More Crummy Jobs
A while ago I posted a link to FuckThatJob.com, a blog of crappy job listings posted to various job boards by unscrupulous employers trying to take advantage of the current crappy economy. Thanks to Plastic.com I just found THE IDLER WAGE SLAVE SUPPORT GROUP, a British site to which employees who worked at such crummy jobs posted their experiences. Some hilarious and horrifying stuff. Here's a sample listed under "Morgue Madness" (the author worked in a mental hospital):
The task I did most of that summer was launder bedding. A number of the patients were doubly incontinent, so every morning there were trolley-loads of rank sheets to be wheeled to the basement where huge front-loading washers and dryers ground endlessly on. At first I just piled the trolley loads in and slammed the door, but I learnt the hard way to inspect the foul piles first for anything that needed hosing off:
the sight of a totally solid turd knocking rhythmically through the soap suds against the round porthole of the washing machine is one I'll never forget. In a strange way it was symbolic of the whole experience.
A while ago I posted a link to FuckThatJob.com, a blog of crappy job listings posted to various job boards by unscrupulous employers trying to take advantage of the current crappy economy. Thanks to Plastic.com I just found THE IDLER WAGE SLAVE SUPPORT GROUP, a British site to which employees who worked at such crummy jobs posted their experiences. Some hilarious and horrifying stuff. Here's a sample listed under "Morgue Madness" (the author worked in a mental hospital):
The task I did most of that summer was launder bedding. A number of the patients were doubly incontinent, so every morning there were trolley-loads of rank sheets to be wheeled to the basement where huge front-loading washers and dryers ground endlessly on. At first I just piled the trolley loads in and slammed the door, but I learnt the hard way to inspect the foul piles first for anything that needed hosing off:
the sight of a totally solid turd knocking rhythmically through the soap suds against the round porthole of the washing machine is one I'll never forget. In a strange way it was symbolic of the whole experience.
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