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The WORST Summer Jobs- What's Yours?

The WORST Summer Jobs- What's Yours?

Maya Baratz and Christine Dellamonaca, Monster.com Staff Writers

Monster member Gary posts

I was desperate for a job when I graduated from high school – so desperate that I finally took a job with the local poultry farm. This place had four large chicken barns, each about the size of a football field. Each was filled with 40,000 chickens in cages, stacked about 8-feet-high. And every one of these chickens was psychotic. They spent their lives cooped up in a cage with other deranged chickens, trying to peck each other to death – unsuccessful only because they’d been de-beaked. And any time any non-chicken (e.g., me) came walking within 10 feet of their cages, they would completely and totally lose it. They’d squawk, thrash and throw themselves against the cage in a frenzied attempt to kill whatever infidel had entered their domain. The noise and stench were mind-bending. Not only did I have to shovel the chicken doo-doo, I had to BREATHE. And with every chicken within 10 feet throwing a raving hissy fit, the poop and dust and feathers and other unimaginably rude stuff all got flung into the air in a fine dust, which, as you can imagine, got everywhere – on your skin and in your hair, eyes and NOSE. The farmers weren’t smart enough to use breathing masks or other air filters, so I didn’t either – and my nasal passages got coated with the nastiest, most loathsome crud you can imagine. I didn’t last long there. I told them I couldn’t hold down a job if I couldn’t hold down my lunch. And I wasn’t exaggerating. For more than a MONTH afterwards, I had the piquant aroma of stale chickens accompanying me everywhere I went. I didn’t eat chicken for a long time after that…

Monster member Slatz posts:

A friend helped me land a summer job in the machine shop of a bottle-manufacturing plant. Half of my responsibilities included rebuilding bottle-molding machines while working in the air-conditioned shop. Unfortunately, the other half included lubricating the massive machines on the manufacturing line. Three times a week, I would wheel a bulky grease gun along the line. At each machine, I would crawl through broken glass to grease hidden conveyor-belt parts and other moving equipment while clouds of sulfur surrounded my head and jets of fire often singed my hair. Twice a week, I would lug a two-gallon oilcan along the catwalk above the line to top off each machine’s reservoir. Up here, on hot days, the temperature would soar to more than 120 degrees.

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