I wasn't yet 16, and in California, that means you can't have a real job, son.

My uncle knew someone who owned a dog grooming shop and needed help; I would be paid under the table and no one would be the wiser. I agreed readily, I mean, Culture Club cassette tapes aren't free, right?

First day on the job I was introduced to anal glands. Located right at the base of a dog's tail, these glands apparently serve no other purpose than to excrete hell in semi-solid form. It was my job to extract hell from the dogs' asses.

I had to place my thumb and forefinger in just the right spot and squeeze quickly and with the right amount of force. It would spurt something like Magic Shell comprised entirely of evil, and my raison d'etre was to avoid touching it. I was repeatedly warned that should any of that foulness come into contact with my skin, I would smell like that forever and never be allowed among polite society.

I worked at that job for a whole summer for minimum wage; brushing, washing, drying, and extracting.

But damn, "Karma Chameleon" never sounded better.