OMGJeremy

A In-Depth Look At How Work Can Make You Lose Your Damn Mind

I don’t think I mentioned it but recently I got a new job that involves me working with people and giving advice about hardware. This is actually quite funny because I neither enjoy working with people, nor do I know a damn thing about hardware. But I figured it was at least something to do to get some spending money and help pay the bills, so I took the job and never thought another thing of it. Unfortunately I never realized when I took it that it would be such a horrific experience. I have only worked there a total of four days and I have seen enough to make most grown men openly weep for days. It’s as if my workplace is the galaxy’s center for human freakishness and stupidity. So in an effort to show you all what I go through on a daily basis I have gone to the trouble of writing out my daily routine. Let me just say this first, absolutely none of what you are about to read is an exaggeration at all. This is all actual events that are totally true, and I think that makes it all the more sad. So pull up a chair and see just how much better your life is.

6:30 AM Slowly wake up from a restful slumber that consisted of me listening to the soothing sounds of the sixty man street crew that has gathered outside of my window using various power tools that seem to be powered by several miniature nuclear bombs going off inside them every second. Once my brain begins to swell to dangerous levels because of the incessant pounding noises, I decide it is time to get up and face yet another wondrous day.

6:45 AM Stumble blindly into the kitchen until I run head-first into the refrigerator, letting me know that it is now time for me to consume some type of breakfast food that I most assuredly will vomit up later on in the day. My choices are mainly different flavored Pop Tarts that I bought at the grocery store which is quite odd because I have never liked Pop Tarts and would sooner digest a rusted metal can. Yet I continue to buy them every trip to the grocery and eat them every morning. I blame the groovy packaging.

7:05 AM After I finish my healthy breakfast, I walk in random directions throughout the house until I eventually make it to the bathroom and begin the morning ritual of getting ready for work which consists of me looking in the mirror for twenty minutes straight, trying to justify why I should put myself through the impending torture. If I decide that I do in fact need to do it to at least have enough money to live off of, I find my pants and away I go.

8:10 AM I arrive at work with all the vibrance and gusto of a four week old rotting corpse. If another of my coworkers greets me in a cheery morning tone I withhold the urge to spit directly onto their neck and murmur something that vaguely sounds like “uhhhhnn” and then continue to the back room to clock into work 13 minutes late.

8:15 AM I go back out onto the sales floor where I am kindly greeted by a man who has decided not to wear anything to cover his massive swollen gut which seems to be impregnated with a small horse. He is curious as to where a certain product is in the store that we of course do not carry, have never carried before, and never intend to carry in the future. After informing him of this he becomes agitated because he is POSITIVE he saw it in the store a few days ago. I do not doubt what he says though, as he probably did see the product in the store, just not this store. This is one of the many negatives of having an alcohol store less than 20 feet away from my workplace. People regularly come into the store drunk and see things that do not exist and then return a few days later asking for that lawnmower that had wings and could fly. I inform the customer that we are currently out of his imaginary product and tell him to check back Thursday when the truck comes in. Thankfully I am off Thursday.

8:45 AM I am ordered to put up some stock with a fellow coworker of mine. This would not be so bad if it were not for the fact that my coworker seems to have been beaten repeatedly in the face with a truck tire the night before by her husband. It does not help matters any when after further investigation it appears my coworker has approximately 5 teeth, most of which do not seem to be growing out of her gums. One in particular literally seems to be growing out of her bottom lip, while the others have taken on minds of their own and are randomly attached to her jaw in some horrible fashion. She then informs me that it is that time of the month and she needs to go change her pad, at which point I get on my knees and beg God in the name of everything that is holy to remove the vivid visual picture that statement produced in my mind and never let me think of it again. And if he won’t do that then just strike me dead now.

9:30 AM The first of many Mexican customers who cannot speak English stumbles through the door with their nine kids hanging off of them, all screaming and crying for some reason or another. Our Spanish friend would like a new plumbing fixture for his sink, which would be a simple process if it weren’t for the fact his entire English vocabulary consists of the word “No” and other English phrases that he tries to communicate by flailing his arms rapidly in various directions.  His kids meanwhile have effortlessly knocked over every single product in aisle thirteen and are now headed for aisle fourteen, while their dad continues to say “No” to me even though the only thing I have said to him so far is “Hello.” Problem is resolved when I solve the man’s problem by nodding my head back and forth until he gets tired of flailing his arms and decides to leave the store.

10:35 AM I am assigned to build a lawnmower with my coworker named “Wayne.” Wayne can be best described as the seedy barfly you see in movies that usually dies a horrible death at some time during the film, like being beat to death with a tire hose by several gangsters in an alley. I am not so lucky however as it seems there are no violent gangsters around to have this done to Wayne at this time so I am forced to build the lawnmower with him. Wayne also smokes and does so the entire time we are building it and has the unnerving ability to blow smoke in my face no matter where I am standing in the room.

10:50 AM Building of the lawnmower goes smoothly until Wayne decides it is time for him to jam his cigarette directly into my forearm while I am holding a screw for him to tighten. This results in me screeching like a small girl and rolling around on the ground until the mind numbing pain relents enough for me to contemplate shoving that cigarette directly down Wayne’s throat and then make him pick it out of his ass at gun point. Wayne seems to be generally concerned that he has scarred me for life and offers up a genuine apology by saying, “Sorry ’bout that” then belches and continues to light another cigarette. I begin plotting Wayne’s death via throwing large rocks directly at his face.

11:49 AM I temporarily stop building the lawnmower when a customer comes in and informs me of the following:

• He is looking for something
• He does not know what its name is
• He does not know what it looks like
• But he is positive it is in the store and it is imperative I find it for him immediately

Perhaps I was hoping that maybe the customers I encountered at this job would be slightly less vague in their descriptions of the products we sell. Just by going by what this man has described I can tell he probably gets off by staying up all night, plotting his evil schemes to wreak havoc on unsuspecting sales clerks, or is just really fucking stupid. As far as I know the customer could have seen the product he is describing in a dream after he drank a gallon of whiskey and passed out, hitting his head on the curb when he fell. As much as I would like to tell the customer that he is wasting valuable minutes of my life with his little “find the imaginary product I dreamed up while masturbating at a picture of a decomposed corpse” game, I quickly solve the problem by telling the customer to please wait while I go into the stock room and hide until he decides to leave the store.

12:00 PM Lawnmower is finally assembled and took approximately 1 hour longer than it should have. This is because Wayne forgot how to read English for some reason and had me use several wrong parts, even after I told him they were wrong. Wayne belches and says, “trust me.” One hour worth of disassembling the lawnmower and putting it back together using the correct parts and I am finally free to get as far from Wayne as possible.

1:26 PM Customer comes in looking extremely agitated and asks if where the restroom is for the customers. I inform him that there is no restroom for customers and tell him to go next door. This is a horrible mistake on my part because saying that sentence to him must have been the nicest gesture anyone has ever said to him, so he suddenly decides I am his best friend and launches into every single detail that has happened to him in the last seven weeks. I try to escape his endless drivel by walking away from him but he continues to follow me around the store, finishing up the story that involved him getting thrown out of his house because he decided his eighty year old landlady was possessed by an evil demon and tried to exorcise the demon by shooting her in the thigh several times. Problem is solved however when I lock myself in the office restroom and begin crying uncontrollably.

2:05 PM The same Mexican from this morning comes back in the store and buys approximately 357 feet of plastic floor padding, then goes outside and wraps it around his car for some reason.

2:58 PM Customer buys 20 sixty pound bags of cement. I am ordered to retrieve the bags from the stock room and then meet the customer by the back door. I retrieve the massive amounts of cement, nearly dying in the process and shaving at least seven years off my total life span, and then continue to wait for the man by the door. The man pulls up in a car barely large enough to hold a family sized microwaveable dinner, let alone 20 bags of cement. The man informs me to “throw em in the trunk,” which is actually what most people would refer to as their backseat. I begin to laugh at the funny game God is playing with me and wonder if it would be possible to smash my skull with the bag of cement.

3:40 PM I begin counting down the minutes until 4 o’ clock and my imminent freedom from this new hell on earth. Not before, however, a woman that appears to be approximately 148 years old crumbles up to me and asks if I have any biscuits. I am completely at a loss because as far as I know a hardware store does not sell food products, especially biscuits. I inform her of her error but then she says it is slang for a certain type of part that she does not know the real name of, nor has any idea just what the fuck it looks like. So to find the part I must escort her through most of the store, slowly walking behind her, praying that she has some type of stroke or dies because it is past time for me to leave work. The old lady continues to somehow use the two small strands of muscle going down her legs to keep her mobile and looking through the aisles….

4:10 PM Now slowly contemplating if I would be caught if I kicked her walker out from under her and ran for the time clock, I begin to wonder if she is in fact, still alive.  For the last four minutes straight she has been looking at a small piece of hardware and has not moved the whole time. I wonder if I should poke her with a screwdriver to see if I can get some kind of response but decide against it when I notice the nose hairs dangling around her upper lip moving, showing that she is at least breathing. After watching her closely for the next few minutes without her so much as moving a pupil, I ask her if she has found what she was looking for. Suddenly she springs to life as if for a few minutes she just decided to go into a coma for no apparent reason. She then looks at me curiously, says yes, and then goes back into her self-induced coma.

4:17 PM The lady is pretty sure she has found her biscuit part and I nod my head in agreement, even though I have no idea what the hell a god damn biscuit is. I politely point her in the general direction of the nearest check out lane, not giving her enough time to ask me for another tool that sounds like a breakfast food and then I start a mad dash to clock out and end this nightmare.

4:45 PM I arrive home and revel in the fact that I am free of the awful nightmare that is my workplace. I have survived this hell on Earth for another day and can live t tale the tale to my Grandchildren one day. Then I suddenly fall to the floor and begin crying as I realize I have to do it all again tomorrow.

And there you have it, every reason in the world to stay unemployed. Or at least not employed at a hardware store in the middle of a white trash ghetto. I’m sorry if this whole article sounds like a pity rant but in a way I guess it is. You never know how easy you had it in your last job until you find something even worse, and folks, not to over-exaggerate, but I sincerely believe I have found hell on Earth. So the next time you go out looking for a job let this be a lesson to you, if the person that interviews you is wearing a tank-top, run. Run far away and never return. And if you ever hear anyone so much as even mutter s the store’s name, then stab them in the face. Believe me it’s for the best.