I work the 3rd shift, midnight to 8:00am, in a 6′ by 8′ space… mostly filled with equipment.  There’s barely any room to move, but hell my apartment isn’t much bigger so I don’t know why I complain.

For 8 hours a night, 6 nights a week, I give change for tolls on the State’s Turnpike.  I’ve done this for 22 years now, but again why complain? At least I haven’t been replaced by a machine.

For over 13 years of it Ms. Edna, who is in the booth behind me, has never stopped prattling on, even for one minute.  She blabs on incessantly about everything from her cholesterol-filled welfare boyfriend, to her 20-something daughter’s lack of feminine hygiene.  Why do I complain? I don’t care if her skanky daughter scratches her snootch in public.  Hell I’ve never even turned around to acknowledge her, not once…

I sit with my back to her, bad posture and all.

I see around 300 sets of nameless faces every night. They don’t know me, and certainly don’t care.

The real problem is; I have to deal with pranks, nightly.  Tonight is my 5,940th day in this disagreeable, unrewarding, thankless job.

I’ve been counting… There have been 12,999 pranks pulled on me over the years.

The harmless:
Someone handing me a dollar via a stretched out shark-grabber.

The annoying:
A guy and his friend trying to pay me in Canadian pennies, then asking for 100 separate receipts…

The frightening:
An overly nervous guy pays me when suddenly a young woman jumps up in the back with a sign saying she’s been kidnapped. They dart away pointing and laughing.

The demeaning:
The sporty guy slides up with his vehicle’s, and his girl’s, top down. They usually smile coyly and say something like “you’ll never see a pair like these again,” as they speed off.

They have no idea how many times I actually have seen sets like those at this point in my career. I do. Exactly 143 times.

So why do I complain?

Because the prank that really bothers me, more than anything else, is the simplest one.

I fucking hate being mooned. Men, women, hot college girls, god damn anybody!

I don’t want to see your unwashed keister!

Those are the images that get burned into my mind and haunt me when I try to sleep.

And the Beretta nano semi-automatic 9mm pistol that has been sitting on my lap for the past 6 days is my savior. If my 13,000 prank is a moon, they are getting shot directly in the ass.

I figure it’ll also shut Ms. Edna up.