Fudge packer
You'd think working in a fudge factory would be a right laugh. Free fudge for one thing and a Wonka-esque boss for another. Not so. This particular hell hole was infested with rats (immediately ruling out the desire for any of the fudge) and one of the biggest cunts known to man. He was a short fat man and always wore a blue boiler suit and a cap, the kind bakers wear, but pulled down so that his eyes were barely viable.
Everything I did from the moment I walked in was wrong. I swept the floor in a way he didn't find agreeable or I took too long to do a task or did it too quickly and had "made a mess" so had to start over. Instead of telling me himself about the faults in my work everything was relayed through a minion. I think I managed about a month and a half but coming back to work after a weekend away at a festival he called me a knob to my face so I walked out. Him calling me a knob constituted three of the seven or eight words he said directly to me over the course of the six weeks. Turned out he'd had his eye on the summer job I'd got from the factory owner for his son. I wrote a letter of complaint to the owner but didn't hear anything from them again. I think he was made redundant a few months later when the place went under. New owners took over an binned the old staff. The fudge is probably even safe to eat these days.
(cannonfodder fodder for cannons on, Thu 18 Jun 2009, 16:50, Reply)