The shittest job.
In my backwoods hometown, we had two small supermarkets. The first had all of the mod-cons like cleanliness and refrigerators, the second was frequented by mad old people who left shit trails (in case they got lost?) around the store. I got a job at the latter.

My job? Ice cream girl, going at $6.30 an hour. I turned up for my first day, ready to live the delicious frozen dairy dream, only to find out that the manager gave my job to his, shall we say, shit-stained and cranally vacant niece for $1 more per hour. My new job? Cleaning toilets and smashing recycled drinks cans at a rate of $3.75 an hour. I was told it was because I came from a good family and he wanted to humiliate me.

Nonetheless, a fake I.D. wasn’t going to pay for itself, so away I worked. If a mad lady emptied the contents of her bowels all over the loo? I was there. If we got a big delivery of urine-smelling soda cans in? I smashed them. I suited myself up in a poo-and-wee-resistant rubber suit (perhaps sexxxy now, but not when you’re a 16 year old who smells like crusted underpants) and set about my tasks. If one were to ever excel at and loathe the more disgusting end of the job market spectrum, it was me.

Then the manager turned on me. He of ‘I want to create a Baptist cult who worship me as the saviour’ fame found my atheist ways rather distasteful. My hours were cut back, I was never out allowed out onto the floor and had to put up with a barrage of abuse, nevermind the constant racist and homophobic words. Never a shift went by where by manager didn’t set out to make me cry, didn’t taunt me with words. My shifts caused me untold mental and germular harm. I had to leave.

The supermarket was in the process of being bought out by a much larger, national chain. I, on the other hand, was graduating valedictorian of my class. The bigwigs were in a meeting with my fat racist manager when they called me in, rubber faeces suit and all. “I hear you’re top of your class! Wowza, da valedictorian works right here, in er supermarket, fer us! We need ta put up er sign, tell ev’rybody we’re proud ta have ya!” The manager sat back smugly, arms crossed, content that he had hired me into this fold.

I decided right then to quit. I opened my mouth and told them about the racism and the homophobia. I told them about the bullying and the discrimination. I told them how I’d been demoted to a shit (literally) job in favour of his assbucket niece because he wanted to debase me. I told them about the disgusting things I was forced to do. I told them of the ritual humiliation. I peeled off the rubber shit suit, left it on a chair, turned to them and said, “I quit, and he’s to blame.”

The manager was fired less than a week later. They still put up a sign in my honour. I shopped at the other supermarket.

A week after that, I got another job: spraying out public toilets for the Department of Natural Resources.

My 'shit' jobs keep my rooted as I look our over my ivory towers, counting my money and attractive men who really want to do the dirty with me.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Wed 28 May 2008, 15:25, 1 reply)

Hmmm
I am very much the interested in how atheists are being slapped around in Americaland.
Is it as bad as sometimes portrayed?
Interestingly I would think it's far more likely to have the piss taken out of you by your manager if you're a bible basher, here in the UK.
(tweebianmonkey Should be known as Widget, Wed 28 May 2008, 16:51, closed)