I wrote this after my first day working for a fast food restaurant over the summer break before my junior year in high school. That’s far enough in the past that I can’t vouch for the grammar or humor of this article. I can, however, vouch for the fact that up until that point I had never hated a job so much in all my life. The next summer, I worked for a mildly retarded janitor, and it was still a marked improvement from the work environment described below.
I have learned much from my three days as a fast food employee. First of all, I never realized how many ugly people there are in the world. I thought that Mother Nature naturally weeded them out, but apparently she just sends them Royal Burger. Thus, when I was given a choice between taking an order from a kid with a golf tee through his ear and dicing a cow, I chose the mammal without the piercing. You’d be surprised at the sense of satisfaction you get from grinding a cow into paste. This may sound slightly insensitive, but you need to remember the natural order: animals are for shredding, not for living. There are two obvious exceptions: seals are for clubbing and aardvarks are for my amusement in-between cow shredding and seal clubbing. Needless to say they don’t let me in the zoo anymore.
But the fast food business isn’t just fun and games. That’s the second lesson that I learned: there’s always a worse task than the one you’re doing. You’d think that the goop that was once a cow had prepared me for anything, but there was one colloid left that I had yet to face. That colloid was grease. You see, grease lets out an odor that smells like a skunk that has just died after rolling around in its own feces and being sprayed by several other skunks that have done the same. It also looks like the situation I just described. Touching grease can best be compared to bathing in radiation, only the effects of the former will last much longer than the latter. The only way to remove this bye-product of the gods is to use anti-grease agent x, which is also used to peel the paint off cars and to spawn hideous mutants such as the kid with the golf tee through his ear. If you have the misfortune of getting grease on your hands, you have two choices: either use agent x and become a mutant, or leave the grease on your hands so it can frighten your grandchildren. Of course, there will be no grandchildren if you get the grease too close to certain areas. That’s why I chose to become a mutant. Thankfully all that agent x did to me was cause severe third degree burns and induce several hours of unconsciousness. To get through this difficult time, I tried to recall happier moments in my childhood such as that time I was beaten repeatedly by a man with a crow bar.
Perhaps if I would have had some unburned skin left, the rest of the day would have been a little easier. Under the circumstances, it’s surprising that I only blinded one man. If he would have just spoken clearly, we could have avoided both confusion and lawsuits: “I said a pickle on rye, not stab me in the eye!” In my opinion, if customers don’t want to be physically assaulted while ordering their meals, they shouldn’t come to Royal Burger. The police disagreed. So did the judge who banned me from serving fast food for the rest of my natural life. That’s when I learned my third lesson: our legal system is too bogged down to enforce every restraining order. I was back to work in no time.
Upon my return, I was given the one job that I could almost accomplish at an acceptable level: doing dishes. But I didn’t just wash; I waged war. Water and suds covered the walls, and I was in paradise. I loved the implements of washing, especially the almighty hose. It had enough water pressure to make minor water falls, such as