Those who can, do. Those who can’t, get fast-tracked into a management position.
During the years I’ve spent working at this particular circus, my alleged betters really went the extra mile to ensure that my distress tolerance got turned all the way up to eleven. It’s probably why I’ve managed to survive the various health crises my shitty genetics have thrown at me. On the off chance there’s a Hell, I will probably fit right in.
I used to be in middle-management, but my obvious distaste for rectal spelunking saw me being demoted back into the ranks of the competent. I am now a “specialist”, which means my charge-out rate is extortionate, but my take-home is pitiful. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but it still vastly better than coprophagia.
However, if that’s your thing, we may have an opening for you.
