Take That Job and Shove It

There are some jobs that all men are insanely jealous of: Professional beer taster, Hollywood stunt man, founder of Playboy magazine, unpaid columnist for The Smoking Jacket. There are also a handful of “professions” out there that we hate with a passion. From the starchy uniform, down to the type of people who take these jobs, here is my list of the most hated jobs in America, and why, if you don’t already, you should hate them too.

Undercover Cop

Sure the movies make it look cool, and I have nothing against the “good guys” per se, but the “down low po-po” can ruin a good time fast. One minute you’re talking up a stranger you meet while waiting in line for a churro at Lollapalooza. The next thing you know, you’re cuffed and in the back of a paddy wagon because you were going to do Johnny Law a solid by selling your leftover half-a-joint for more beer money. But undercover cops aren’t just there to steal your drugs. They can also be the “Swedish immigrant” you met on Craigslist who just “needs a little extra money for text books” and wants to “thank” you for that money at a Red Roof Inn. In fact, the only thing worse than the undercover cop is his car. To this day I can’t look at a Crown Vic or anything maroon without slamming on my breaks and spilling beer all over my crouch.

Meter Maid

No matter how legit your excuse is for being double parked in a handicap spot in front of a fire hydrant on a street sweeping day—in the wrong direction—the meter maid doesn’t want to hear it. I will assume to take this job, one must really suck at everything else. Ironically, they are lightning quick at ticket response time. If I even think about leaving my car in a loading zone, to “load” a slice of pizza into it (via my stomach), the ticket is already processed. It is as if the Parking Patrol has that machine from Minority Report and knows we are guilty before we even park on the sidewalk. The most annoying thing about these parking a-holes is when you arrive at your car as the ticket is still being written and they say “I would take it back if i could, but it’s already been processed.” You know how you could have taken it back? Don’t leap out of the bushes in your khaki shorts and ironed-on badge the second I disappear into a Starbucks. Of all the “maids” out there (French, milking, old) meter maids are the worst.

Professional Referee

In the thousands of hours I’ve spent watching sports, and the tens of thousands of dollars I’ve gambled subsequently, I can’t think of one emotion that a ref, ump, or line judge has brought out of me, or anyone else at the bar, more than RAGE. Let’s put it this way: No one has ever thrown a plate of cheese fries at a TV because a ref made a GOOD call. Professional referees have cost us money, fantasy football games, hair loss and the above-mentioned cheese fries. Whether they call a ball a “strike,” a fumble “down by contact” or just miss an obvious call all together, refs are responsible for more sports-related anger than Lebron James, rain delays and the WNBA combined. Besides, who can really be taken seriously with a whistle around his neck?

Male Model

I am not a male model (any more), but just knowing that they are out there really bugs the shit out of me. From the low-rent shirtless lads who guard the door at Abercrombie & Fitch (as if anybody is going to break in and steal their canoe), to the globe-trotting male supermodel, modeling should be reserved for hot woman and miniature rocket ships. It’s bad enough that every time we buy new underwear we have to sort through endless rows of pictures of chiseled man abs, but just knowing that man models or “Mandels” are walking around means that no matter how good we look, how many reps we can do or how good our hair-cut was, there will always be “better.” Mandels give the rest of us guys a bad name. If you’re a man, and you make your living by “working” the runway, you better be a pilot.

Telemarketer

I hate shopping…so why would I want to do it over the phone, with a stranger, during dinner, for COMMUNITY THEATER TICKETS?!?!?! Telemarketers may be more to blame than cell phones for the death of the home land line. I still have a home phone—mostly to prank my friends and buzz strangers in from the street—but 99.9 percent of my incoming calls start with someone either messing up my name, telling me that I “won” something or looking for the person who lived here before me, to tell them they “won” something. If I want to donate money, take a cruise, or change my cable provider, I know where to go. Telemarketers are hated because they have bad personalities, thick accents and piss-poor timing. How about selling me something that I could actually use (e.g. a pizza when I’m stoned, or a device to block you).

Bouncer

No neck? No sleeves? No friends to hang out with inside the bar? Be a bouncer. Although some are better than others, bouncers, like to play “Club God,” and sometimes think their clipboard is the book of life. It’s not. I understand, and agree with the concept of a bouncer: keep the riffraff out, and insure a heavy girl to guy ratio. The irony is that most of the guys who take this job wouldn’t even let “themselves” into the places they are protecting. Some jobs should be taken seriously (heart surgeon, astronaut, phone sex operator). Standing in front of a nightclub with a clipboard in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other isn’t one of them.