When
working in a haunted house during the Halloween season is your job, contemplating
suicide is a natural part of one’s thought process. The job is horrible. People probably think it would be the best
gig in the world, but it’s not. I’d
rather let Edward Scissor Hands jerk me off than work at another haunted house
in my lifetime. We purposely would do
things to get fired and our advisor was completely oblivious to any of it. She treated us like we were the f*****g
saviors of the haunted house.
Getting
a behind-the-scenes look at an amusement park made me never want to waste my
f*****g money actually going to one ever again.
Without working for one, you don’t realize that amusement parks are
where the scum of the earth go for entertainment. They are equivalent to the Island of
Misfit Toys from Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.
The
scare house we ended up getting assigned to would have made Jerry Sandusky
proud, but not us. It looked like one of
those sick f***s from “To Catch a Predator” designed the place. The amusement park’s idea of scary was way
off the mark. Throughout the entire house
were walls covered in naked Barbie Dolls.
To top things off, they had us workers dressed up as a bunch of transsexual
misfit toys. We looked like complete
jackasses in our costumes.
The
people who went through the haunted house usually came straight from the
trailer park. You could have filmed an
entire episode of “True Life: I’m a Dirtbag” right at the front entrance of the
house. I mean honestly, who the f**k would pay good money just to get the s**t
scared out of them? Not me. Then again, I’m not a moron.
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