Waiter needed for Big Bastard Chef!

Reading the first notification, I let out a chuckle and pressed it.

"Fuck it." I think, holding back my hysterical laughter as strongly as I can. "Could be... 'fun' working with BBC!"

The room is filled with my laughter for at least a minute, and I soon find myself on the floor with tears flooding down my face. For some reason, the idea of working with someone whose abbreviation is BBC was too funny.

After a few more minutes, I stood up off the floor and looked back at my phone. An application page had appeared, asking for my personal details. It wanted my name, address, social security number, ass size, opinion on cooking...

"Hold the fucking phone..." I re-read the details it wanted and my eyes widened in surprise. "A-ass size, huh?"

Shrugging it off the best I could, I begin to fill out the application form, answering all questions apart from the slightly perverted 'Ass size' one. When I'd finished, I sent it off and sat on the sofa, questioning why it wanted to know my ass size. Perhaps it was because it wanted to see if I was in shape, or perhaps it was a prank made by some more mischievous workers.

No matter, I thought, I doubt I'll get a response.