FRIDAY, AUGUST 30, 2002 — According to a national survey published this week, only 51 percent of Americans are satisfied with their jobs (down from 59 percent in 1995). The most dissatisfied workers of all, the survey continues, are New England residents, of whom only 44 percent responded favorably (down from 65 percent in 1995). In the 1980s and early ’90s, I worked full-time for a local moving company, and in those years I learned a saying that I think sheds some light on America’s current spate of workplace dissatisfaction: T.T.F.U. — toughen the fuck up.

When I was a lad, I worked for a dairy farmer in the north of England. I started work at 5:30 in the morning, and didn’t take my boots off until at least 7:30 at night. In between, I had to face mean-spirited cows, freezing rain, hazardous machinery (my co-worker had his arm ripped off), throat-burning chemicals, back-breaking bales of hay, dust, mud, shit, and a perpetually pissy farmer. I got one weekend off every three weeks, and I was paid the equivalent of $30 a week for my troubles. While I no longer work the land for a living, I am still faced with all manner of workplace woes — this morning, for instance, I arrived in the office to find that the server was down, which made it impossible for me to check on the latest English soccer news.

But do you hear me bellyaching? No, you do not, because that is not my bag. Too bad the same cannot be said for the majority of the American workforce. One Web site, for instance, invites readers to explain why their jobs are the world’s worst, and the site gets no shortage of responses. Sure, some of the jobs listed on worstjobs.com are, on the surface, pretty bad. " We can get assaulted in many ways, " writes one Correctional Officer. " Shanks, spit, urine, feces, blood. " But if this person would only take the time to look at the good aspects of his work — colorful characters, free coffee, a cool uniform, and the freedom to go home at night — he might just change his tune.

The same thing goes for the Human Remains Removal Specialist, and the Grocery Store Bathroom Cleaner, who each gripe about the unsavory nature of their work. Surely there must be a certain amount of job satisfaction that comes with scooping up viscera from city sidewalks or scraping boogers from bathroom sinks. Society would simply cease to function if we slipped on a human eyeball every time we walked down the street, and imagine how sales of Ho-Hos would plummet if shoppers were faced with excreta-smeared walls every time the went to the bathroom. Pride, people, pride!

Then there’s the Ham Skinner, who complains about the machine he operates: " I press and manipulate the meat against a roller/blade skinner, leaning in on it, and if my hand touches that I can skin myself up to the elbow, whittle my fingers down to pencil-pointed appendages, etc. " Okay, so don’t touch your hand against the roller/blade skinner. It’s as simple as that. The Ham Skinner fails to mention how many free ham bits he takes home a week. There is also no mention of the workout he gets from lugging lumps of meat that " weigh anywhere from 17 to 22 pounds a piece. " Some of us pay good money to lift weights. Furthermore, if you drop a ham on your foot, it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as a dumbbell.

But Ham Skinner isn’t the only one who overlooks the perks of his job. The Garbage Collector who bitches about the " putrid smell " and " worms " he has to deal with says absolutely nothing about the free stuff he gets from the trash. I’ll wager this moaning Minny has a lamp or two at home, or a pair of perfectly good shoes he salvaged from a pool of " rotten garbage soup. " A Retirement Home Cook, meanwhile, takes issue with " these ol’ folks, " who " think that you are their servants, " and who " thump their wrinkled ol’ asses in the chairs in the dining hall and bitch about the food. " Yes, well, many of these wrinkled ol’ bastards have a wealth of wisdom to pass along. Ask them about the time they fought in the war! Discuss the price of eggs in 1947! Listen and learn!

To the Pharmacist who complains about " grouchy " customers who are always " sick " I say this: yes, sick people can be annoying. But you’re a pharmacist, for God’s sake, so act like one — sneak into the back, pop a couple of percocets, and wash it down with a swig of Robitussin. I guarantee, within minutes that arthritic octogenarian with be absolutely hilarious.

Then there are the jobs that fall into the it-could-be-worse category. " During the Gulf War, " writes one grump, " we did not have a latrine system set up.... We lower enlisted men would have the pleasure of ... burning the excrement. " Better than being shot, though, right? To the Scabies Inspector: at least you’re not inspecting your own " infested genitals. " And I don’t know about you, Tombstone Cleaner, but I’d rather take a toothbrush to a tombstone than lay beneath one. As for the Prairie Dog Killer — imagine how the prairie dog feels, you selfish bastard. Finally, there’s the person who moans about being a Newspaper Typesetter. Try writing for a newspaper, bub. It’s hell.