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you know. If you want someone with an enormous beard and you like to splat their beards with custard pie for a kids TV program, then you call my agency, who call me. The custard and the children were bad enough; I grown thick skinned about such humiliation over the years. But you would have thought they let me wash before kicking me out of the studio. When I finally made it to the station, at the peak of summer rush hour, my congealed, putrid beard was beginning to smell. I got onto my train, with sweaty, grim faced commuters, for the half hour journey home. After 10 minutes we stopped. Three motionless hours later the stench was medieval.Wages: $7.15 per hourIn a futile attempt to finance my second year of film school, I had heard about possible summer employment in the control division of a potato chip factory. It was a five minute drive from my house, full time hours, and it paid two dollars above the minimum wage. I signed up and was hired on the spot.10 minutes later my immediate supervisor (later to be nicknamed Dragon Bitch delivered me to a room that could only be described as human oven. It was then that I came to the grim realization that the entire job consisted of standing (and sweating) in front of a very large conveyor belt for the entire eight hour shift. With my well manicured bare hands, I was required to dispose of all the blemished, newly cut, deep fryer hot potato chips that whizzed by at Warp 9, while the heavy, oil steam that emanated from the conveyor belt found refuge in my open, teenage pores. If there was a black or green spot on a chip, it had to go.I didn wear gloves, I didn