now. Cursing. I don’t hate kids. I really don’t. But I think I’ll just stay with my cats, Charley and Karen. Vasectomy. Best $400 I ever spent.
Holy. Crap. I die, just a little, from the laughter this story. CLASSIC!
‘Twas the summer of ’88 and I was gainfully and joyfully employed at Kimmons Farms in Billings Missouri. July heat and 200 hogs excreting what 200 hogs excrete made for an intoxicating aroma of sulfur and rotted flesh. I thought cleaning those pens was the worst job on the planet…..until I met “the lucky lady”. The lucky lady, as the foreman called her, was a 3 ft long prosthetic pig vagina. The trick to holding the lucky lady has a very short learning curve. If Mr Pig dropped his load on the back stroke and you weren’t holding tight…..well…..you got to remake the pig version of every “money shot” at the end of every porno ever made. Being covered in pig j**z SUCKS.
Gonna have to take your word for it. The closest I know is that of a bull. And that ain’t no picnic either.