Meet modern day Hitler in purple pants

It is the time of year when students the nation over begin to emerge from their respective hovels of study, booze and Mi goreng noodles, forced unwillingly into pro-activity due to a desperate need for cash.
The summer job hunt begins. I should be panicking. It is nearing the end of the university year and I have no idea where I am going to be employed for the next four months of my life. I have an overdraft to pay off, a hideously overpriced swipe card that needs replacing and a $50 maintenance fine from where my ex-flatmate had a wrestling match in the hallway with what could have been Andre the Giant's less attractive twin sister.
Finance-wise, organ donation has never seemed more appealing. And yet I am not overly concerned about my job situation. This is because I'm pretty sure no matter what job I get, it can't possibly be worse than what I've done before.
I have a rather eclectic resume. With experience in everything from selling tents to teaching 12-year-olds to mime, I like to think I'm fairly well-rounded as student job-seekers go. Some of my jobs have been fantastic, but the bad ones have been diabolical.
More sceptical employers often ask me why I have so many different jobs on my CV. I have a variety of answers up my sleeve; "academic commitments" or "malaria" usually seem to go down the smoothest. The truth is, for one reason or another, my past jobs have borne a rather uncanny resemblance to my Eftpos card- I just keep losing them.
It started at a craft shop. A pre-recorded More FM cassette blasted Shania Twain for at least 60 per cent of my working day and the only period that even vaguely resembled excitement was quilt season, when the once desolate store was literally flooded with blue rinses, knitted vests and complaints along the lines of, "No dear, it has to be the polar bears with the bow ties, you had them last season for goodness' sakes - you just don't understand!".
They were right. I did not. Along with my inability to sympathise with the bow-tied polar bear enthusiasts, further chaos ensued when the fabric scissors were replaced with what looked like a cross between sheep shearers and something that was likely to make me decapitate someone.
I do not have the steadiest of hands and about 50 destroyed rolls of silk georgette and 500 disgruntled customers later, I found myself suddenly out of work. Apparently there had been an unfixable irregularity with my contract, which was a polite way of saying I sucked at fabrics. I was in no position to argue. But terrifying scissors and quilt-freaks aside, that was nothing compared to what came next.
The dairy. I cannot quite decide what the worst part of working at the dairy was. It could have been the fact that on my first day I was asked if I could read. It could have been the owner's delightful habit of harassing me into buying the leftover pies at the end of every shift.
"Do I get a discount?"
"How are we going to make a profit if we give discount? $2.90 please."
Or it could have been the fact that their illegal cockroach poison made me violently ill. Deciding is the fun of it. Whatever it was, the violent illness soon meant I was unable to work my usual hours, in turn making me a "lazy, silly girl" and more importantly, unemployed once more. Another one bites the dust. And yet none of these vocational nightmares compare to the icecream shop.
Run by a modern day Hitler in purple pants, the icecream shop was the ultimate in deception - it had flashing lights, almost alarmingly friendly staff and a Disney CD on repeat.
On passing the Staff Wanted sign, my brain made the simple calculation of icecream job = free icecream. And while this was true, all the free icecream in the world could not have made up for the six-hour shifts without a toilet break, the "why are you so useless?" themed screaming sessions in the back room and an eventual hatred of all things Disney.
So far, I have applied to be a telemarketer, a postie and one of those awful people who try to give you free stuff at the supermarket.
And while I know that these jobs are unlikely to be even remotely enjoyable, I can breathe a heavy sigh of relief knowing that wherever I end up working, it probably won't involve sheep shearers, day old pies or a boss in purple pants.
Bring on summer.