Love it or Leave it...

I've had some jobs. Too many to count. Some I got fired from, some I left. Some I didn't even start.

I had a job in a pig factory one time. I had to help bring the live pigs in from the wash house, then hold them while the guy with the bolt-gun did his stuff. He was a mean bastard. A greasy little fuck with a nose like some old lady's fuckin elbow and a nasty fuckin skewed-out eye. That way, he never had to look at you straight. You never trust a fucker who can't look at you straight. He enjoyed his job, you could tell. He used to tease the animals.
"Here little piggy, he'd say, grinning across his greasy fuckin chops. "Come see what daddy's got for you.
If they struggled ' which they mostly did, and who wouldn't ' he'd kick them in the head.
I stuck it with him for a week, until Friday. Until I got paid. I tucked the packet in my overalls and went over to him.
"You enjoy doing this, don't you, I said.
He grinned his wall-eyed grin. With those eyes and his huge beak of a nose, he looked just like some greasy fucked-up bird of prey.
"Yeah, he said. "And what if I do?
My right boot swung an arc straight to his pecker, bringing his face down low enough for an uppercut I'd practiced all week, catching him square on the base of the chin. He went down like the sack of sad shit he was, his mouth full of blood. He'd almost bit his tongue in half.

That was one of the ones I got fired from.

Then I had this office job. Down at the court house (I was desperate then). Handing out forms. Filing. Xeroxing. All the admin shit. I'd sit there watching the clock, waiting for lunch so I could go and sit on the crapper for an hour, get away from the dead-heads I worked with. They loved it, you could tell. Even when they retired, they came back ' like the dead, haunting the place, scaring the shit out of you with their dead eyes. I'd get home at night with a take-out pizza and a six-pack. Drink myself to sleep. Wake up and start over. It couldn't get worse.
One day, a new woman came to handle the bankrupts. Brassed-up bitch in blonde and gold, nails like she could tear you open and eyes like she wanted to. Used to be in real estate. Thought she was the llama's tits. She dealt with those poor sorry bastards in much the same way ol' greasy wall-eyed fuck used to deal with the pigs. The others loved her, swarming around like flies on a turd. I listened to her for two weeks. Then one day I laid down my fuckin pen.
"Look, honey¦ you may have been some real estate hot-shot once. Now, you're just swilling out the shit-tanks like the rest of us.
You'd think I'd socked her one. I wished I had.
The manager had me in the office.
"We can't tolerate this type of behaviour here. Any more of it and there'll be formal reprimand proceedings.
I looked at him. A wrung-out fuckin cadaver in glasses. The kind that irons his socks and Jockeys. A time-server. He waited for the apology he was expecting, sitting way back there behind his coffin-lid of a desk. I grabbed him by the tie and pulled him up out of his chair. His eyes almost popped out. It was like lifting a sack of feathers.
"You can shove your fuckin formal reprimand proceedings upwards and 'round ' if you know where your fuckin ass is anyway, which I doubt.
Then I dropped him down again and walked out.
I still don't know if I was fired from that one, or whether I just left.
Whatever, it felt good.

It always does.