How to Quit

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I’ve worked over forty-nine jobs in the Frederick County area.  That’s given me a wide range of work experiences, especially how to quit and how to get fired.  I now command salaries of up to nine dollars an hour.

At my last job, my boss, Jena, a rather attractive woman asked me to please get to work. I winked at her and said, “Jena, there is nothing wrong with getting a little behind.”
That was my last day there.

I have sales experience in jewelry, real estate, fire alarms, frozen steaks, furniture, and marijuana. None of these jobs was lucrative, but selling marijuana helped me to get laid once.

One of my qualities is that I take jobs that require mindless labor and no responsibility, and focus on getting to know my co-workers.  On the clock, I’m a real people person.

My main requirement now is that I work with women. My motto has always been: Work hard, play hard, but don’t play hard to get.  I’ve always appreciated promiscuous female co-workers–without them, I wouldn’t have had nearly as much sex on the job.

I’m currently seeking employment as a Mystery Shopper inside dialysis clinics.  Keeping a close eye on nurses comes naturally to me.

When I look back at my past, I can see that my future has to be better. It can’t be any worse.  It is always darkest just before the light.

At Least There Are Nurses

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Dialysis changes you both physically and mentally.  The vein in my left bicep has been altered to carry large amounts of blood. This is my access, or fistula. Before the nurses stick needles in my arm, I like to ask them if they think my fistula makes my muscle look bigger.  The nursing staff at dialysis, mostly young women, have helped me mentally. Sometimes instead of reading or watching TV, I just stare at the nurses.  I always tell them when I am leaving that it was nice looking at you.

The Nurses

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All the nurses at Dialysis love me.  I’m sure of it.  I am starting to love a couple of them, even with my girlfriend sitting in the lobby.  I will survive this kidney thing and then she will kill me.  The food she has cooked for me tastes like poison, but so far I am all right.  I tell the nurses when I think they look beautiful.  It helps to pass the time.  They are sticking big needles in my arm, so I try to stay on their good side.

Stress test

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My doctor didn’t tell me that my stress test would be stressful. It was partly my fault because my loose shorts kept falling down. This hindered my stride, with one hand holding my shorts up. First the nurse, who looked like a boxer, shaved my chest with a razor that pulled out more hair then it shaved. Then, with many wires attached, she told me to get on the treadmill.
I think she was trying to break me down. She had the treadmill on its highest incline. I was running and sucking air through my eyes, my ears, my mouth and my nose. I was getting ready to collapse and fall, possibly tearing off all my wires and sliding back, a heap on the floor. “That’s it. You’re done,” she said.
My heart passed the test, my heart that has been broken so many times