
I thought it would be different.
When I was in college in D.C. I wanted to make some extra money at night. (No, this is not a prostitution story, sorry.) I saw an ad in the paper to "make money while helping progressive organizations". It said I'd work with Oxfam, World Wildlife Fund, the DNC, etc. When I got there for an interview it turned out to be a for-profit private company that left-wing non-profits would hire to do their telemarketing. And by "interview" I mean the beginning of my first shift. I show up in a suit (almost everyone else in t-shirts) and without looking at my resume, they give me a script and sit me in front of a monochrome monitor while handing me a headset.
It wasn't what I was expecting, but I thought, hey, I'd be helping good deserving causes and I needed the money, so I gave it a try. I did it for a few months. I felt dirty every minute. The money was pretty good for a college kid, and I did better than most of my co-workers because I tried to treat the people I was calling like humans rather than Skinner box food dispensers. Still, the job sucked. The better I performed, the worse I felt about it. I left as soon as I found some brainless office job.
So the telemarketing fund raising job was bad, but I have to say, I met a very diverse group of interesting people there.
While most people there worked in t-shirts and shorts there was one guy who always wore a suit and delivered his spiel with an American accent but with BBC-patterned intonation. It always sounded like he was reading news to someone.
Seren-Deb (that's not a spelling error) was a six and a half foot tall African-American transsexual Jewish convert from Alabama who made hamentashen to die for.
There was a middle-aged Pakistani guy with a comb-over, named Said, who always smiled and loved 80s metal, often singing a thickly-accented version of "Rock You Like a Hurricane."
His Indian boss, Vijay had a skin tag on his cheek that was the size and shape of a dangling tic-tac that he couldn't stop touching, sometimes rolling it between his fingers.
Vijay and Said openly hated each other. Even though they both spoke Urdu, they had all of their arguments in English with Said non-sarcastically smiling with every insult he threw. Most of their arguments would end with Said gleefully saying, "Vijay, I hate you greatly!" It would happen at least twice a week, but neither did anything about it.
It was a shitty job, but it was memorable. I still can't hear a Scorpions song without thinking of Said.
He got so drunk that he finally passed out in the floor. Mind you, this is the kind ofg place that while he was out, only one person asked me if I noticed him. And this was a busy night, with 50-100 folks. I just said i was glad not to have to deal with him for awhile and let him lay.
But this guy wasn't done. After about 30-45 minutes he began to move. for about 15 minutes he worked on getting up, holding onto a pole, and then using a chair to get to his feet. this went on and on, until he finally made his way to the bar, and ordered a drink! I told him I couldn't serve him because he was drunk. He started calling me a lot name, and I just didn't want to deal with it, so I served him, hoping he just pass out again.
I don't mean to be a dick, but in this example you gave, your actions would in fact have been considered criminal if that person had suffered any serious injury as a result of serving him when he was obviously trashed, and then not calling the police/ambulance when he was passed out on the floor. Serving him another drink when he woke up again is... wow...
While they were taking her away in an ambulance one of the officers came over to me, and started going off on how drunk everyone in this bar was, and if he came in and saw this again, he would charge me with serving drunks! That's just great!
Um, based on the previous example, I'd have to side with the cops on this one.
Jayhawker wrote:He got so drunk that he finally passed out in the floor. Mind you, this is the kind ofg place that while he was out, only one person asked me if I noticed him. And this was a busy night, with 50-100 folks. I just said i was glad not to have to deal with him for awhile and let him lay.
But this guy wasn't done. After about 30-45 minutes he began to move. for about 15 minutes he worked on getting up, holding onto a pole, and then using a chair to get to his feet. this went on and on, until he finally made his way to the bar, and ordered a drink! I told him I couldn't serve him because he was drunk. He started calling me a lot name, and I just didn't want to deal with it, so I served him, hoping he just pass out again.
I don't mean to be a dick, but in this example you gave, your actions would in fact have been considered criminal if that person had suffered any serious injury as a result of serving him when he was obviously trashed, and then not calling the police/ambulance when he was passed out on the floor. Serving him another drink when he woke up again is... wow...
Jayhawker wrote:While they were taking her away in an ambulance one of the officers came over to me, and started going off on how drunk everyone in this bar was, and if he came in and saw this again, he would charge me with serving drunks! That's just great!
Um, based on the previous example, I'd have to side with the cops on this one.
Absolutely. I quit the job because I couldn't safely refuse anyone. I considered getting a gun at one point. Of course, if I needed a gun to feel safe at work, I probably just needed a different job.
Also, there was so much weed and coke going around that what I served had very little to do with how messed up the patrons were. I'd probably make much different decisions now, however.
Trolley monkey for Sainsburys supermarket. You must push little carts! (in the pissing rain in an oversized hi-visibility coat that does the best job of directing rainwater directly into your neck).
I got a job working as a porter (orderly?) at an inner city General Hospital for a summer when I was doing my degree.
I had 3 days of orientation, which was bad enough, as the other porters were all laid-off steel workers with a resentment of education in general and lawyers in particular, except for one guy. He was the only one within 40 years of my age, and his IQ hovered around cretin somewhere. He hated me on sight, and was therefore assigned to train me. Honestly, this guy had to show me how to change the main o2 supply for the operating theatres. No joke, I had to punch him the face 2 hours into the job to stop him making racist comments to me (I'm of mixed race).
Anyway, after my "training", I was immediately put on a night shift in Accident & Emergency. I came in, was given my pager for the night, and it started to bleep as soon as my fingers closed around it. "OT2, RC". That meant to go to Operating Theatre 2, and take a body to the mortuary, which was called Rose Cottage so that patients did not know what we meant.
I went to OT2, and the cadaver was of a biker who had been hit by a lorry doing 40mph. You can imagine. We used a covered steel box on wheels to transport the bodies, but this poor guy was too long to fit. I don't think that he had been an hour before. I had to put him on a gurney wrapped in sheets, go out of a fire exit, and roll him around the outside of the hospital so that no patients saw.
That night, I had to deal with 3 other cadavers, in various states, and the usual run of Saturday-night-in-Middlesbrough drunks, domestics and nutcases, since we were also responsible for internal security in A&E.
The job went on like that for the next 8 weeks. The highlight was holding down a 6'5", 20 stone plus, HIV positive drug addict who had tried to slit his wrists and did not want any treatment. He had a paramedic on each leg, an orderly on each arm, a male nurse holding his head and if this guy wanted to move, he damned well did, spraying blood as he went. All good fun.
I had a number of crap jobs before finally finishing school and getting a decent one...
Dishwasher at a Golden Corral - the stink...ugh. Still can't eat there.
Security Guard in downtown Dallas next door to a nightclub that had several shootings while I was there.
Selling perfume "sample bottles" for some scam company. They would get you to go on sales trips where they would pay your way but only if you could sell a certain number of bottles a day - which no one ever could.
Loader/shopping cart attendant at Home Depot - Parking lot was ~1 billion degrees in the summer. Also had crazies that would smear their own feces on the bathroom stall walls. Would have to close down the bathrooms and pressure wash them about once a month.
Cleaning up construction sites.
Installing and repairing septic systems - by far the nastiest job ever. As if the smell when you pull the top off one of the tanks wasn't bad enough. Ever had to reach into a giant septic tank full of human waste and try to find the outflow pipe? Not cool.
DSL tech support for AOL - So soul crushing I fear for my grandchildren.
Phone support for a cable company's internet service - small fry cable company in the sticks working with ancient equipment. Outages would last for weeks. I swear some customers were frothing so badly at the mouth that it would come through my headset.
I worked for three summers in one of the last remaining textile dye plants in the NorthEast. Basically, three thousand yard rolls of white fabric are trucked in on one side of the building, and brightly colored 200 yard cardboard rolls come out the other end. In between, a hellpit of 99% humidity, 100+ degree temps, toxic chemicals, and unionized hillbillies making $9.50 an hour.
I worked with on a three man crew on the back end of a tenter frame machine. Basically, a 60 foot long oven where fabric fresh from the dye vats (imagine pressure cookers that you could park a car in) is shoved in one end, and out the other end comes hot, dry fabric still smoking with the fumes of industrial color fixatives. This gets run up and down a few rollers, then put on cardboard tubes. Oh, did I mention that every few minutes a steel guillotine cuts the fabric off, the fabric runs thru the oven on thousands of fast moving sharp needles, and fabric running over rollers generates massive amounts of static electricity. I made the mistake of holding on to a metal railing with my left hand while pulling out a snag with my right hand, the zap went down the arm, straight across my chest, and up the other arm. Knocked me straight to the floor. Then my prescription-pill addicted coworker called me a wuss and told me to get back to work.
Last but not least, this was all done using rotating shifts, so every week you had to adjust to a new sleep cycle. Dodging various hazards is even more fun at 3am when the guy next to the emergency shutoff button is missing his fix and starting to see things.
Still, the job paid more than the few available foodservice jobs in town, and every once and a while the guys would bring me along (underage) to the dive bar near the plant. That job earned me enough to pay the difference between student loans and tuition. Today, no matter how many servers are down, any day that I'm not in steel toes and earplugs and doused in sweat is a pretty good day.
Dunkin' Donuts has 848 varieties of coffee-products, requiring 848 different types of cups that need filling with 848 different combinations of ingredients put together in 848 specific orders using 848 different machines. I don't drink coffee-products of any kind, so I don't inherently know the difference between a fececino and a testicino. And I still don't, because when I got the job at Dunkin' Donuts, they decided not to train me. Instead, they threw me on a cash register at 7 in the morning when it is apparently mind-numbingly busy. I made it through the day as best as I could and hoped that the amount of customers that had appeared that day was not a regular, daily occurrence. I mean, there's no way it was, or there would have been more people working there that day.
So, when the next day the same thing happened and the store was just as understaffed, I was pretty sure that I wasn't going to be staying at that job for much longer. Then, the best thing that could ever happen happened. The cash register computer things completely froze and I couldn't ring up any orders. I ran back to the manager's office to tell her what had happened, and she said she would be out to fix it. I stood there, trying to explain to the line of customers so long that it went out the front doors and to the corner of the building that I couldn't take any orders because the computers were down, but that they would be up in a minute. In the mean-time, I asked if I could ring up people on the drive-thru register, but the drive-thru was so busy that the Female Doggo working on that register wasn't going to let me slow things down. So, I just waited. And waited. And went back to ask the manager if she was going to fix the computers. And waited.
I got sick of waiting and started taking orders and giving away everything for free. 15 minutes later and the computers were still not fixed, the line wasn't any shorter, and people were ordering all kinds of drinks I didn't know how to make because, as I said, I WAS NEVER TRAINED! I asked for anyone else to help me, but nobody would. The customers were tired of waiting and getting angry and didn't seem to care that everything was free. So, I as I stood there with a cup full of some sort of coffee-product, not sure what the hell else I was supposed to do to it to make it a crappafrappamoccadickhat that only pretentious doucheflaps drink, I decided I was done. I set the cup down, grabbed a couple of chocolate glazed donuts, walked out the door and never returned.
When I was about 18-19, I worked the early morning room service shift at the fanciest hotel in town about 4-5 months. The regional manager was based there during that time, and was living in the hotel. (He stayed in the Presidential Suite the entire time.) Every morning he had a standing order for a pot of coffee to be brought to his room at 6:30 a.m., and he invariably answered the door wearing nothing but his tighty-whiteys. As all of you are certainly aware, there are certain things that routinely happen to the male anatomy first thing in the morning. I know he was aware of it - he always gave me suggestive up and down looks and kinda stood there proudly showing off his tackle. I finally quit a couple of days after he grabbed my backside in the walk-in fridge.
Wow, I hadn't given that job any thought in almost 2 decades. Thanks for making me have that little flashback, Trophy Husband!
I once cleaned used appliances for a used appliance store.
Let me tell you, you haven't lived until you've smelled some of the lifeforms that inhabit refrigerators that have been unplugged and unopened for weeks.
Also, the owner just looooved country music, and kept it blaring all day long in the back of the store where I worked.
When I was about 18-19, I worked the early morning room service shift at the fanciest hotel in town about 4-5 months. The regional manager was based there during that time, and was living in the hotel. (He stayed in the Presidential Suite the entire time.) Every morning he had a standing order for a pot of coffee to be brought to his room at 6:30 a.m., and he invariably answered the door wearing nothing but his tighty-whiteys. As all of you are certainly aware, there are certain things that routinely happen to the male anatomy first thing in the morning. I know he was aware of it - he always gave me suggestive up and down looks and kinda stood there proudly showing off his tackle. I finally quit a couple of days after he grabbed my backside in the walk-in fridge.
Ohh! A task! A task! Elysium, you are bound by honor and MAN LAW to drive forthwith to this hotel and punch that guy in his tackle! Snap to it!
I suppose it would be working at a sheet metal shop one summer when I was a teenager. Really the people there weren't bad, it was just nasty work. No air conditioning or circulation, bad humidity in the area, leather protective gear, oxyacetylene cutting torches, grinders, and all sorts of nasty oil. I'd have to scrub the oil and grease off my exposed areas as soon as I was done there, needed to buy a special soap to cut through it, normal soap wouldn't cut it.
Having worked several jobs in the service industry thus far in my life, I now understand misanthropy. I've washed dishes, I've worked at a Blockbuster Video (which allowed me to understand Clerks on a wholly different level) and until this weekend, I worked at a Starbucks. The latter two weren't quite as crushing as the dishwashing job, but ever since, i've always respected 9/10ths of the people behind the counter, and hated an equal number of the customers.
Having worked several jobs in the service industry thus far in my life, I now understand misanthropy.
Oh, very much agreeing with this.
A while back I said I hated working at a movie theater.
To put this in perspective, I apprenticed with my dad (an on-site construction plumber) for 4-5 months a few years back. Part of that was a finish job on an apartment complex.
We installed the bathroom fixtures, waited for codes/checks/whatever to clear, then connected those fixtures to water/gas lines. The toilet lids were wrapped with plastic and taped shut, because no one should have been using them for the 2 weeks or so there was no water access.
The damned drywallers/electricians didn't care. Multiple times per toilet, in some cases. Flies and maggots were happily swimming in a lasagna of feces while I had to stoop down and connect water hoses to the things. Since these apartment units were unfinished, all the windows were closed tight (to guard against possible rain damage and whatnot). Those units got REALLY stuffy since no one had to air them out.
To be clear: I would rather deal with that than have to deal with some of the customers I've come across at the theater.
This thread really makes em appreciate how lucky I've been! The biggest problem at my worst job was just soul-crushing boredom. I worked in a ski rental place in the US one summer (your winter, obviously) that catered to a smallish skifield. They had local kids work a lot of the weekend shifts, so the foreigners generally got the weekdays. It was a warm winter, so the snow wasn't great, and consequently things were pretty quiet.
I wound up getting quite a few double-shift days, and during the week these got incredibly dull. There would often be days when you'd serve perhaps 60 people from 8-10am, then sit around for five hours serving maybe 1 person an hour, have another busy two hours, then just have to hang around until the night skiers brought their gear back at around 10pm.
The money was great (given the exchange rate at the time), and the work was fun when we had work to do, but those 5-6 hour blocks of tedium made me really appreciate going back to uni after the summer break.
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Sadly, that list pales to the number of jobs I've had. I may work on a list for later. My brothers and I were talking about old times and jobs one night, when his wife finally asked me how man jobs I've had. My brothers started giggling and we went on for what seemed an hour. They were bringing up jobs I had forgotten I had.
Yeah, I was waiting for Jayhawker to chime in on this thread (I'm one of the brothers). I was thinking about the job at the golf course where he drove the machine that gathered golf balls on the driving range. Although the machine was caged, balls could get through the cage, and golfers would aim at him.
What's the worst job you've ever had
Eve Online
Telemarketer for a firm that contracted to non-profits, back in the dial-it-yourself days. We'd get a page of the Columbus phone book and work our way through the entire thing.
Shearing Christmas trees--an all-day job in 90+ degree heat walking down half-mile-long rows of trees manually trimming them into nice cones with a single leader branch at the top. I hate shopping for Christmas trees now, in part because 90% have been poorly sheared.
I had to file folders for two weeks in tall large gray bins. I thought about possible suicide through paper cut but soon realized that it would take too much time.
Working behind the garbage truck. The work itself was ok, it's surprising how fast you adapt to the smell :), but the people working there were some of the most frustrated, racist, mysoginist people I've ever encountered. It really was a constant fight over who could make the most racist and/or sexist remark, a lookey how un-PC I dare to be pissing contest. Some of them were alcoholics, buying a sixpack in a gas station at the start of the day and finishing it (among several beers in several pubs on the way) during the shift. It's a miracle no-one fell off or in the truck - although that did happen a few years before I worked there. Didn't stop the drunk from drinking. One guy would boast how he got so drunk the night before he peed in his pants to everyone willing to hear it.
Once the two worlds of hate collided. We drove slowly behind a girl who looked kind off the part (good enough anyway for these frustrated wankers) and they started the usual litany of "I'd hit it" remarks. When we passed her she proved to be Arab (the worst you can be in Belgium for your average bigot). The truck went silent for a few seconds, until one brave soul muttered "she probably has hair on her boobs". It was so sad I laughed.
I've had a number of less than pleasant jobs, but the worst overall was easily at a wire mill. After my first semester at Cornell I was placed on a forced leave of absence. My father worked at Omega Wire (now part of International Wire). Big rolls of 'copper rod' are brought in, and first run through the 'copper rod machine'. This was probably the largest machine in the place, and certainly the oldest and loudest (my hearing never did recover from the few summers I worked there). This copper rod is 'drawn down' through dyes of various shape to create copper wire of various gauges. From there, it might be send to other machines in the mill for further drawing down, shipped out directly. Some of the stuff from the draw machines would sent to one or more of the 'bunch' machines, which essentially produces wire cables of various sizes. The largest of these was called the 'cabler', which produced massive cables of the type used in construction and so forth, and was what my father ran at the time.
Anyway, I was hired on as a 'scrapper' for minimum wage. This was a position that came and went, as it wasn't exactly vital, but was useful. The title came from the original purpose of the job, which was to deal with 'scrapping' bad wire. For smaller gauge, you could just take a utility knife and cut it off. For larger gauge stuff, you would use an air chisel. I can't find an image that looks like the one we used, but it was essentially a miniature jack-hammer. For a scrawny kid such as I was at the time, it was always interesting wielding that beast. In general, the people hired into the position were not the brightest or most capable people around, but those who were slightly more capable had a lot of other tedious and usually nasty tasks thrown at them.
The second worst part of the job was cleaning out the chemical vats for the electroplating machiines. They had what was essentially a mini-forge on hand, and would melt down tin (or maybe it was some tin alloy, I was never exactly sure) and pour into molds to create anodes. These tin anodes were then used to electroplate the copper wire. I've forgotten exactly what chemicals were used in the process, but one was a weak sulfuric acid. To clean the vats, I would first get a sump-pump, and pump out as much as I could directly into a large plastic drum. I would then get a wet-vac and suck out the rest of the liquid, along with all of the nasty sediment at the bottom. I would be wearing a thing paper suit over my work clothes, with rubber gloves, and various protection. But it always soaked through of course, and while it didn't leave any mark, always left my skin feeling weird for a few days. To really get in to certain parts, I'd have to stick my head down into places where I would come up with all this chemical soaked sediment all over my face, which was always very exciting. Once finished I just had to turn on a spout to pour in new chemical and cart the drum over to the 'chemical guy' as I always thought of him. I was never clear on exactly what he did, but he kind of had his own little portion of the building all to himself, and always seemed a little strange.
Anyway, the very worst part of the job involved cleaing out the vats for the fluid that was used to lubricate the copper wire or rod as it was drown to size. These tanks would be anywhere from knee-deep to higher full of 'copper mud'. The best analogy I heard for it was a worse-smelling dog-shit. It had a similiar consistency, smelled worse, and would absolutely stick to everything. It was a lot harder to clean off. It would get embedded in the myrid of tiny of cuts all over my hands from dealing with wire all of the time, and no matter how hard I scrubbed my hands and what I used to clean them, they would always appear dirty. The copper rod vat was the smallest of them all. There was a man-hole in the floor that one skinny person (such as myself) could just barely squeeze into. The first time I had the priviledge of cleaning it, it hadn't been done in a long time because they hadn't been able to get anyone in there. Cleaning out the first portion wasn't so bad, you had just room enough that you could sort of stand and scoop the mud into a bucket. Of course, the stuff was very dense, so you couldn't put too much in or the person pulling up wouldn't be able to do so, so it was still time-consuming. For the second portion though, you had to get down on your hands and knees, wallowing in the copper mud, feeling it sqeeuze through every tiny opening it could find and covering your body. You then had to work keep on scooping mud in this position until it was all gone. I hated those days when the said that one needed to be cleaned out.
Once I started school again at the nearby state college, I started working at as a dishwasher at an Italian restaurant. It seemed to easy and clean in comparison that I couldn't understand the whining being done about how nasty the place was ;p
I've got three tied for worst, but they pale compared to some of yours.
1) McDonald's line cook as a teen. Worked on the second floor food court of a mall for close to a year. My six-month raise was 5 cents/hour after working 7 days a week, closing every night, which usually meant staying until midnight on school nights. Two kiss-asses who worked 3 hours apiece on Saturdays only were made managers after 3 months.
One night, I had to haul some used grease in some wheeled trash can thing to the dumpster downstairs. Service elevator was broken, so I had to carry it down the stairs. Crappy tennis shoes that have been walking through grease all day do not provide any traction on stairs, and I fell half a flight with a 100-pound grease bomb landing on top of me and soaking my only uniform with what looked like congealed vomit. I really should've claimed a slipped disc and sued them, and still don't know why I didn't.
This was all also during the Beanie Babies craze, and we had some as a Happy Meal prize. I swiped a box and gave a few to some girls I liked at school. Apparently, I didn't give one to some asshole who wrote the school's underground newspaper, and he decided to write a little blurb saying I'd give you rare Beanie Babies for a box of Twinkies. If I was trying to get into his pants, he probably would've had a better shot at one of them.
The one cool thing about the job was that my friends who worked in the arcade were very willing to exchange hours-old cheeseburgers for tokens, and I got to master Tekken 2 virtually for free.
2) The computer security job I interned at after my junior year fell through after graduation (and after I'd moved to Austin). Had a signed contract, start date, and everything. I was supposed to spend the summer in Germany (with their parent company) for training. Parent company shut down the branch I worked for, and I was out of luck. I wound up putting together server cases for Dell at night in a 100-degree warehouse for $7.50/hour. I snapped some little piece on the front of the cases for 8 hours at a time. A perfect use of my computer science degree. I lasted three weeks before I found:
3) Tech support for Verizon Enterprise DSL (and also some dial-up pyramid scheme called Excel). I have no idea how I wasn't fired from this job. There was a cool chick there who would call customers all sorts of names in the middle of telling them what steps to take. Mistress of the mute button.
Dumb customers, I can handle. They just don't know any better, and I can educate them. However, you cannot deal rationally with someone who:
a) "Knows what they're doing" and
b) whose business "is losing millions of dollars an hour while his DSL is out".
I... Despite the name, sir, "Enterprise DSL" is an oxymoron. You can't really run a business that needs huge amounts of uptime on a DSL connection. Well, you can if you enjoy the sweet smell of fail.
At least I was able to escape to actual software development after that.
One summer I worked the Late night drive-thru window at Hardee's
Finishing college became really important after that experience
I've had a few jobs that were just basic labor in the past, and I have to say, I actually liked those ones. It was work, not really stressful, couldn't really call it "hard," as there was very little risk involved, but it wasn't easy work, usually. You don't have to use your brain too much, and you're not stuck at a desk with a computer. You sleep well. You get in better shape. There are usually only one or two ways to really screw up, and those are widely known. The only thing that really sucked about those jobs was pay. Otherwise, I don't think I'd have a hard time at all working a manual labor job for the rest of my life.
Same here. I've done some light construction work in the past and really enjoy it, aside from the terrible pay. I prefer to go home at the end of the day physically tired than mentally tired.
when I was a kid (13 maybe?) I got a job as the kid who inflates balloons at the stands where you throw darts on 'em to win prizes. I'd get awful burns from twisting rubber all day.
on top of having possibly the worst job on the entire site (except maybe the guy picking up cow dung) I wasn't even paid properly.
aaaah, youth. at least I didn't have bills to pay
Scrubbing out the rubber barrels used to store diapers in a nursing home.
If your 'sh*t' job didn't involve dealing with actual excrement, like say dry heaving while cleaning old man poop, then maybe it wasn't so bad after all- hmm?
Scrubbing out the rubber barrels used to store diapers in a nursing home.
If your 'sh*t' job didn't involve dealing with actual excrement, like say dry heaving while cleaning old man poop, then maybe it wasn't so bad after all- hmm?
Yeah, i had one of those,at a retirement home as well. One resident crapped his pants and then proceeded to walk all the way back to his room leaving a trail.
Another time, we caught a shoplifter at walgreens that we were keeping in the stock room until the police came. He kept trying to get away. I'm pretty sure this is illegal for us to do, but it wasn't my call. the finally said he had to go to the bathroom, and my boss, the Store Manager said no. so the guy just crapped his pants right there. When my boos started to smell it, he took the guy to the bathroom to clean up. At that point the guy ran and crap dropped out of his pants all around the store. But it worked, as the guy got away.
This is pretty much a copy/paste from a post in another forum about my worst job. Wal-Mart. It probably had the best times I've had at a job, but the worst times greatly outnumber them. Now, this may be just one occurance, but this job does not garner any respect from the managers that work at this particular store and the customers that go there. I do have a great number of funny stories from my three years here though ( Like the girl that thought she was Indiana Jones. )
I was working in the Electronics section at Wal-Mart. On my own, slow Sunday, nothing out of the ordinary. Woman walks up, late 30's/40's my guess, askes if we have batteries for a dog-shock collar that she has with her, but she doesn't know what kind it takes. I say that I don't have a screwdriver, but she can go get one as I can't leave the department so I can open it up and see what it takes. She comes back and I start opening the collar. Now the screw is really in there and stripped so I get on my knees and start digging into it. She leans in over the counter, real close, and whispers to me with a wanting look in her eye "That's what I like to see. A man on his knees."
Take note, she gave horrible vibes of a cougar.
Oh, but it's not over yet! I try to brush it off, get it open, and get her batteries as now I know what it takes. She INSISTS that I make sure the batteries are correct by shocking myself with them. I refuse. She then goes and shocks herself with the dog-collar, and let's out a little cry of euphoria from the shock. A few times. I lie and tell her she needs to go up front to pay for them. No, don't worry. I'll take care of the screwdriver. Just...leave.
I can't believe I stayed at that job for so long. I think it was my co-workers that helped me through it. Here's one for my homies
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