With Andy Dickhead gone, Our crew now comprised
of me, Lance, Herb, and Carlos the Puerto Rican dude.
These were the glory days, the ones that I look back
on fondly. The job sucked, but we bonded like we
were in the Vietnam war or something.By Steve Levandoski
Let's face it. If you are a musician you will probably never make enough money to pay the rent on that 2-bedroom apartment you share with 8 other people. IF you are lucky enough to get signed, the little money the record company doesn't screw you out of will be squandered on MC Hammer-type mansions (he's doing credit card commercials now), or tied up in some lawsuit. You will need to get a shitjob. I've enjoyed the privilege of having a losing about thirty different jobs in the four years since I dropped out of college. This is my guide for al you young bloods out there. Each issue will feature a different job I once had in chronological order,and how to take advantage of it while it takes advantage of you.
Here are the past issues, in case you missed them or need to review:
August 2001
November 2001
January 2002
February 2002
March 2002
April 2002
May 2002
June 2002
July 2002
August 2002
October 2002
With Andy Dickhead gone, Our crew now comprised
of me, Lance, Herb, and Carlos the Puerto Rican dude.
These were the glory days, the ones that I look back
on fondly. The job sucked, but we bonded like we
were in the Vietnam war or something.
The most fun part was the practical jokes. Herb strung up this elaborate system of pulleys and water bottles made from ear plug cords. Above all our seats hung a filled bottle of water attached to a pull string that would dump on the victim's head when herb pulled the cord. Herb would take one of us aside, and tell him that together we would douse the other two. Then he would tell the other two that they were going to douse the first guy. When we were all out of the office, he would re-string the pull cords, so the first guy would pull the cord, thinking it would dump on the other two, and instead it would trigger his own bottle dousing him with water. Oh, the bitter irony of it all!
The other classic incinerator joke was to tell the new guy to get a rag out of the rag bin. Of course he had someone else hiding under all the rags who would grab your hand and scare the bajesus out of you. Good times.
Another time I saw a package in the mail room that was from FAG industries. I'm not making this up. So I walk over to Herb, and told him he had a package addressed to him. It took him a little while to get the joke, but when he did he smiled, told me to fuck myself, and gave me a playful shove. Of course, when Herb gives you a playful shove, you wind up on the other side of the room, but hey, he meant well.
We also like to go on scavenger hunts for hidden porn stashes in the offices at night. (It's not like someone will rat you out for stealing their Swank). In a week, we had a pile of about forty magazines in our office. I felt like a Viking coming home with my plunder.
The most fun day I had at that job was when we went out for the yearly adopt-a-highway clean up. The incinerator adopted a stretch of road for PR reasons, but it was awesome because we got clean up the litter for half an hour, and then have the rest of the day to dick off. We went to Herb's for beer and Bar-B-Q, and finally met his old lady. Believe it or not, he actually snagged him a pretty girlfriend. Not bad for a fat fuck.
On the ride home, Cheap Trick came on the radio, and all three of us rocked out to it. This Corvette with girls pointed and laughed at us, but we didn't care. We were three blue collar scumbags with "I Want You to Want Me" blaring through the speakers, screaming along. Those chicks could suck it. That was my finest white trash moment.
I have to admit, I learned a lot of valuable things from those guys. Herb said something wise once on the subject of cheating girlfriends, "Steve, It wouldn't bother me if my old lady cheated on me with one of my friends. As long as they told me about it. I figure, If does she's a cheap slut, and I'd like to know so I could dump her ass. And I don't have a problem with my friends banging any cheap slut".
Carlos told me, "Steve, never try to break up a fight between two Puerto Ricans. Just let them finish. According to their culture, both will turn on you for disturbing their business out of pride. And you're a White boy so they would really kick your ass".
From Lance "Don't get tattoos if you want to be a male stripper. That's how I got fired".
One day the saftey alarm went off. The last time the alarm went off, a boiler blew up, and sent the arms and legs and heads of six guys in thirty different directions. That was three years before. I was separated from the guys, but met up with them and found out that it was a false alarm. Later I found out that they were combing the inside for me, and basically risking their lives to check up on me.
Throughout my entire time there, Herb was convinced I was Gay. Mostly because I hated Metallica. He tried to get me to admit I was gay all the time. On my last day I singed out on my time card, said goodbye to the guys, and walked to the door. Just as I was almost out, Herb said, "You know Steve, I don't care that your gay. Your alright with me. Good luck in Philly". Believe it or not, I kinda miss those guys.
Don't miss Steve's other regular column: Steve's Not Having It