The Dust is in the Detail by Allen Masterson

I've worked hard most of my adult life. I'm talking "fingers to the bone" type work. I've only had a few cushy jobs like; bank teller, suit salesman, security guy. Most of my employment history sounds like a "what's what" of careers which are detrimental to one's health: screen printer, hod carrier, lumberyard guy, sign painter, gas tank removal, and the list goes on. I've never actually sat down and created a list of all the jobs I've suffered. I've never made a detailed list of my sexcapades, either. I guess I'm not a list type a guy.

My latest increment in Job Purgatory, is auto detailer. With all my previous experience with mind-numbing work, I fit into this occupation like a murderer fits into a noose.

"Misanthropic Me" takes over as I clean the filth of others from between the seats of Ford Focus's,  Mercury Grand Marques, Flex Fuel Expeditions, yada-yada.

Everything about car detailing sucks. Every piece of lint I find after the fact makes me hate the human race and the laws of physics. Cleaning chemicals coat my nostrils and leave my mouth tasting like I just ate a sandwich made by Jack Kevorkian.

I know I have bad Karma. There's no question in my mind I have toxic energy seeping through the walls of this particular incarnation. This may sound a bit defeatist to the average person.  No one wants to acknowledge their life may be influenced by factors beyond their observations. I have learned Eastern  ways to possibly minimize suffering due to the residue of bad Karma; but the discipline is monumental while the concept is fairly simple. In other other words, it's easier said than done.

I'm realistic enough to lay down my sword, pick up the Shop-vac hose, and curb my rage while sucking up the half melted fragments of a discarded Clark Bar under the driver's seat of a Ford Taurus. It's all for a good cause. I'm scrubbing away at the nastiest stains in my soul; to give my next vehicle that showroom shine...