God, I Hate My Fucking Job
By Michael O'Hare

I really hate my fucking job.

I know people say that, a lot. It seems that nowadays, you can't even swing a dead cat without hitting someone who hates their job, that job usually being catching dead cats that are thrown to them. It's not an uncommon statement to hear in everyday life, but most people don't really, truly hate their jobs. After all, if they did, they'd at least try to look for another one, if not just quit outright. I'm at that point right now. I don't know why it took me so long to get to this point, but damn it, I've reached my limit with this job!

I'm sure that, by now, you're wondering what my job is. It's a very unusual job, and one I signed up for believing it would be an incredibly entertaining, vastly fulfilling job. As it stands, I was completely wrong, and I feel like a total fool for not having realized this sooner.

See, I set fire to men's testicles for a living. Not specific men, mind you, just random men I find on the street. I pick one guy on the street, based on nothing, run up to him, rip his pants down, and take a specially designed, testicle igniting torch to his ball sack. It does sound pointless, but, believe it or not, there IS a way to make a profit off of sending someone out to set men's testicles on fire. Plus, it's not as complicated and indirect as one might think. I was very surprised to learn just how profitable and widespread the testicle burning business is. Not only that, but it has so much history. Did you know that this nation's founding fathers were testicle burners in their youth? Only, back then, they would cram flaming baby chicks down men's pants. Also, John Hancock had a giant afro that he could pull various gadgets out of.

Oh, sure, it sounds fun to you, doesn't it? Well, that's what I thought. I thought it'd be entertaining as all get-out to set a guy's nuts on fire and watch him run around the sidewalk like a panicking pig while his pubic hairs all popped like little matches and the sweet, intoxicating scent of boiling nut sweat filled the air. And, you all know how all the movies make testicle burning look so romantic, not to mention the requiting brochures for the Chinese police. How could I have turned that job down when it was offered to me? It was like the dream job I never knew I was dreaming about.

Well, it's not all glamor and fun, believe you me! It's damn hard work, and it really pisses me off when people think that it's a fun, easy job! They have no damned idea how much work and preparation goes into this job, not to mention how dangerous it is, too! And, it's hardly worth the danger, too. Don't get me wrong, the pay's great, and the benefits are plentiful, but it's really causing me more grief than it's worth, believe me.

I should've known on my first day that things weren't going to be as fun as I had imagined. I still remember that first day on the job, donning my Official Testicle Burner blazer and baseball cap, putting my torch into the holster they had given me, and just walking the streets of the city with a bright smile on my face and a naive glimmer in my eyes. I was ready to be the best testicle burner I could be. I had no idea just how crappy my day was going to turn out.

I decided to start right off, choosing a guy that had "ASSHOLE" written all over him. Well, that and "GAP" as well. Not that I had anything against the GAP, but it was all over everything he wore, for God's sake. Even his socks, and, as I was later to discover, his underpants had GAP on them. Looking back, it's kind of funny, but it was unsettling at the time.

Anyway, I didn't even bother saying anything to the guy. I just put a box cutter to his belt, sliced a big gash on his pants, and yanked them down. Quickly reaching for my blowtorch, I turned it on, and was about to jam it into this guy's jewels, when I finally realized that I had been a little too careless with the box cutter, and his testicles were actually sitting on my shoe.

Well, that was embarrassing, and I was really lucky I didn't get fired for that, believe you me! Right after that, I quickly learned how to handle the box cutter so that I wouldn't cut any flesh before its burning time came. But, still, problems arose again and again. First off, do you think it's easy setting someone's nutsack on fire, especially if their nutsack isn't sitting on your shoe? Of course it's not! They're either going to run away or hit you. And when you manage to actually ignite their testicles, there's always the chance that they'll run right into you while dashing around in a panic. Actually, there's a really good chance, because you have to be facing each other when you put the torch to their nuts. And, trust me, when someone has their testicles on fire, they'll run into things hard and fast. Have you ever had a gob of flaming scrotum stuck to your pants? It's not fun. It's not fun at all. I've probably had to throw out at least three dozen pairs of pants just in the past two months. I can't even walk into JC Penny's without getting strange looks from the employees. God help me if they ever find out why I keep buying new pants, I'm pretty sure they have some screwed up preconceptions about why I do, already.

It's not just that. Do you think people are just going to stand there and let you do all this crap? Hell, no! They fight back. They kick, they yell, they go through the usual "Hey, what do you think you're doing to me my pants oh God get that thing away from my groin!" tirade, and their friends sure as Hell aren't going to just sit by and let you set their buddy's nuts on fire... Unless they really hate him, and that has happened a couple of times. Usually, though, I just get the shit kicked out of me by my target's friends. And, it's worse than you think. Have you ever punched a guy who was holding a torch in his hands? Do you know how easy it is to hold onto something when someone just jabbed his fist into your face? Hell, half of my paycheck, as grand as it is, goes into doctor visits to take care of bruises and burns. This job fucking sucks! It's not worth the free baseball cap and blazer, and I get to keep those if I quit, anyway!

I'm looking for a new job, right now. I hear that there's a Japanese firm looking for someone to chop up bodies and feed them to the fish at the local aquarium. They're nice guys, they drive really nice cars, and have these full-bodied tattoos that kick ass. Hell, I'd take the job if I got one of those. If the pay's good, and I don't have to set any balls on fire, I'm probably going to put in my two weeks for this ball - burning job.

I really hate my fucking job.


This story is owned by me. Also, I hate you. I hate all of you, you artistically blind mongoloid bastards.

Burning testicles are funny... As long as it's not my testicles.

You're probably wondering what part of this story is, in fact, based on true events. Well, when I started writing this, it had suddenly dawned on me that I really hated my job. It had nothing to do with setting people's genitals on fire, but I still hated it so much. The person I was working for was a rampaging bitch goddess (to put it in overblown, over dramatic terms), and I wasn't getting the pay or the hours necessary to make up for that problem. So, I quit. I was very blunt, yet very polite, and did not make a scene, and, looking back... I think I should've peed on her car before leaving. But, you know, I'm too much of a gentleman to do something that rude, after all.

So, as for this story being based on a true story... It was, I hated my last job, so I quit and am now working for the Japanese mafia.

Actually, it's a small animal hospital, but I like to pretend all the cats are Yakuza. It's fun. Try it where you work. Pretend your co-workers are all Yakuza. It's fun.

(SPECIAL NOTE: Spot the Harlem Globetrotters reference in this story. If you do, you win a prize!)