Many people consider dishwashing to be one lowliest jobs a human being can hold, ranking it only slightly above sock-pairing and slightly below artificially inseminating livestock. I am one of those people. For this reason, I was dismayed to discover that I am in fact a dishwasher myself.
I am not sure how this happened to me. I had so much promise. I was brimming with potential; the potential to become something better than a scullery maid. In my senior year of high school, I was voted Least Likely to Become a Dishwasher by the yearbook committee. My horizons were vast and broad, the sky was the limit, I could be anything I aspired to be because my brilliance knew no bounds.
And then I moved to Portland.
I personally object to the term "dishwasher". While I can not object to the stark accuracy of the title, it is simply too lacking in pizazz for my liking. I prefer to think of myself as a sanitation technician, though my comprehensive campaign to popularize this phrase has so far met with resounding failure. (I am furious with myself for sinking so much of my money on "Don't Call Me a Dishwasher" door hangers.) My co-workers generally refer to me as either Sudsy or Dampshirt von Prunefingers.
As a dishwasher, I am subject to the type of scorn typically reserved for the homeless. Whenever they see me, my co-workers purse their lips and shake their heads disapprovingly and mutter things under their breath like "How pitiful" and "Such a shame", then splash coffee on me and pelt me with chicken bones before returning to the comfort and luxury of their ivory towers. Others, such as my dear friend (and boss) Lisa, simply ignore my presence, finding it too difficult to acknowledge me in such a sad and sorry state. Occasionally I flap my arms like some sort of soggy pelican in a futile attempt to grab her attention but she is impervious to my efforts.
There are a few advantages to being a dishwasher. For one, I can smoke all the weed I want, for there is no amount of marijuana that could possibly compromise my ability to spray hummus and wing sauce off of plates and feed them into a dishwashing machine. Being stoned also aids me in imagining I am a hockey player as I mop the floors, though the waitresses are generally unappreciative when I hip-check them into the side of the ice machine while they are trying to carry food out to their tables, and Lisa hates it when I throw my mop down and try to pull her shirt over her head while pummeling her about the kidneys. I also have a lot of time to myself to contemplate life, love, and the nature of existence, because everyone is too embarrassed to be seen speaking to me while I am going about my duties. Since I am sequestered in a secluded corner of the kitchen, I have my own radio and can listen to all the country music I like, which happens to be a considerable amount of country music indeed.
I imagine that in the future, technology will advance to a point where human sanitation technicians will be rendered obsolete by dishwashing robots. I am looking forward to this day, as I have always dreamed of being a robot ever since I was a young boy.
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