Yes. I used autocorrect to spell those words right.
Anyway, after coming back home from getting fucked in the ass by my first year of college, I went a-lookin' for some currency. What I found was an ass fucking so grand, my anus may never fully recover.
I found myself working, outside, with Joe and Asshole on my uncle's lawn. We were mulching. For those who don't know what 'mulching' is, it is the process of picking up dirt and putting on top of other dirt. It is literally a shitty job.
Wood Chips of Shit.
After 14 hours of hard labor, Joe and I were pretty wiped out but since our days outside were nice, I kind of enjoyed the time. I include myself and Joe in those hours because Asshole was only around for 4 of them.
What about the other 10?
He didn't show up. Fucking Asshole.
Whilst working, the neighbors were getting their trees trimmed. The man who was trimming the branches was also the same person who had delivered the mulch to my uncle and the two of them got to talking.
I was currently unemployed, so when he asked my uncle if I was looking for work, I quickly responded with a yes. I figured it would be really cool to finally be outside, working in the sun doing real manly work. I've been working shitty jobs at the mall, making outfits for 15-year old girls since I was a wee-lad and I was dying for a change. I honestly could not handle spending another summer picking out shoes and opening dressing rooms for fat white people.
Working at the mall is almost as bad as being in the holocaust. I'm not going to give you a funny analogy that explains how, I'm just going to tell you that. Are you okay with that? No? Go fuck yourself, reader.
So there I was, hard working man Justin C. Hawthorne. I was ready for action baby. I went for my interview with a polo, some dress pants, and a pair of black loafers. I had assumed this would be a regular interview.
I was incorrect in this prior assumption.
I pulled up to the scene- down a long ass country road in the middle of MidFuckNowhere City. I pulled into a driveway and looked ahead at the massive pastures of absolute-nothingness. There were a fuckload of chickens and these things my boss referred to as 'guinea-hens' which slightly offended me as I am 15% Italian.
Sidenote- I am also 15% Korean.
Sidenote-Sidenote - I am also 15% full of shit.
The whole place smelt like sweat, men, and gasoline. Look out for my next dramatic short story entitled, "Getting Fucked In The Ass On A Farm While It Smells Like Shit."
Taking a tour of the area, I felt horribly out of place in my 'Jewfit.' This is my nick name for a "Jewish outfit." What is a jewish outfit? White shirt, black pants, black shoes, black belt, black yarmulke. Once you add the tie it becomes a pledge uniform, but if you don't, you're a full blown Latke-Lovin' Hasid.
I figured this would be a formal interview and he'd sit me down and ask me about my prior work experience. Instead, he gave me a tour of the farm.
There were mountains of shit. Tons and tons of mulch covered the area and there were giant trucks and pieces of heavy machinery.
My boss explained to me as we were going through the farm,
"Yeah, you could die at pretty much every step of the job. From the drive to the job, to handling the machinery, you could die at anytime."
Couldn't wait to start.
My boss proceeded to tell me a sweet story of one guy who was on his phone while chopping some wood and ended up losing his fucking finger. The moral of that story was: don't work here.
We hopped in a truck, which my boss promptly and repetitively explained costed $80,000, and drove off in hopes that I could get a feel of how it drove. Driving this thing is about as much fun as driving a rusty lawnmower over a hill of human feces.
It was slow, it was ugly, it was literally full of shit. I went to someone's driveway and uncomfortably backed this giant death machine up to the top and then deposited a massive, steaming pile of mulch.
This part of the job was the part I was most comfortable with since leaving a pile of shit on someone's lawn is something I am well-versed in.
My first few days were alright and the weather wasn't too bad. I drove some shit. I brought some bundles of sticks to the giant wood chipper and thought about diving myself into a very exciting death.
The highlight, I think, was when I had a job in Old Bridge. On the drive back, I cut through Englishtown (where many of my friends live) and even passed my old Middle and Elementary schools.
As I drove a giant truck, with 2 Mexicans, while listening to Spanish Radio, carrying tree-trimming shit, I never could have imagined someone telling the 14-year old Justin Hawthorne that he would one day be doing this.
On a sidenote, Spanish songs all sound the fucking same. Every. Single. One. They are all the fucking same I don't care what you say. Viv, I know you're probably reading this. You can't tell me I'm wrong. This shit is all the same.
Mexican food has the same ingredients.
Mexican music has the same rhythm and key.
Mexican drugs are all powders.
Mexicans are uncreative.
After a while, the work started wearing upon my soul and I was exhausted. On top of my allergies causing me to sneeze blood, I was tired from the constant pushing of tree trunks and various other machinery and equipment. This shit is awful. The Mexicans who worked with me are truly very strong, and strong headed men, but by God can I not do this.
They were some pretty nice guys and kept calling me Justin Beiber. The only other time someone called me Justin Beiber was when I told a Korean vacationer my name was Justin and he asked to take a picture with me.
Non-whites are weird.
The gentlemen at the farm have been working there for 15 years. I lasted 4 days.
I found myself with a different job opportunity in a fantastically air-conditioned area so I decided to say fuck trimming trees. I came to this realization that these immigrants have no other choice but to work jobs like these which do not require legal citizenship and taxable income.
But, since I was born here, I can work other places. Places with air conditioning- places with out giant heaps of shit- places where my chances of death aren't at every turn. Places like Wawa.
I leave you all now with a picture of me for a change, as well as a selfie I took with my Mexican comrades while driving them back home.