A guy I’ve known had an online-psychics business. He wouldn’t have told you were of angelic blood, though, since he didn’t believe in psychics powers. For the most part his “psychics” were formerly online sex-chatters.
Like a previous poster, I once applied for a job in a morgue (that would be more exactly at a coroner’s, if I’m not mistaken about what a coroner is in the USA). A friend of mine dragged me into this (we both applied), and I really don’t know why I even envisioned for an instant I would accept such a job. It turned out my friend had been victim of a prank and there actually was no such position open, anyway.
C-Coroner? You…went to interview for a job with a guy who robs graves and sells the body parts to Chinese alchemists?
See this movie for my rather obscure reference:
What’d you drive? Did it need to be concealed?
The oddest job that I had was one that I knew nothing about until I actually had the job. As a recent graduate with a major in English, of course I had trouble finding a job, so I turned up at the gates of a steel-making company in Australia to get a job as a labourer. I’d actually worked there before, as a cleaner (which is odd in itself, as I’m the last person you’d want to employ as a cleaner, based on my normal tidiness), so I got a job one level up from that – as a Brinnell tester. No, I’d never heard of such a job before – and when I’ve mentioned the job to others, they haven’t heard of it either. The job involvespressing ball-bearings into samples of steel, with a specified force, then measuring the size of the indentation. This tells you how hard the steel sample is.
Oh, and I did this with balls for ore-crushing plants, wheels and tyres for railway rolling stock, and rollers for steel-rolling mills.
Surely you knew you were going to get the jobs, though.
I’m, surprised you went back, knowing you’d be stiffed.
Nitpick: Plum Island is off the tip Long Island, NY. The people who worked there had their homes in my home town (technically, it’s even part of my home town). The “military transport” is a ferry to the island. You can see it here (check out the satellite view – the entire island is blurred out).
I’ve gone through a lot of jobs myself, but nothing too odd.
Oh, of course I knew I’d get the jobs. They’d hire a chimp if the chimp said it believed in angels. And the stiffing happened the second time. The first time went well enough, though by the end I was working as a party psychic, which was better work for more money, so I quit. Then I took the second one later when I lost a couple big clients.
I also used to be a phone sex worker, a few years later, but the psychic stuff is what really makes me feel dirty. Maybe I should start an Ask The and clense my soul with confession.
Editor in chief of a Toilet Technology trade magazine in Latham NY.
Power equipment. Definitely power equipment. A backhoe, actually. Always felt like I was driving an giant Tonka truck.
Although I’d have had to use a shovel for the shaping and smoothing.
I saw a Women In Prison show a few months ago, and one of the jobs they do is making dentures. They were over the moon about the job prospects once they got out of the Big House.
Forgot to say…I was a clown for a few weeks. I’ve known clowns who did charity work at hospital, but I was the only paid clown I ever knew.
I was Shrek/The Hulk for Universal Studios Orlando.
Meh, the spleen is ok, but not real sexy.
Sometimes I have to work in the bowels of the institution. Other times the brain. I’ve stayed out of the genito-urinary system so far.
Was?
It’s not easy being green.
Right out of college, I applied for a job with a major manufacturer of x-shaped cat food…chow, you might even call it. Their market research ahd shown that Hispanic consumers were under-represented among their customers. Further research had shown that this was because, statistically, Hispanic consumers were less likely to be cat owners – in the sense of keeping cats in the house and feeding them. They wanted someone to head up an effort to market cats to Hispanic people and to encourage members of rural farm communities to start feeding …erm, “chow” to their barn cats. At age twenty-one, I was about as much a marketing executive as I ever was remotely Hispanic. …which is to say, not at all. I had two interviews, though – most likely because I had lived in Santa Fe, owned a cat (who, though I didn’t mention it, lived on Science Diet except once when he escaped, ran away for three days and seems to have hung around the edges of the “chow” packaging plant a few blocks away. He came home tired and four pounds heavier.) and could point out such obscure truths as “If they feed the barn cats, won’t the rodent problem on farms just explode?” We wrote this on a blank flip pad, as a challenge to be overcome. I didn’t get the job, so I took a position as a mail-order aromatherapist.
Don’t get your hopes up of it being something exciting or like in the movies…
My Uncle in Alabama (about a 90 minute drive from Niceville) had a small still and probably didn’t make more than 20-30 gallons a month. He sold directly to his neighbors around his farm. Of course, this being very rural, there were a lot of miles to cover.
So sometimes I’d drive up there and help him deliver the 'shine. He put in in quart mason jars and used gallon A & B Root Beer jugs…there were lots of those, that root beer was a craze in the mid-60’s in the South. He’d put them in cardboard boxes packed with hay and we’d load them into the trunk. I’d deliver and collect the money or if the customer wasn’t home, just leave the merchandise inside the door and they’d pay my uncle later.
He’d fill my tank for me and give me 15 or 20 bucks.
That’s it. No big tanks welded underneath the car, no night runs without lights on mountain roads being chased by the revenooers or anything. Moonshining wasn’t too big an operation in South Alabama and was under no scrutiny as far as I could tell. My uncle told me that if the feds did get wind of an operation, they just waited until they found out where the still was, got a warrant and raided you. He never heard of them chasing down “moonrunners” like in the movies.
My car was a 1966 Mustand GT, 289 V-8 with a 4-barrel carb and 4-speed tranny. Pretty, but nowhere near as fast as the GTOs, 442s and SS-396s of that era.
So there’s my reality for you. My Mustang and my uncle’s pick up truck. No Thunder Road, no Frankie Avalon in Fireball 500.
Cool! Was forming an unrequited crush on your boss part of the job requirement? And would he have called you “dollface”?
Oh, I would love to hear how you did that.
This all sounds very interesting… I would love to see such a thread!