Monthly Archives: March 2013


Okay, so in one of my MANY, MANY ridiculous conversations about my life,  the subject of “worst job ever” came up.  Now, I know I should probably be ashamed of my answer to this question, but for some reason, I take some perverse pride in having, at one time, performed what is arguably the world’s worst (or most stupid) job EVER.   (It’s probably for the same reason that I took such  pride in teaching my daughters that cotton candy came from the dryer…but I’m no psychologist.  Now that I think about it, is their upbringing why my daughters are now majoring in Psycholgy and Social worK?!?!?!?  Hmmmmmm.  )

Regardless of the reason, I decided to share this with you and I can almost GUARANTEE that what I’m about to share with you will be one of the absolute most worst jobs EVER!

In the summer after graduating High School, I worked for a turkey processing plant. (Yep, where turkeys from the farm went to become turkeys that found their way to your Thanksgiving tables.) My job was to test the gravy packets that went into the turkeys for a tight seal. In effect, I spent ALL DAY squeezing gravy packets. And what did I get when I found the ones that were sub par???? I was rewarded with a face, shirt, and lap full of ice cold gravy. THAT wasn’t the worst part though, believe it or not.

In order to keep the gravy at a certain temp, we had to keep it on ice, which we would get from the “ice room”. The ice room was a HUGE room filled with ice (Go figure, huh?) that had an auger running down the middle of the floor. This auger created a “tunnel ” of ice as it would move the ice from the bottom, but sometimes the rest wouldn’t fall down. You wanna know what their absolutely cockamamie  solution was? From time to time, we had to go INTO this ICE FILLED room with a PITCHFORK, walk INTO the tunnel of ice, and JAB at the ice over our heads until it started to fall into the auger again (GENIUSES came up with that solution.) One day, while performing this RIDICULOUSLY dangerous duty, I was hit in the head by a piece of falling ice, and was knocked “loopy”. I went to the doctor and was placed on “light duty”. I went back to work a couple of days later dressed NOT for gravy packet duty, but dressed as one that was fully expecting office duty. What I got was FAR from it.

I was given a chair and was placed unceremoniously into position where the trucks filled with turkeys came in. Now to help you understand the next part, I have to give you a bit of insight into the process of the plant. The trucks would pull into the facility and at this point a team of people would pull the turkeys from their cages on the trucks and place them by their feet into some type of stirrup like getup that was attached to a mechanism that would carry them through the plant. From there, they would visit each station and go through the whole process.

The FIRST part about what made this so bad is that I was sitting RIGHT NEXT to the people that were pulling the turkeys from the truck. The turkeys were not happy. They would be flapping wildly as they were pulled off; flinging feathers, dirt and even worse, turkey feces all over my office ready clothes and face. (I told you it was bad.) And I don’t know if you realize it, ( or maybe I was exceptionally PUNKISH) but turkeys can actually be kinda big and intimidating!  They’re big, and ugly and would be flapping around like crazy.  They’d be scratching and clawing and pecking…..geez.

And even THAT wasn’t all of what made this job so horrible. You want to know what I was put there to actually do? Sometimes, after going through the whole plant, the turkeys’ FEET would be left in the stirrups. My job? My job was to sit there, next to a trash can and pull the left over turkey feet from the stirrups and throw them in a trash can.  (Insert PETA threats here.)

Imagine a 17/18 year old kid, fresh out of high school, covered from head to toe with turkey feathers, dirt and feces, plucking turkey feet out of stirrups and throwing them into a can and you have just gotten a glimpse of hell.

I mean…how do you even PUT that on a resume?!?! What’s the job title? “Turkey Feet Remover”??? I got a better one for ya. How about: “Worst……Job…….Ever!”

I joined the Air Force shortly thereafter.


Posted by on March 13, 2013 in jobs, Uncategorized, work


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Easy Like Sunday Morning?!?!?!?

This post really has nothing to do with raising daughters.  I was just cleaning out my mental closets, and I remembered this stuff.  I thought it was funny and decided to share.    Enjoy!

Growing up, Sundays were ALWAYS church days at my house, (and it seemed like Monday thru Saturday didn’t seem to be off limits either) and living right next to a church meant that there weren’t a lot of reasons why we could miss it. Let’s see…there was projectile vomiting, fevers of over 102 and DEATH of a close family member. Yup…that pretty much sums up the excuses. Outside of those excuses, we’d be sitting right in the pews of Saint John Missionary Baptist Church come Sunday mornings. To make matters worse, sometimes, we had to pull DOUBLE DUTY…..…morning worship in the a.m. and “singing program” in the afternoon.  That’s what happens when your mother is on the Usher’s board.

Anyway, throughout the house, there was a lot of preparation that went into getting ready for church on Sunday morning. Personally, however, my preparation  was actually pretty easy. My routine went something like this:

1) Bathe – but only when I thought I couldn’t get away with not doing it. (I WAS a little boy, after all.)

2) Brush my teeth (see note in bold from step one)

3) Put on my clothes

4) Comb my hair.

Now step four was REALLY important for a couple of reasons. First and foremost was  because if I didn’t do it, a) it was more obvious from a distance than step one and b) as long as I kept my mouth SHUT, it was WAAAAY more obvious than step two.   MOST importantly, was that the risk of getting caught was that Mama would comb it for me. Now, I don’t know if any of your Mamas combed your heads, but when MY Mama combed MINE, I swear that she was possessed by some Nazi prison guard or something. She was MERCILESS. She would grab the comb with the SMALLEST teeth, and then she would proceed to do what I call a “deep combing”. You know the ones, when she would cup your forehead in her palm, hold the comb at the base of the back of your neck, thrust the comb all the way to the root, and draaaaaaaaag, it all the way through to the front.   My kicking and screaming didn’t help a bit because Mama had NO respect for the BBs that took residence in the neighborhood at the base of my neck, nor their neighbors that moved to the suburbs all across my scalp.

(Forgive me if the ink here is a lil smudged…I couldn’t catch the tear before it hit the page.)

No matter how bad my experiences were though, my little sister’s  routine was WAY more intricate and was a far, far, FAR more harrowing experience than mine. That chica  had it bad. At least my routine didn’t involve hot friggin’ iron! I can honestly say that I remember waking up on most Sunday mornings to the sound of sizzling hair grease, the smell of burning hair, and every so often, the smell of burning ear tips, necklines, and scalps as they wafted through the air…..ahhhhh…Sunday mornings…good times, good times.

Tis all…Just wanted to share that with ya.  See ya next time

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Posted by on March 8, 2013 in children, fatherhood, parenting


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