Thack You: The worst jobs in Fayette County
Larry Thack wishes to acknowledge and bewail your manifold sins and wickedness

Thack You: The worst jobs in Fayette County

Larry Thack just installed a “Silence of the Lambs” doorbell

In most parts of the country you’ll find miserable people in careers like dentistry, crop dusting, and coal mining, but not around these parts. My dentist and her staff would be the most fulfilled group of go-getters if not for my coal miner neighbor who speaks of the delight he feels simply watering his lawn.
Around here, the anger and depression are on display among those you’d never expect. The first such group of people who seem to want me dead are butchers. I could not think of a more pleasurable job. The butcher knows all the secrets of the best cuts, always has a sharp knife, could easily cover up a murder, and has the best paper ever named after him. So why is he always such a jerk when I humbly ask for my cuts?
The golf shop attendant could not be less of a soul harvester. Never will you be offered a smile or eye contact. The attendant is nearly always looking down at something on the counter when I walk in, then looks up much later than a normal, observant human would. What is it on that counter that has these guys so distracted? Nobody ever buys anything in the pro shop, so it’s certainly not sales records or inventories. Perhaps it’s the classifieds. When he finally looks up, you better believe he’s most annoyed with you. He then always asks the stupidest question, “Can I help you?” Well, since I’m not buying a $20 pair of socks, it seems pretty obvious why I’m here. Since I clearly wish to play golf, he makes a distressed face and searches for an excuse as to why he can’t let me out on the course. If nothing comes to mind he yells to the invisible guy in the backroom, “Todd, got a single here,” who always yells back, “it’s wide open.” Curiously that statement means two things in the South – very busy and not busy at all. Since this is a golf course and virtually no one plays the dread game anymore, we all know which definition of “wide open” to use. “Hit ‘em straight” is the caustic curse that some will put on you, but clearly they all want you to step in a hole. I guess they’re stuck in a hut while everyone else is outside playing – kinda sad actually. I almost forgot about the jerk who restocks the range balls – that guy can eat a @#$%.
It doesn’t seem to matter which butcher or which golf course, they’re all the same ‘round here. Inexplicably everyone who works at that Chicken Sandwich place is thrilled to be alive.