Top 5: Worst Things About A Real Job

Hey there, everyone. Things have taken another turn in your boy’s life. I recently stopped living in my car and got a real job. Or, as I like to think of it, I sold myself into slavery for $13.50 an hour. It has been a pretty long time since I had to get an actual job that wasn’t selling weed or porn and nothing has really changed since the last time I did this. It’s still fucking awful and it still makes me consider cutting off a finger, just so I can go home early without my wife bitching about it. So, as my life turns and twists, I continue to bring you my Top 5s. This month is, of course, the worst things about having a real job. Here we go...

1) Waking Up At Five In The Morning

Waking up at five o’clock in the fucking morning sucks dicks—and I’m not talking about the fun kind of dick sucking, where a couple dudes get together in a park and practice on each other, or a dude and a chick get together to practice on each other—I’m talking about prison dick sucking, where you’re doing it to save your fucking life. Any time that sucking a dick is a necessity, it’s not good. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have to wake up at five in the morning, to literally suck a dick—that shit would be Kanye-level crazy. My alarm goes off, I stumble into the bathroom and my literal first thought is, "Man, I wish I had the flu, tuberculosis, cancer or whooping cough...I don’t know, man... just literally anything that I could have an absence excused for." I don’t ever want to see five in the morning, unless it’s because I’ve been up all night learning about lizard aliens infiltrating the pizzagate.

2) Ten-Minute Breaks

What the actual fuck is the point of a ten-minute break? Seriously, like you might as well tell me to sit Indian-style and recite the Pledge Of Allegiance, and then get back to work. I smoke cigarettes and it takes the average human seven minutes to smoke a normal length cigarette—seven...fucking... minutes. Now, you might think that ten minutes is fair. I mean, I am getting paid for those ten minutes, so the company is footing the bill for me to smoke that cigarette, right? But, let’s break that down, shall we? It takes me three minutes to walk to my car and three minutes to walk back to my workstation, which means I actually have four minutes of break to sit down (we’ll talk more about sitting later). It’s like, if I was watching someone eat a delicious cake and I wanted some of that fucking cake, then they said, "Don’t worry, I’ll save you some." Then, two days later, they handed me a piece of vaguely cake-colored rock and said, "It’s still good if you put milk on it." Fuck your milk cake and fuck your ten-minute break, you fucking fuck.

3) The Two Main Classes Of Working Class People Are Fucked Up

You know who I fucking hate? Carpet dwellers...chair-and-desk-having ass, checking-Facebook-at-work ass, fucking carpet-dwelling office workers. You all spend all day bitching about Linda, who chews her snacks too loud at her desk, and Pablo, who hogs the printer and refuses to refill the paper when he’s done. I don’t wish death on these people, because that’s fucked up. But, maybe ya’ll could get into a minorly inconvenient car crash and wear a neck brace for a while. Then again, your life is so fucking blessed, you’d probably get a huge insurance settlement before retiring from your already retirement- esque desk job. I stand all damn day in a dusty shithole warehouse, where I recycle your stupid computers. I see all of the cute little mustache stickers you put on your monitors and your stupid, inspirational fortune cookie fortunes you’ve taped to them. In fact, it’s my job to take that shit off your monitor (which is still good, by the way), because you got a new fucking monitor at your desk, which I am absolutely certain has a chair. You are basically the one percent of the working class and us concrete dwellers hate you—and plot your demise. One day, we will rise up and take what’s rightfully ours—a fucking chair—because, our fucking feet hurt.

4) Mandatory Overtime

It’s bad enough that you’re making me show up at all, but making me stay two extra hours every day, just so I can chip away at this mountain of work, like it’s going to make a fucking bit of difference? Pro tip—it will not make a difference. You bring me a pallet of shit to do, I take care of the shit on the pallet and you bring me another pallet of shit to do. This process isn’t going to stop, ever. Making me stay two extra hours to work on more pallets of meaningless shit isn’t going to help me (or you). What is even worse than mandatory overtime, are the people who act like it’s some kind of fucking gift from our loving corporate overlords. They say shit like, "Think of all the extra money we’ll get." So fucking what, you dumb nutsack. How the hell am I supposed to use that money when I get home 30 minutes before I have to go to bed and wake up at...when...five in the fucking morning? Now, I have no problem with overtime in general, it’s just that I hate being told that I have to do it. Like, I have no option but to give you fifty-plus hours a week, when I clearly don’t even want to give you one.

5) Working A Real Job Steals Your Hope And Ambition

The system we live in is fucked. The vast majority of us do a job that doesn’t even make sense to us and we certainly don’t feel like we’re making some kind of impact on the world—or, even our own lives. Yet, we’re locked into it. Yes, we can change jobs and, sure, we can quit any time we want to. But, what are the consequences of that choice? Well, the first thing that happens is that you lose your self-respect. We are programmed from birth to equate self-worth with income—not contribution, but income...there is a difference. I have never been as depressed as when I was looking for work and not bringing in any money. I looked in the mirror and hated the dude I saw. That’s fucked up, man, seriously fucked up. I could clean the house, raise the kids and run a charity, but if none of those things brought in money, you know damn well no one would respect any of that. When you’re working fifty-plus hours a week for someone else’s company, you have almost no time to build something for yourself. I don’t know if that’s by design or coincidence, but what I do know, is there are millions of people capable of doing more— and contributing more to society— who don’t, because they can’t. I promise there are brilliant people out there, who never had the economic opportunity to go to university and who could invent warp travel to other stars, cure diseases or invent a new food delivery system that could feed the third world. Instead of doing those things, they are working mandatory overtime without a fucking chair.

If you are a jobless fuck, out there, roaming the streets, looking for work like a homeless puppy searching for Kibbles, then I seriously encourage you to consider checking out some of our fine sponsors here at Exotic. These are great companies and establishments. Are you a sexy lady who likes to dance to overplayed hip hop and rock and roll? Then do I have the gig for you! Being a stripper makes you an independent contractor and gives you the freedom to work a flexible schedule and shake what your momma gave you, in return for all the money we concrete dwellers slave away for. Why do we work fifty-plus hours a week? Well, I’ll tell you why! So that we can cash in that money at the strip club, in return for your attention! So, go audition at one of the many clubs who advertise with us—the community of people who read this magazine and run the clubs that keep our lights on would love to have you! And, if you’re not a female-type human, that’s okay too! There are jobs for you manly fucks as well—you could be a bouncer, a bartender or a cook. I’m sure there are other things you could do, but...whatever. Basically, what I am saying is, don’t fall down the pit of work-a-day despair that I have. Find yourself a fun and rewarding career in the adult industry, where the party never stops, until the party stops (usually around closing time).