Thank You, Asshole

Entering into the job market proved to be exponentially more difficult than, say, cakewalk. After having spent hours first gathering applications from the most random places from the Dollar store to Blockbuster, after tediously checking and double-checking that I checked every applicable box and divulged more information than is necessary on paper, after having spent the better half of some nights applying to places of business on the internet...I resorted to doing something which doesn't come especially naturally to me - nagging. I had seen Dairy Queen as lucrative and prospective as it's only minutes away, where I would feel comfortable driving my car to and from everyday, not expending more gasoline than necessary; My good friend had been working at DQ for a solid year and [apparently] had been staying because she felt it copacetic if not more than...and the boss is gay, just like me. I would call once per week, told that my application had not yet been reviewed, and to call back over the weekend, which I happily did. "I just haven't had time...been very busy...I'll definitely have looked over your app by monday." Great, I now knew the day when I would finally have closure on the issue, for the better or worse. "Umm, he's busy right now...can you call back in five minutes?", said some brainwashed manipulated cunt on the other end of the phone line. Five minutes later, another one of the boss's minions would pick up. "He's stepped outside - could you call back?" By now, I knew that I was being avoided, which seems to be exemplary of big companies, the government, etc., ignoring the individual. Angered, I persisted, as I knew he would cave. Finally - "Fine, come in on Monday at 11am...wear khaki." With this, I embarked on a journey which, in retrospect, I could only possibly describe with a repertoire of the harshest language and analogies comparing my experiences to the Holocaust. The boss (an inconsiderate, self-righteous, homosexual, bastardous Aquarian) put me to work...made to make waffle bowls for a good 2 hours, nothing too lustrous, nothing too strenuous, nothing too bad for money. By the end of the day, I had been trained on the register (a monochromatic B&W screened-bastard with a non-graphical UI, exceptions to every input, and horrid contrast which made finding the multitude of Blizzards nothing less than a severe pain in my cock). I now have 3 days left before I walk out that door and douse my DQ New! Iron-Grilled Turkey Sandwich worker shirt in gasoline and light it ablaze, Iraqi anti-American style. After the endless routine of waiting on customers with hearing-aids, giving them the wrong change, handing out the order that they never wanted, constantly filling long-handled Blizzard spoons, replacing cup after cup after cup, refilling sundae dishes, parfait treat cups, strawberries, pineapple, hot fudge, marshmallow, creme de menth, M&Ms, Thin Mint cookies, Butterfingers, bananas, Snickers, straws, Kit-Kat, Heath, and after taking a hammer to boxes of french fries frozen to the freezer wall with 2" ice, fetching mustard, whipped cream, and pickles from the cooler, hauling barrels of frozen strawberries to be bottled, sweeping, mopping, cleaning every surface (vertical or horizontal), stocking ketchup, iodized salt, pepper, mayonnaise, packing Dilly bars and preparing to-go boxes...I was told that I "don't do anything". I stared in blatant amazement at the audacity and idiocy of such a backward statement. After working 6+ straight hours (only 6 of which I was paid for) with no break (which is illegal, btw), I was basically told that my continual movement within the DQ building basically made absolutely no difference in the quality, efficiency, or cleanliness in the business. I was told that, since I'm in college, I should know how to work a machine which doesn't accurately display food information, that I should be intuitive enough to have known that a banana split qualifies as a sundae and, therefore, gets a short-handled spoon (which never made any sense to me, especially as the dish is large enough for the small spoon to submerge itself in, making the customer's hand sticky), that large Blizzards have to blended half-way full without a cylinder...for each mistake that I made because I was never professionally trained, I was scolded, insulted, and generally accosted by more than one employee and/or my boss. It's true that Einstein couldn't tie his own shoes...intelligence doesn't correlate to practicality, so a German/Russian language major shouldn't be expected to be able to perform intuitively a cretin's job as well as the 11+ year boss/owner/manager, just as such an idiot shouldn't be expected to have the capacity to learn a foreign language, which [probably] directly relates to the reason why he's middle-aged, gay, and has done nothing more with his life than own a DQ franchise to write on ice cream cakes and terrorize his young and [generally] unintelligible workers who don't know scissors from shoestrings enough to flag him on his inappropriate actions which are more akin to elementary school bullies than bosses. But, I say 'Thank YOU, Asshole', for reminding me exactly WHY I'm in college to begin with and not fail at life and need to wipe the strawberry juice from my calloused hands every night before I go home to my boyfriend.