Here's a Dude Who Does Not Like His Job

Your Aunt Slugger receives a large volume of letters from her loyal readers seeking advice on how to deal with a job they do not like. Your Aunt Slugger can relate to this particular predicament. Do you think I enjoy providing my unsolicited opinions on political and social matters? Do you think I want to perform a valuable public service function - blogging - day in and day out? My god. If I don't do it, who will?*

But that is the cross I bear, as an advice columnist.

Your Aunt Slugger has also held other undesirable jobs. In college, your Aunt Slugger was a "sanitation specialist" for her university's biology department. Each day after my classes were over, I would head over to the department's basement and open an antiquated dumbwaiter. If this dumbwaiter contained used test tubes, I would take the tubes out, rinse them, put them in special test tube racks, and sanitize them using two specially equipped dishwasher-type machines that rattled so much that they would crawl several inches across the floor each time I operated them. The dishwashers were located in a dirty little room with one lightbulb that swung from the ceiling. I hated this room. I hated the dishwashers. I hated the dumbwaiter. I had to wear a lab coat, goggles, and special gloves because the test tubes often broke into tiny little aggravating test tube bits.

One day your Aunt Slugger reported to the dumbwaiter to find buckets of dirty test tubes labeled "CAUTION: RADIOACTIVE."

"Ha ha ha," I said to myself. "They forgot to take the sticker off."

So I set about getting ready to clean the test tubes when, for the first time, my pea-sized, college student brain flickered briefly. I now know this sensation as "common sense."

You can see where this is going. The test tubes were radioactive, your Aunt Slugger got molested by a guy with a Geiger Counter, and she gave her notice the next day after being forced to forfeit her favorite sweatshirt because it had turned into an all-cotton version of the Bikini Atoll.

In retrospect, this incident explains a lot.

Anyway, so the point here is that I am no stranger to shitty jobs. We won't even discuss my summers spent mowing lawns in Indiana.**

So I know what it's like to want to call your boss and tell him that you can't take one more day making smoothies for ungrateful little fucksnots at the Glenbrook Square Mall. (Another job.) I know this feeling well.

HOWEVER, for all my bitching and moaning, I did not take the bull by the horns like this dude. This guy - Casey James Fury - this guy had just had enough of this shit. "Over it," he must've said to himself when he woke up that morning before he went to go work as a painter and sandblaster on a dry-docked submarine. "I'm going to fucking set fire to this NAVAL ATTACK SUBMARINE."

So he did. Just set the place ablaze.

But it turns out the Casey James Fury, whose photo should 100% be next to the definition of "lazy" in the dictionary, is no master arsonist, and he found himself back at work in only a short while.

So what do you do in that situation? Go back to work? No. No no no. You grow some balls like Casey James Fury, and you SET ANOTHER FIRE IN THE NAVAL ATTACK SUBMARINE.

Oh sure, he now owes $400 million and is spending 17 years in prison, but the bottom line is that Casey James Fury is not spending another fucking day sandblasting that dry-docked sub. Mission accomplished.

So the next time you find yourself looking for a way to get out of work, don't think small. A fake relative's funeral? Amateur hour. Think like Casey James Fury. Think big.***

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger



*Absolutely everyone. Everyone has a fucking blog.
**Actually, we will. They were horrific.
***With "big" being defined as "a federal or state correctional facility."