I used to be that guy who called your house asking for police donations. I was that guy for exactly two days. Well, really a day and a half. I didn't come back after my lunch break on the second day.
Instead, I walked straight across the street and got a job at a mail order catalog that sold clothes to old people. I got to talk to old people all day, 8 hours a day, asking what size they needed for their pantsuits and their extra wide Dr. Scholl's walking shoes....oh, and old women love the shit out of some culottes. Especially denim culottes. It's like old woman crack, apparently
I also had to do a lot of apologizing for the crappy free gifts we sent out if you ordered a certain item.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Curmudgeon, but after all....it was free, you old fuck!"
I got fired for saying something along those lines once. Except it was more along the lines of some old woman complaining that her gift was broken and my exact words were "Tough shit!"
I'm glad those days are over and done with.
I'm really not a mean guy. Those jobs just bring out the worst in people.
And I was more often than not drunk by the time I clocked in, but that's a whole other can of worms. Or beans. Or however that saying goes.