I have had one, and I mean exactly one, good day at work since I started working. Here’s what happened.

I was doing a temp job answering phones for a week for an auto accessory supplier in a dumpy little city in California. It was about as okay as any job ever is. At least with temp jobs, you can get away with a lot more stuff.

So, one day, I am sitting at the front desk, minding my own business, which consisted of writing and pretending the phone wasn’t ringing, when a car pulls up in the parking lot. It wasn’t a huge car, it was of fairly average size, so I was shocked and amazed when like ten people clambered out of it like a clown car. They should have been wearing big shoes and red noses, but they weren’t. All of the men were dressed in black jeans and tight t-shirts with phrases like “Hellraiser” and the women were dressed in everything my mother never let me wear out of the house as a teenager.

I put everything I was doing aside to watch their entrance, because that’s what you do when there are sluts. Slowly, they approached the desk, and I waited for it.

“We’re here for the photo shoot.”

Had my lips been sewn together, it would have broken the thread. It was that impossible to hide the smirk, and I vaguely remember responding with something like “Of course you are.”

So, while I waited for their liaison to reach the lobby and escort them to the g’d out vehicles they would be writhing atop, I got to watch five trashy car magazine models wiping lipstick from each other’s mouths and reaching down in their shirts to rearrange their cleavage.

I’ve had worse days.