Most jobs in Baltimore and environs, do suck, as the common indictment goes.

First, Glenn ordered a pizza from "the Idiot Bitch" said as if they are her Christian name and sir name, and, after taking five minutes to convey the need for marinara sauce with the zucchini sticks, had the daft woman repeat the order back to him, "Zucchini sticks with marijuana sauce?"

Well, that is life on the receiving end of someone with a job that deservedly sucks.

Now, for possibly the worst job in retail, overnight cashier at a grocery store on the Edge Suburban of Blight, we have Marge, pulling ten hour shifts to six in the morning, cleaning and stocking, with drunks asking to dance with her in the register lane, interspersed with period of boredom broken by periods of extreme rudeness, when welfare mammas come in at 2:30 A.M. with babies, whining under their arms and purchase up to $1,000 worth of groceries, while some sap with a doughnut and coffee headed out to work and some stoner with a box of cookies, stand behind nodding out...

Well, finally, the other night, after ringing out a $941 dollar EBT order for two hulking welfare mammas, during which 15 minutes was spent debating the price of Domino sugar in the 4-lb bag, Marge got a breather.

As I spoke to her at the register, a tall, handsome, young fellow came into the store and went directly too her register, looking too athletic to ask for cigarettes. Marge regarded him with dread, guessing his inquiry—or rather one of them.

He looked down at her and asked, "Ma'am, do you sell pregnancy tests?"

Marge, tilting her head back to look him in the face said, "No, and if had a nickel for every time someone asked me that question I'd be living in the Bahamas."

He then asked, in desperation, "Do you sell condoms?"

Marge, nerves worn thin, blurted, "A little late for that, don't you think?"

He shrugged his shoulders and hung his head low as he headed for the door and she consoled him, "Sorry, good luck!"