My father was once an unemployable letch. He admitted recently that for a good portion of his late 20s he was hopelessly disorganized and a "lost soul." This is a startling discovery considering I've only known my father as the exact opposite. Growing up, I marveled at how he could go to work on snowy days when I would be sleeping in late due to a school cancellation. He would get up two hours earlier than his standard 6 a.m. to go shovel his car out so he could get to work on time. "There are no snow days in real life," he'd say, complaining to my mother about how my high school was a little wimpy about the weather. I remember thinking how sad that was and dreading the day when I'd actually have to get up and go out into the snow while seemingly every one else slept until 10 a.m, stayed home, and watched movies. But there was a time when he was less conscientious. To hear him speak about that portion of his life, one would think he was a brainwashed member of some sort of libertine cult -- one that required its members to be listless and irresponsible to maintain a membership. At age 28 my father had a failed marriage, a one-year-old baby, and had been fired "many, many times." He also lived at his aunt's house, went out every night, and slept until noon. "I just didn't have any idea who I was. I was a horrible person, a different person then," he said. "That's why I was so tough on you. It was for your own good." Well, my father's pitfalls aside, I sometimes went out of my way not to listen to him. Although I knew he was right about many things -- saving money, establishing credit, habitual organizing, consistent networking -- I took it as a challenge to the exact opposite in order to show I could be successful my own way. Sadly, he was right most of the time. And admittedly, I'm still a complete flake. I still forget birthdays of family members, bounce the occasional check, and drink too much during the work week, so I still have yet to fully grasp the role of responsible adult. But one thing I am fortunate about is that I haven't been fired in quite some time. This is actually a marked improvement from my first few years of joining working America. My employment history from ages 16 to 23 could be opening chapters for a how-to book for people who wish to be the worst employees possible. I thought about it and realized that I'd been fired seven times in my life. Seven. I did an exercise this weekend and listed the jobs I'd been fired from and tried to figure out why. The answer was easy: I'm an idiot.

An abbreviated history of the first seven times I was fired:

1. Some Moronic Landscaping Company: Holland, Pa. Age 16

These people had me shoveling a bunch of potting soil and wheeling around mounds of dirt for three weekends straight before I told them I'd had enough. One day, while I was pushing around a big wheelbarrow full of mulch at an ornate suburban home that contracted us, I snapped. "If you guys don't let me start pulling trees and mowing lawns like everybody else I'm going to leave. Enough with this mulch shit." They apparently didn't think that tone was appropriate and they fired me. Right on the spot. Worse, they just left me at the house where we were working. I had to knock on the person's door and ask to use her phone so my mom could pick me up.

2. Kentucky Fried Chicken: Richboro, Pa. Age 16

Hands down the most disgusting place I've ever worked. The chicken would be on these huge trays all frozen and lined up in neat little rows. I remember thinking the chicken parts looked like the frozen limbs of dead children. It smelled awful. After my shift was over, I'd have to take a 40 minute shower just to wash the grease off my neck, hands, and face. They used to have these two brothers working on my shift, I forget their names, but the one guy was some sort of half-retard who couldn't say the letter 'R'. I used to call him Pwice Tag. I was working the drive thru one shift and that dummy got his revenge. I accidentally stuck the change return drawer out too far and took off some mini-van's side mirror. The thing just snapped right off. And Pwice Tag tattled on me to the shift manager: "He nawked da meewah off da caw! He nawked da meewah off da caw!" Well, they sent me home early and for good. At least I had my car with me, ahem, caw with me and I could dwive myself home.

3. Northampton Country Club: Northampton, Pa. Age 18

I am not a man who likes machines. And that's all this job entailed -- handling machines. In two weeks at the golf course I broke two trap rakes, a weed whacker, got the golf cart stuck in a sand trap, and consistently made every crew member's job much harder than it had to be anytime I worked with them. Mercifully, after I showed up for my 6 a.m. shift at noon one day, the superintendent of the golf course told me that he just couldn't afford to keep me on anymore. "You just break a lot of stuff," he told me.

4. Some Dopey Telemarketing Establishment: Southampton, Pa. Age 19

This was actually one of those Summer Work College Students Up to $12 an hour! jobs that went horribly wrong. I sold magazine subscriptions for this ridiculously overpriced business newsletter called the Marketing Report to business owners over the phone. All of our sales had to be taped and verified by a supervisor at the end of the week in order to get sale credit and commission. Well, I decided it would be fun

to make a tape of all the preposterous things I could get secretaries to say like "The weasel is on the farm, but no one else can see it" and "I love thigh rubs and giraffe rides." Well, I forgot to change the tape during one of my reviews and instead of hearing my patented closing pitch, the supervisors listened to eight dimwitted women reciting ridiculous non-sequiturs. I was sent home early, once again

5. The Mill Race Inn: Holland, Pa. Age 19

I was a busboy. There was a gay bartender named Rick who used to bring in porno magazines and buy me beer. At the time, I thought he was just being a nice guy. However, when he offered $200 to give me head, I realized that he had other intentions. I told my manager that I didn't want to work the same nights with Rick anymore, but then he informed me that Rick worked 5 nights a week and that I would only be able to work one shift if that was the case. My manager asked me why I didn't want to work with Rick and I told him it was because he was gay, too humiliated and embarrassed to go into any further details. "Well, then I guess you can't work here because half the people who work here are gay whether you know it or not. And frankly, I don't want anybody so ignorant working here anyway. So, you don't work here anymore."

6. Pastabilities, Huntington Valley, Pa.: Age 20

Again, I was a busboy. I wanted to go to a Pink Floyd concert and called out sick the night before the concert to get out of work. I told them I had chicken pox. I went to the concert and was buying a nitrous balloon in the parking lot when the manager went strolling by with his girlfriend. He came right over and confronted me while I was paying for a balloon and told me that if I'd just told the truth, I would still have my job on Monday. The kid selling me the balloon witnessed the whole thing and offered his condolences. "That sucks, dude. You want to buy some more?"

7. The Inn of the Hawk, Lambertville, N.J.: Age 23

I was a waiter. This was a busy, trendy restaurant that catered to suburban families who shopped in Lambertville on the weekends for antique furniture and decorative lampshades. The restaurant was small and there were usually only four tables in each section. So, turnover was crucial. The only way to make any money was to get people in and out as quickly as possible. I got stuck with a four-top of obnoxious British people. Unfortunately, everything went wrong: the food was late, we ran out of decaf coffee, the steak was overcooked. They had a miserable dining experience. However, none of their troubles were really my fault and, like a good waiter is supposed to, I did everything possible to try to make their stay more pleasant -- free drinks, free dessert, constantly doting on them even though there were other tables in my section. They stayed for three hours. Their bill was more than $200. They left me a $6 tip. I became so frustrated that I followed them out to the parking lot and yelled at them. They asked to speak to the manager. At the end of my shift, my manager called me over and lambasted me. I stopped her in the middle of it, knowing full well what she was getting at. "So, am I fired?" It was a resounding yes. As I was getting in to my car, I noticed the manager's car was right next to mine. I pissed on her headlights before I drove home.