The Worst Job McEver
Posted September 2, 2009on:
Truly, I could write an entire book on the heinous jobs I’ve had over the years, but the one that tops the list is McDonald’s (which employed me for all of 2 weeks).
It was the summer of my college sophomore year – in OCMD. My friend talked me into living with her and several of her slutty sorority sisters in some ramshackle-roach-infested-crack-house run by a 500 lb. pedophile with full-blown AIDS. (Clearly, two years of college had done squat to improve my better judgment.)
Since my cushy little peer-acceptable job at a chic boutique didn’t provide enough funds for the exorbitant rent of said crack house, I was forced to seek a second job.
The only thing I could find was McDonald’s. Lucky me. Donning the uber-humiliating uniform and matching visor was somehow tantamount to the horror of living in sheer squalor.
I utterly abhorred my two miserable weeks there. Each day I came home smelling like a giant french fry, and I could literally scrape the grease from my face. I refrained from moving my head so as not to trap individual strands of already grease-laden hair against my cheek. (Ah, so THAT’S what that visor was for…)
During OCMD’s infamous “Senior Week” (to which THOUSANDS of snot-nosed, rich and entitled graduating high school seniors flock), I was told to mop the dining room floor. (GREAT! Let me get right out there and perform the most menial job possible in front of hordes of obnoxious teens.)
Ever the obedient and humble servant, I pushed my big yellow bucket out into the mass of walking hormones and began to mop away. I could feel and hear those pompous little bastards making fun of me and laughing at me behind my back and blatantly, as well. One scraggly little waif commented, “When I grow up, I want to work at McDonald’s like her…” (It took every fiber of my being not to ram my mophead down her throat.)
Instead, I ignored her demeaning comment. I lowered my head, screwed my courage to the sticking point, and decided then and there that I would be the best damn mopper Ronald had ever laid his creepy clown eyes on. With as much dignity that my current attire would permit, I lifted my mop.
Unfortunately, the top o’ the mop handle slipped in between two of the blades of the ceiling fan directly above me. The handle twitched and jerked in my hands as the rotating fan blades chopped and gouged several diagonal notches out of the cheap-ass wood. The clacking of the blades biting and chipping at the wood echoed, reporting like a freakin’ AK-47.
Finally, I was able to wrench free the damn handle, and because of the force I exerted to do so, I slipped on the wet floor (as the jarring of the mop had slung black mop-juice all over the joint) and fell flat on my ass.
Dazed and mortified, I picked myself up and gawked at the freshly cut handle. I also adjusted my trusty visor (and took note that because of the 1/4 inch layer of grease on my ass, my pants were incredibly dry). All the while, those cocky pubescent pricks snickered and jeered to the point of tears.
One joker said to me: “Hey, I’ll bet you’re like…McEmbarrassed!”
I said, “McReally,” and walked out.
That was my last day as a McEmployee.