by Von Droomer
My life recently has been, as some would put it, lethargic. I prefer to think of it as relaxed, or lord-like, or "Like a master of my dominion, ruler of all I see and commander of all that I own". Mt girlfriend calls me a housewife. To each their own.
Unfortunately, the time has come for me to be thrust back into the working world. I have a little bit of experience in the land of employment, some of it good, most of horrible, and through most of it I was subjected to the same bullshit that everyone faces. So, you know, whatever. I won't tell you the story of most of my jobs, at least not today, because fuck you, it's my article.
I won't tell you about my first job either. Mainly because it was a summer job in high school and those barely count as jobs, but also because it was boring as fuck. Knowing that you are at least a somewhat sensible audience, I will spare you the numerous recollections of high school girls throwing their buns around the kitchen of a half-star restaurant (and god, I wish I meant that in the best way possible). No, today I tell you a different story.
It was the summer after high school, and much like today I needed a job in a big way. I managed to get on at a nearby target factory that for the purposes of this article I will call "Dumbshits". Now, when I say Dumbshits made targets, I'm talking about hunting targets for bow hunters. Being in the South, this particular factory did quite well, as there are few things rednecks love more than going all Legolas on some wildlife ass.
I can't give you a day-for day account of my time there because I have slept since then and deleted most of the memories. But I've got enough of them left to give you a basic rundown.
To make the targets, we had to put a frame and center into the main bag, and then stuff the shit out of it with used fuck blankets from some whore-house in Hong Kong. At least that's where I'm assuming they came from. Maybe Vegas. The point is, they gave you rusted scissors (probably from all the reproductive fluids staining the material) and had you futilely attempt to hack your way through the thick cords of fiber, then jam it inside a plastic bag, all the while scraping your knuckles on the burlap center that I swear to God came from Columbia. Fucking Columbia.
This wasn't a target factory, it was where a wealthy drug lord's landfill. And we were the fucking seagulls.
The actual work wasn't the worst part (even though there was always the threat of finding the occasional spoon, pin, knife, or, I'm not shitting you, a used syringe tangled in the old, musky, and ironically named comforters). The people there were the worst.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, did Dumbshits have a knack for hiring just the most wonderful people. A good two thirds of them were ex-convicts, all of them were painted with a menagerie of amateur tattoos, and they went through so many cigarettes a day that the ground in the break area might as well have been a giant fucking ashtray. So many wonderful people, I don't know where to start.
First, you had the forty something, who had been in and out of prison his entire life. You had the token black guy. You had the overachiever who made quota every day, though I'm pretty sure it was mathematically impossible. You had all manner of loudmouths and douchebags, including the one-upper, who was so obviously lying just to seem "cool" in front of the others that it was hard to watch.
And then there was "Kenny".
Kenny, as I'll call him, though I honestly don't remember his actual name. He worked in the space next to me, though he didn't talk to me for the first few days. That was fine with me; something told me I really didn't want to converse with any of these people, that maybe they wouldn't be interested in my sweet Magic the Gathering cards, or care so much if I was a dungeon master. I was right.
The first thing Kenny said to me told me all I needed to know about him. Seemingly out of nowhere, he gets my attention and asks, "Have you ever had a girl lick your asshole before?"
I'll just leave it at that.
I only worked at Dumbshits for about two weeks, which was long enough to see about seven other employees come and go, the forty-something quit before he could be subjected to a drug test, and hear Kenny spout off witicism of such filth that I redefined my definition of foul language, downgrading Eminem to "Light Swearing".
I guess if I learned anything from my time there, it was this: by Buddha's belly, I never, EVER want to go to prison. Fuck.
Oh, and I guess something about good work environments, blah blah blah. Whatever. But mainly the prison thing. I mean FUCK.
Until the next time around, mortals.
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