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Pee monsters


I used to think kids were really ridiculously cute. That’s why I became a preschool teacher. I wanted to have 10 children in my class: 5 boys and 5 girls. Now, I’d prefer zero.

I don’t know if it’s worse because I happen to teach a bunch of poor kids or what, but every day is a nightmare. A daymare. One kid cries constantly — it amazes me how many tears can come out of that little body — while other boys fight over who gets to rub Barbie’s smooth private parts. Worse yet, this one kid, Jamarcus, always “accidentally” grazes against my boobs. And honestly, he looks a little too old to be in preschool to begin with. I swear I saw him sitting behind the wheel of an old Camaro idling outside my house. Creepy shit.

Still, the absolute worst part about my job is getting peed on. Happens at least once a day. These kids aren’t allowed in the bathroom by themselves yet, and they can’t seem to control their peeing organs. Although their moms always assure me they’re all perfectly potty-trained…

Anyway, I’ve resorted to getting all my clothes from the Salvation Army now, because I know I’ll be throwing them out in a matter of a few weeks anyway. At first I would throw out a peed-on article of clothing right away, but now I don’t throw anything out until it’s been peed on 5 times. And that’s disgusting, I know, but I really just don’t like going to the Salvation Army anymore. One of the homeless men who hangs out there asked me out, and I’m afraid I’ll get stabbed or something if I turn him down.

The flaw in this system, of course, was that the peed-on clothing made my whole apartment smell like piss. My roomates thought we had a cat or raccoon or some mysterious nighttime peeing animal problem. I even chipped in to pay for one of those pest control guys to come and set up a trap. I wasn’t about to admit that it was human kid pee–and it was on my clothes. The woefully imperfect solution I’ve come up with is to throw the peed-on pieces of clothing in one of those big ass ziploc plastic airtight bags. That way only I smell like piss. And that’s all a preschool teacher can hope for, right?

 

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trapped in ground


i work on mine in chile and we all get trapped in ground for a while. it was so bad especially because we all get so horny after some time. all most gave into temptation! i am so glad we are on ground not in ground this time.

 

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lab rat


i don’t have a job per se but i do participate in a lot of medical trials. no, not as a doctor or a medical consultant — i swallow pills and get side effects. some pills make me shit too much, some make me shit too little, others don’t affect my shitting. those are what doctors call the “money pills.” last month i was taking this horse pill that, not to be super crass or anything, made me really fucking gassy. i would literally have to fart every five minutes. i couldn’t eat, i couldn’t sleep, my sex life had gone to shit. i tried to just grin and bear it but after a while i realized a few hundred bucks wasn’t worth this kind of agony. so i went to the head doctor and told him about my symptoms, said i’d like to withdraw myself from the trial. he told me, get this, i was part of the placebo group. i had been taking sugar pills. then what the fuck is making me so gassy, i asked him. he asked what i had for lunch. i said arby’s. he gave me a “you should know better” look and gave me another sugar pill, which i slid down my stupid gullet. i should probably look into getting full-time employment.

 

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not a dog person


my neighbors asked me to watch their dog while they were in myrtle beach for a week. i could just stay at their place, help myself to anything in the fridge, and they’d pay me 150 bucks when they got back. pretty sweet deal, right? i was like yes, please! i imagined throwing parties at their place, hot chicks coming over to see the dog but instead falling madly in love with me, eating pizza every night, etc. what i didn’t imagine was that i’d lose the dog. like, immediately.

it was the first fucking day. i came downstairs from the bathroom and she was just gone. had i left the door open? did she make a tunnel from the kitchen to the backyard? i searched everywhere: under furniture, in the trash can, in the washer and dryer, i even looked down the toilet. could i have flushed her accidentally? (she was just a king charles spaniel.)

after finding not a goddamn thing, i took to the streets. “here, queenie! here, little queenie!” after wandering around for what felt like two hours, i saw it. a little mass of mangled animal in the middle of the road. roadkill. i felt sick to my stomach. i walked over to take a closer look. it was roughly the right color, i guess, though it was tough to tell with all the blood and guts. the question then became: did i leave it there or did i scrape it up and bring it back? after much deliberating and delaying — i really didn’t want to touch a disgusting dead dog — i decided i ought to do the right thing and take it so queenie could receive a proper burial. i found a piece of cardboard in a nearby trashcan to use as a scraping tool. as i started to do the grisly act, though — and honestly, the dead animal was a lot mushier than i expected, the cardboard was going into it more than under it — guess who i heard barking behind me. queenie. the fucker was alive. i realized that, like an idiot, i had left the door open when i went to search for her. i dropped the piece of cardboard, took queenie home, and did not let her out of my sight again for the rest of the week.

next time, i think i’ll tell my neighbors queenie’s better off at the pound.

 

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Plus, I get free gloves.


I’m a proctologist. So of course my job is shittier than yours. Seriously, though, I make $300K a year and I make my own hours. I get to put my finger in the asses of some of the most beautiful women in Central Alabama. You do the math.

 

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Totally Sharted but Still Got the Job


I once was driving to an interview which I was already late for. I really needed the job so I was trying my best to drive fast but safe. I had a screaming headache and a squishy stomach from heavy drinking the night before. They say never trust a fart. I totally sharted. With no time to go home and change I went to the interview with a shitty ass. I checked in with the receptionist then excused myself to use the restroom. I went to a stall to inspect the damage. Boxers were a total loss but it was a busy bathroom. No way I could get away with throwing them in the trash. The only thing I could do was clean the mess up as best as possible then wad up some tp and use it as a barrier between my ass and my shit shorts. I exited the bathroom and soon was called into an office for the interview. I could smell it so I’m sure my future boss could too. Didn’t seem to bother him much as I got the job.

submitted by Furrypawsoffury


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“A Dog Walk To Remember”


First of all, I’d like to thank Hollywood for putting the delusional idea in my head that becoming a dog-walker was a good idea. Special thanks go to classics 101 Dalmations, In Her Shoes (a slutty depressed illiterate Cameron Diaz.. so convincing.. the acting job of a lifetime), and Must Love Dogs.

It could be that I started out biting off way more than I could chew. There is definitely no lack of opportunity for a dog walker in NYC. The first day I put my sign up in the local coffee shop advertising “A Dog Walk To Remember”, I got around 50 calls. One New Yorker, who must have really been in a hurry, missed the “Dog” part of my sign and called asking when and where the showing was so he could come and watch the only movie that can make him cry.  Some of the callers requested references. Of course I have none… who would think you would need to have references to walk someone’s dogs. Well, I lost those clients. Good riddance, I thought.

Maybe those snobby callers were right, though. Maybe I’m not even fit to walk dogs. My second week on the job, tragedy kind of struck. Ruffles, the bijoun freeze (that is totally the wrong spelling.. I really should know how to spell my clients’ names–just writing this is showing I need to retire my dogwalking leashes pronto) stepped on a nail! She started howling and moaning and I had NO idea what was wrong. I thought she was having a heart attack, or something! She just slumped down and started making those terrible noises. I had no idea what to do. I acted on instinct, jumped in a cab with all 5 dogs, told the driver to rush me to the nearest hospital and 5 minutes later I’m running into the emergency room holding 4 leashes in one hand and Ruffles scooped up in my other arm. I was ridiculously out of place and I looked pretty damn stupid. People were staring me and the 5 dogs up and down, and I felt like I’m sure those people who have the ‘naked in school’ dreams feel. It didn’t help that one little girl squealed, “Look mommy, Cruella Deville.”   “First of all, little girl, these are NOT dalmations. Second of all, are you color blind? Because my hair may have some bad roots right now, but it is not half white and half black, thankyouverymuch.”  I didn’t actually say that, but rather came up with it that night in bed as I went over and over the terribly embarrassing moments of the day.

Anyways, soon a doctor came over with one of those disapproving father-like looks to see what the hell I was doing with 5 dogs in his emergency room. He must have felt really bad for me or something, because instead of kicking me out, he calmed me down, found the nail in her paw, extracted it, and told me next time to go to a vet. Damn, just writing this makes my cheeks flare up red again. I’m still so embarrassed! And Ruffles’ mom wasn’t so happy about having her “baby in the hospital without her knowing.” So yeah, it was a good idea while it lasted, but I don’t think I’m cut out for being a dogwalker. More stressful than I thought. I’m going to start applying for a nice, boring, relaxing desk job.

 

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