Geez, you soft c*cks.
When I started out, I had to beg for a week at the boss's shoes to be allowed to carry the broom to the hangar sweeper, desperately hoping for a boot up the date on my way to do so, just so I could lick my own blood as I couldn't afford to buy water and it never rained.
I remembered the days when I could pay for the privelige of having a cranky old
pr!ck bark in my ears for an hour, followed by sitting me down and waving a stick under my nose threatening to smack me with it if I ever did anything so bold as attempt to transition without a missive from on high and thought about how great it would be to go home with money in my pocket.
After that, I was sent to crawl across the glass strewn apron to retrieve the wallets of passengers from burning wreckage so that the weekly bowl of rice could be purchased. I of course I had to harness the energy from the remorseless sun to cook it dry, as AVGAS evaporated too quickly and the birds refused to crap in the bowl.
Later I was granted the honour of being chosen to collect the empty beer bottles from the boss' office after he and the secretary had been "writing correspondence" for a couple of hours. Occasionally one of these bottles would contain a few drops of a fluid that I vaguely remembered as being "beer". I was thrilled when I was permitted to slash my own wrists to drink from.
Months later I was allowed to sit in an aircraft. It was a stationary beast, which had no engine, blades or tail and on fire, but I was on my way!
Unfortunately, somebody then came along who offered to let the boss drink the blood he drew from him during these tasks, and I found myself cast aside in favour of the new guy.
All the boss would say as he chucked me from the open door of his car onto the dirt road outside the airport was, "keep chipping away son".