For a lot of reasons, I had to get out of Canada for a little while. Sure, it's got tolerable weather, inexpensive real estate, and all my favourite bands played here all the time. Unfortunately, it also had a coterie of private detectives looking to bust me up for several minor property crimes and/or moving violations that were totally not performed by me. Until things died down a bit, I was going to live in Australia.
Unfortunately for me, in my haste to leave, I didn't bother trying to get gainful employment in Australia. I stumbled through the immigration exam mostly by alternately nodding my head and looking very thoughtful at the inspector. Still, I needed a job to afford things like "food" and high-octane gasoline. I checked the newspapers for want ads, and found nothing, mostly because newspapers were never invented in this country.
About a week later, I got a job at the university as a snake milker. Just like with the immigration exam, the interview there consisted mostly of an interrogation about my barbecue skills (anxiety-inducing but edible) and whether or not I planned to eat the snakes (absolutely not) and then one of the firmest handshakes I'd ever had. It was so strong, in fact, that I momentarily felt a little bit intimidated by my future boss. This dude milks.
Turns out that the reason we're milking these snakes is not for, like, milk that you put on your cereal. No, what you're looking for is the insanely dangerous venom that they emit. Once we make the snakes put it all in a bottle, we ship that bottle to a hospital and then some egghead uses it to make an anti-venom, which heals the people who were dumb enough to handle venomous snakes. This was a great job: I got to get some good exercise running away from snakes, had some funny stories, and also got to help people. Sure, the pay wasn't very good, but that's what you get when you work an incredibly hazardous job.
The first thing everyone in Canada asks me is, did I ever get bit? And the answer is: yes, a whole lot. It turns out that us Canucks have a sort of natural protection against snake venom. All the frostbite that's built up over decades in our blood and flesh leaches out into the snake, rendering its bite harmless. Unfortunately, it also kills the snake in the process. Once my fellow snake milkers saw that I was leaking blood onto the floor that instantly crystallized and formed a relatively incompetent skating rink, they stopped inviting me over to their homes for barbecue. I sued for discrimination and won a fortune, shortly before being deported when the authorities figured out that my passport was mostly drawn in Crayola.
If you ever see a snake around here, though, I'm gonna milk the shit out of it. That stuff makes one hell of a hot sauce.
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