“The Hardest Job in the World”
It has been said that being a parent is “the hardest job in the world.”
Whoever said that must have been a parent, because I can think of a few people who just might take issue with that particular declaration.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Motherhood is not something I have ever attempted, and, at this post-forty juncture, I think I’ve pretty much managed to dodge the maternity bullet for this particular lifetime. And I am quite certain that parenting is, at times, challenging, heartbreaking, stressful, and filled with countless moments of unbelievable rage and angst.
But the hardest job in the world?
Be serious.
To me, the definition of a “hard” job is one that is physically grueling, psychologically unrewarding, and, in a perfect world, life-threatening. It would involve the ungloved handling of any or all of the following substances: dead bodies, rodents of any sort, giant poisonous reptiles, malodorous body fluids, toxic chemicals, highly contagious deadly viruses, or radioactive nuclear waste. Said “hard” job would also offer low or no pay, zero chance for advancement, and a complete and utter dearth of emotional gratification. Finally, “the hardest job in the world” would be one that no one, nowhere, under any circumstances would take on voluntarily unless in extreme financial distress or suffering from some form of acute mental imbalance.
Still not convinced? Fair enough.
As a public service to my readers, I have taken it upon myself to compile a shortlist of jobs that I think could, technically, qualify as “the hardest job in the world.” Please note that heading up the neighborhood play group, coaching the soccer team, or even organizing a birthday party for two dozen screaming youngsters at the local Chuck E. Cheese all rate a big fat “zero” on the Talbot Occupational Index of Hardest Jobs in the World.
Ready? Let’s begin, shall we?
Hardest Job in the World #1: Guy Who Cleans Out Rendering Vat in Slaughterhouse. I never knew this, but apparently meatpacking is considered the most dangerous occupation in America. Let’s set aside for a moment the inevitable emotional toll wreaked upon anyone who ekes out a living by bludgeoning helpless barnyard animals to death as they whiz by on a fast-moving conveyor belt and just focus on the physical demands of the job. Slaughterhouse workers are 35 times more likely to die or be injured on the job than your typical office worker and regularly fall victim to one or more highly unpleasant ailments, including repetitive stress injuries from performing the same slicing motions up to 1,200 times per day; life-threatening infections from being punctured or lacerated by errant, gore-covered cutting implements; gangrene from the crushing and mangling of limbs and bodies in the rusted gears of faulty chopping and grinding machinery; flesh-eating viruses borne by nasty e-coli pathogens commonly found in diseased animal feces; and all manner of heart, lung, and psychological ailments brought about by the physical, chemical, and mental hazards that raged unchecked throughout the meatpacking industry.
The worst - and, yes, the hardest - slaughterhouse job, according to the author of Fast Food Nation, is in the Rendering Room, a foul smelling inner circle of Dead Cow Hell where they dispose of all the fat from the deceased animal carcasses. The Guy Who Cleans out the Rendering Room, as part of his duties, must actually climb into the vat at the end of his shift to scrape out all of the gunk that has accumulated throughout the course of the day. I’ll spare you all of the grisly anecdotes about what could conceivably happen to the hapless worker who may stumble and fall into the rendering vat before it has completely drained, but if you’re curious and you’re looking for a surefire way to shed those unwanted winter pounds, go buy the book - I guarantee it’ll scare you off Big Macs for the next twenty years.
So, is being a parent harder than being the Guy Who Cleans Out the Rendering Vat in a Slaughterhouse? Ask yourself this - would you rather buy a box of Chicken McNuggets for your children or be that box of Chicken McNuggets?
Hardest Job in the World #2: Diamond Slave in the National Republic of Congo.
I believe we were talking about the hardest job in the “world,” no? The unfortunate individuals who are sold as slaves into the African Diamond Mines - sometimes by their parents, sometimes by corrupt village elders - spend their typical workday being starved, beaten with sticks, maimed by flying machetes, or murdered in all manner of gruesome ways for even the slightest of infractions. In addition to the constant physical danger, they are also battered emotionally, separated from their families or forced to watch loved ones die of hunger, dehydration, overwork, or horrifying intestinal parasites. After a brief and unremarkable career scrabbling about in any number of cold, dark caves to unearth that perfect token of undying love for Skip to casually drop into Muffy’s glass of Cristal on that magical night at L’Espalier, our ill-fated Diamond Slave will likely drop dead from exhaustion at the ripe old age of 32.
So, is being a parent harder than being a Diamond Slave in the National Republic of Congo? Ask yourself this: would you rather slap your child’s hand when he misbehaves, or get your own hand chopped off when you misbehave?
Hardest Job in the World #3: Seamstress in Walt Disney Sweatshop. Yup, you read that right. The Walt Disney Company, those kindly old souls who bring us Mickey, Minnie, Goofy, and the rest of that jolly band of cartoon capitalists, is also one of the most egregiously exploitive abusers of subcontracted sweatshop labor in the world. How bad an offender is Disney? Let’s put it this way - compared to Michael Eisner, Kathie Lee Gifford could very well pass as the long-lost love child of Mother Theresa and Cesar Chavez.
Visit any Disney store - or go online to their website - and you will be presented with a dazzling selection of Disney collectibles - hats, t-shirts, sleepwear, toys, dolls, stuffed animals, snow-globes, whatever - across which frolic the smiling faces of your favorite Disney characters. In order to keep this bounty of overpriced cartoon paraphernalia flowing into its stores, Disney subcontracts the labor on a piecework basis to an assortment of poorly managed multi-ethnic sweatshops dotted around the globe from Haiti to China.
What do you know - it is a small world after all.
The next time you go out to buy little Timmy a new pair of Cowabunga Mickey Swim Shorts, take a moment to offer up a silent “thank you” to the fifteen year old girl who made those Cowabunga Mickey Swim Shorts possible. Chances are, by the time she got around to hand-stitching your item, she had already worked a twelve hour shift locked inside a hot, stuffy warehouse that gives new meaning to the word “firetrap” alongside hundreds of other women and children who take turns using a couple of overflowing toilets on the rare occasion they’re allowed a bathroom break. After she finishes little Timmy’s Cowabunga Mickey Swim Shorts, she’ll work for another six hours and then be given a dinner consisting of some combination of rice, beans, or soggy vegetables and then collapse into a triple-decker bunk in yet another locked warehouse, wedged in among her diseased, lice-infested co-workers. All for the U.S. equivalent of $3 per week, from which is deducted the cost of her meals (such as they are), lodging (such as it is), and any accumulated fines for such heinous transgressions as missing her quota, being late, or trying to escape.
Oh, by the way, I’m sure that anyone who eventually edits this piece will want me to point out that the Walt Disney Company does not, technically, own or manage these facilities and hence has no knowledge of or legal liability for the manner in which these facilities are operated. There. Consider yourself disclaimed.
So, is being a parent harder than being a Seamstress in a Walt Disney Sweatshop? Ask yourself this: would you rather be struggling to get your little boy into his Buzz Lightyear PJ Pals, or struggling to keep from being smothered to death underneath a giant flaming pile of Buzz Lightyear PJ Pals?
Uh-huh. I thought so.
My point is this: we are all prone to hyperbole from time to time. God knows, there are certainly days when I feel as though I have the hardest job in the world myself. But you will never catch me running around telling other people that for the sole purpose of making them feel bad about their jobs - or to make myself feel better about choices that I have freely made.
So, the next time you feel like you’re having a rough day in the car pool lane, do me a favor. Stroll over to your jewelry box, slip on your DeBeers Three-Stone Drop Pendant, bundle the kiddies into the Land Rover, and take them out for a Happy Meal. And when you get home, tuck them into their Tinker Bell Pixie Power flannel bed sheets, give them a good night kiss, and sit back to bask in the glow of their fresh-scrubbed, rosy-cheeked, unconditional love.
And then go downstairs, pour yourself a big glass of merlot, and think twice before you ever come whining to me - or anyone else - about how fucking hard your job is.
8:14:20 AM 
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