Friends, Readers, Lurkers and Bloggers, lend me your stories. I come to beg a boon of you. Please share with us the sad tale about the worst job you ever had.
The floor is now open.
(Visited 38 times, 1 visits today)
"When you're in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying, 'Damn, that was fun'." Groucho Marx
These are great. Thank you all for sharing.
I worked as a receptionist for a company that killed animals for medical research. Shudder
First job. In High school. My friend got me a job working as a “porter” at a bowling alley. My job was to come in inthe morning and clean up. Let me tell you, you’ve never lived if you haven’t had to clean puke up in the bathroom left from the night before’s red-neck too much beer and pizza while bowling.
The friend, whom I later found out was er, interested in me, actually volunteered to do that for me in the future so I wouldn’t have to. I was grateful, but not grateful enough to date him when I figured it out. Nor to keep the job after about a week or two.
Note to future romancers: Don’t offer to get the girl you want a job so disgusting that she walks around queasy all day. Really. No matter how much she tells you she needs cash. Trust me, you don’t want to be associated in the future with the smell of puke.
And, friends, don’t ever offer to take me bowling. Not even ironic bowling.
I once worked as a janitor for an old office building. I used to hate having to clean the women’s room on the third floor because at least once a month I’d find used tampons next to the toilet.
The worst was a job I had early in my life doing nothing but filing. Standing all day long, hour after hour, in front of a wall of filing cabinets. I quit after a couple weeks. It SUCKED!!!!
Blogging.
The pay sucks and most of the people you encounter are jerks.
Hee hee…
During college, I worked at the TCBY near my parents’ house. Food service can be fun for a little while, particularly ice cream, but becomes less fun when customers are abusive – and they’re only 8 years old.
RaggedyDad had many, many varied crazy jobs. When we first met I’d ask him to tell me his stories a little at a time. Whenever he flew home to visit his family during semester breaks, he’d do different things.
For a few days he picked strawberries, but apparently it’s backbreaking work. A more comfortable, yet emotionally draining job was translating refugee testimonials in the Interior Ministry in Belgium. The worst job by far was probably when he worked cleaning out an animal feed factory. It seems like the smell was so bad, he and the other guys would have to take periodic puking breaks. Ugh.
I haven’t had a lot of jobs, but the worst one easily was working for a used van dealership the summer before starting medical school. I initially took the job on the recommendation of a friend, who told me that it was driving vans cross-country from the auctions to the dealership in NY. Sounds like fun, right?
Only they didn’t need me to do that, so my time was spent lugging things around the lot and cleaning up after the guard dogs.
The worst job I ever had in terms of the actual work was a series of stints I had while “temping” my way through college. I didn’t mind the placements where I worked as a receptionist or a secretary, but the filing jobs were God-awful boring. It was horrible. All filing, all the time. I wanted to kill myself.
The worst job in terms of environment was much later. I was doing work that was meaningful, but my boss was a control freak who micromanaged the team and — I found out later — always picks one person to degrade (perhaps explaining the high turnover in the office). Guess who it was when I was there? Me. This boss not only criticized me for, say, the crime of leaving on time, but also insulted me in front of my coworkers and suggested that I get therapy. When I submitted my letter of resignation, the boss thanked me for giving notice. It turns out that my predecessor was so fed up that he just left one day and never came back.
I mean ‘either’.
I once worked in a steakhouse that a. had it’s own western birthday song and
b. when a certain country song came on we were expected to stop everything and sing it to the readnecks. I mean cutomers.
I had no idea about ether of these until I already had the job.