Making the proclamation that you hate your job is often a queue to the universe. It’s a prompt for the universe to demonstrate just how big its cock is and just how painful it is for said cock to bury itself in your ass.
I got fired from my horrible job at the vitamin store. I was fired on Friday, of all days. What regional director of sadism came up with the policy to shit can an employee on Friday? That’s totally fucked up. There are few things that sully a perfectly acceptable weekend like unexpected unemployment.
It was a drug test, or my refusal to take one to be more accurate, that sealed my fate. As I arrived at the store, I was greeted by several senior members of management. The fact that I was fifteen minutes late and noticeably hung over was grounds enough for dismissal. Since they had taken great effort to bring a drug test with them, why not use it?
Apparently, some customers had complained about yours truly. Several scandalous phone calls were placed to the head office, claiming that the sole employee in the store was rude, disheveled and reeking of marijuana. If I knew which customer had ratted me out, I would be tempted to burn their fucking house down to the foundation.
To make a long story short, an official looking man in a slate gray suit presented me with a cup to urinate into. I countered his request with a wad of spittle in his right eye and a shrill yelp of “Suck your father’s wrinkled ball bag you butt fucking corporate cock sleeve!”
I was dragged, thrashing and shouting, out of the mall. The patrons of the food court seemed to be quite amused watching the sad episode unfold.
One of the fortunate (or unfortunate) facts surrounding shitty jobs is that they’re plentiful. The sun had barely set on my recent exodus from the working world before I found another awful job.
I hate this one even more than the last. I’m working at a fucking toy store of all places – a god-fucking-damn-loud-as-fuck-with-screaming-children-mother-cock-sucking toy store!