New fellow started at work this week. Head Chef at another cafe - and at 32! Dear me. Anyway, we got to trading war stories eventually, as is always the case. I weaved a few tales about my times doing the phone surveys, of which you are well acquainted with, kind reader, some of my warehouse days, and a brief janitorial stint. Unfortunately, or fortunately as the case may be, the man topped me quite easily. He used to work in an abattoir, of all places. Not only that, but his official position was in "The Blood Pits™". That's not a whacky slang name, either, that's the legal term right there. The drain was improperly installed back when they built the place, and it didn't account for the blood congealing. His sole task there was, with the aid of a large metal pole, to poke half solidifed blood down a small hole. For six hours, with a thirty minutes break.
Yes, I am comfortable in this case to declare a flawless victory in his favour. I mean, come on.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
0 comments:
Post a Comment