The American Dream Becomes Somewhat Subjective. Again.

No!
I swear it ain't so!
I swear that yesterday at work I did not participate in an employee joke!
I will not like my job!

Or at least I promise not to like my job as much as people who work at my previous wage-earning establishment (recounted here and here) hate theirs. My dear, dear cousin Dan worked there for about three years in my company, and, this past Saturday night lived the walking-out-on-the-job fantasy. Mind you that this is the cousin Dan who had such intense hyperactivity disorder when we were small, that on family vacations, we were only allowed watch 3 Ninjas one time.

The scene:
Busy Saturday night at the pizza place, appx. 6:30 pm.
Dan, alone on the sandwich bar, putting out an order about once every 20 minutes. Overwhelmed.

Takes tickets by fist-fulls, throws them about kitchen, throws apron to floor, runs into overflowing dining room.
Jumps on table, removes shirt.
Swings shirt about (see Tarzan if you're confused about this part)
People stare.
Shouts something along the lines of "I just want everybody here to know just how much I hate my job!"
Runs out.