Bah, mischief-pisschief…Anger, Retribution, Karma, and the Incapable Wrecked-Um.
I REALLY HATE my fucking job.
OK, so…This is my first time “blogging”, or for that matter, writing this pseudo-publicly, on a site that people I don’t know may actually read….And I have been sitting here trying to figure out just how the fuck I am going to start this little story up. I even read a bunch of entries on the site to get some feel for just how this is done by “professionals”. My last writing course was many years ago, and I didn’t do very well, but my friends say I can write and that I’m “funny” so it has to be true, right?
(To be honest, my impression of blogging was that it allowed for self important, overly literate computer nerds to assert their opinions without reliving the beatings they probably got for opening their mouths when they were younger…At one point, I even considered starting a business that would hire out local High School Football teams to confront and beat down obnoxious bloggers/forum trolls/internet nerds with entitlement issues blah blah blah…)
I need a strong opener…Nothing too fancy, not over-reaching, not being more than I am…something simple, that I believe that others can relate to, that relates to my story and the topic…
OK. I REALLY HATE my fucking job.
I work at a factory as a machinist, running automated grinding machines that make bolts for aircraft. So, if you’ve been on a plane and had a wing fall off due to a “catastrophic fastener failure”…it wasn’t me.
I work third shift, 11pm to 7 am, a shitty schedule that I still have not gotten used to after over 3 years. Just about everyone I work with is a flaming fucking asshole. Racist Bikers, drug addict ex-cons, blue collar white trash, gangsta’ wannabe douchebags, drunks…Apparently factory work attracts the bottom of the socially challenged barrel.
One pain in my ass is a kid in his mid 20’s that runs my machine on the shift before mine. He’s an illiterate slob with little to no mechanical or people skills, a pill popper and a drunk, and just a plain shitty machine operator, always messing up jobs, breaking the machines, and leaving a mess for me to come in and deal with. Add to that, he’s a cocky motherfucker that thinks he runs the plant, and I’ve got a special vein in my forehead that throbs whenever he opens his mouth.
Luckily, he doesn’t talk to me often…I’ve developed a habit of getting to work 2 minutes late every day so I avoid the kid. So, he writes notes, and leaves them on my toolbox…
(…Just a quick aside here, the company issues all employees large rolling toolboxes, about 3 feet high, 18″ wide, 24″ deep, with 2-4 large drawers, full of tools like wrenches, vice grips, micrometers, and other things we need to do our jobs properly. Think of it like a cubicle to those of you trapped in an office space…My personal “area” to keep my personal shit.)
…Barely legible, incorrectly spelled, horribly written notes. For a while, I kept a scrapbook to show them off. You’ve seen the signs on the highway, around construction sites, that say “MY MOMMY WORKZ HERE PLEESE SLOW DOWN” written by some half mongoloid ADD kid, with the backwards ‘e’s and shit spelled wrong?…He could have a lucrative career writing those.
The incidents and stories I could share about this kid are endless…He’s broken into my toolbox and taken things out (which I proved by breaking into HIS toolbox and getting them back), left our machine broken and denied it, sabotaged or screwed up jobs so I would have to fix them, he’s a fucking terror. But, in a factory as large as ours, unless someone causes violence, sexually harasses or makes direct death threats, management basically tells you to get over it and be happy you have a job.
I should also add, I am a firm believer in karma, and I felt certain that this fool would eventually get what he deserved. It’s just…the WAITING that kills me…
One day, I was so tired of this kid’s crap, I was ready to explode. I had complained, I had confronted him, I had tried to do everything within the company policy to handle this situation, and nothing was being done. He just writes another cocky note, breaks something and ruins my fucking day all over again.
So I pissed all over his toolbox.
Yes, you read that. I pissed all over his toolbox. On top, in all the drawers, all over the picture of his blonde girlfriend that he had hanging on the side of his toolbox, all over the magnetic Philadelphia Phillies calendar with special dates highlighted that he had tickets too, all over the lock that I had broken into, all over his oil rags, all over his tools, especially the handles of his tools, all over the stash of spare change he used to buy snacks (ever seen a bunch of quarters immersed in a puddle of pee? It looked kind of cool…) and made sure to leave a few drips in his coffee cup.
This isn’t a “gee I’d love to” or a “wouldn’t it be funny but I’d never do it…” Nope. I did it. Totally premeditated, malevolent urination.
I am sure you’re wondering how….Right? I mean, I couldn’t just drop my pants, prop my nuts on his toolbox and piss away, could I? No, there was some thought, and a little stealth.
I bought a 20oz bottle of lemonade from one of the vending machines, drank it, went into the bathroom, and filled it back up. No one will question a bottle of lemonade, right? (note to reader-Urine and Lemonade look a LOT different than most people realize). I took it out to his toolbox, and went to town, dumping it all over the place, a cheery golden shower of vengeance. The only issue came when I realized that I left a strikingly-yellow-under-the-fluorescent-lights puddle on top of the box, but used some of his oil rags to soak that up. The outside of his toolbox was all glistening and wet, so I had to snag a floor fan to blow on it and dry it out, lest someone walk by and say “Is there a leak somewhere? That toolbox is all wet, and glistening, and yellow….”
And FUCK ME it felt good. I had my personal little revenge, his toolbox would start to stink in the oppressive shop heat, he’d be handling everything I pissed on by the next shift, and I have a fun “don’t fuck with me or I’ll piss on you” story to pull out at parties. Everyone wins. Well, I win. A small victory. And lots of giggles every time I see him open his toolbox.
Then, as I drove home, my truck sputtered and died as I pulled up in front of my house. No previous warning. My fuel pump went. $650 to have it fixed. Fucking Karma.