I was born. I suffered.
I suffered some more, and hopefully,
I won't die a painful death.
This is my life.

Excruciating jobs and other woes. Part deux.

Ah, red the color of unabashed stress and hatred.  You know, monotonous straightening of countless square feet of shelves sounds like big time fun doesn't it?  Yes, that's what I thought too. 


 Until you actually do it for a while,  you will not know the shear terror that scratches and claws it's way up your spine when you hear, off in the distance, let's say aisle E12, a toddler pushing and throwing every stupid toy back into the far reaches of the shelf.  


In the midst of all this anal-retentive ordering of cereal boxes and bags of Pedigree dog food, there are the customers, or "Guests" as The Red calls them.  I have actually had not one problem with any guest. Do you know why?  Because the bar is set too low.  The general public knows that when they venture into a gigantic retail outlet they will be either:  1) Ignored.  or 2) Given bad advise.  So most don't even bother to ask anything.  Even if it means leaving the store without buying shit.  This is just fine with me.  


And if you do get a soul killing retail job somewhere, remember that muttering under your breath can be your only enjoyment during those excruciating 4-6 hours with only a 15 minute break.  For instance, after you cash out a customer, say to them: "Please come again... on my day off."


I know what you are saying,  "Eric, you must be rolling in the fuckin' dough now."  Yep, it has been nice to buy a couple more cans of soup lately.  But fate is a cruel bitch with a gigantic dildo wrapped in sandpaper waiting to bend you over the table the first chance she can.


Next week, how to argue with the IRS and lose.