Yeah, I kick a little ass

I think a bad job would be the one where you bring coffee into everyone's work. Every day stocking coffee, making chit-chat about Yuban and shitty Folgers about how well roasted it is and how fast they use coffee and filters and how the coffee machine has a slow leak from that torrential heat spigot and you say, yes, I'll fix it.

Continually refilling the cups of mediocrity. Fueling it, even--being a main contributor. That would be a bad job.

Probly when you came in to refill and referred to yourself as a fueler of mediocrity ... people would look at you funny. Maybe even attack you with paperclips and such. Maybe a stapler, who knows. Maybe one of those big paper machine cutters that people use to pwnt their very digits.

Secondarily, I have renamed the word taco on account of this felon sitchy. New word is Freedom Meat Unit. They will be rolled in either a delicate freedom corn or flour cake. I prefer freedom flour but you may of course choose corn if you're a big fat homo.

Secondarily, if I had a mind control ray or device or even salve or balm I'd use it on myself and convince my very own brain that work is fun. I think that would add a color of rouge to the complexion of my days.

Don't you?