JakeD
09-08-03, 11:50AM
Finding a job.
It's the one thing we all hate to resort to, and the one thing that we all have to do at one point or another.
You spend hours scouring newspapers, looking in store windows, practically bending over on a streetcorner with a neon sign pointing to your asshole that says,"Open For Business." After snatching an armful of applications from various places, you run home like a pre-teen with his big brother's porno stash, spending hours under a dim bulb filling out question after question like, "Why did you accidentally fuck the star quarterback on October 10th in your junior year in high school?" and "Whose panties would you rather suck the crotch out of, Ethel Merman's, or Aunt Bea's?". You give them every bit of goddamn information you could glean from every nook and cranny of your brain, like your cat's penis size, the number of stitches in the American flag, the last name of the guy who ran the barbecue restaurant on Third Street in 1964...And God fucking forbid that you have to use one of those little dinky machines to apply. They ask you fourty billion questions, and give you the cutesiest personality test you ever saw in your whole life.
I shit you not. A personality test. A CORPORATE personality test, that ensures that they hire the most ideal, brainless, ditziest excuse of an asshole to take on a shoddy job as a cashier in some second-rate store. Personally, I've seen burger-flippers with more character than the people that they portray in these tests. It's ass, but it's corporate ass, and it has to be done. Of course, they also have to add the background check to ensure that you haven't fucked any pre-schoolers or sold crack to any old ladies within the past few months. That's fine, I say. My troublemaking days are behind me, and the last person I killed? Well, they deserved it. They were the one using a cell phone and driving.
You search, yearn, freak out over a diminishing pile of funds, and when you're eating your shoe, glaring at the cat to fight over who gets the last moldy crouton, and sucking the dew from your vinyl siding at three a.m. to parch your encrusted, sandy lips and quench your undying thirst, you don't think it could get any fucking worse. And right before the telephone company chainsaws through your connection in order to squeeze that last seventy-five cents out of you as collateral for missed payments, the phone rings. You leap for it, snatch it out of the surly Samoan telco guy's hands, and bring it to your ear just in time to hear: "Hello, this is Joe Shithole's Produce! We regret to inform you that all positions have been filled (probably by Sting, too) and you're screwed. Better sell your house, you stupid jobless son of a bitch! Oh, and have a fantastically wonderful and sunny day filled with fluffy kittens and rainbows." You drop the phone, weeping like a small girl on her first period, as the angry Samoan swings it by the cord to knock the shit out of you. You clutch your last few pennies, and as you wait for the handset to collide with your temple and knock you into sweet blissful death, the hulking brute of a man says, "Wait a minute, dude. You need a job? Hell, we're hiring right now!"
So, tittering like a schoolgirl, Sammy the Samoan clutches your hand and takes you off to the truck. Unfortunately, the job he had in mind for you sounds suspiciously like an "undercover" sort of thing. And under the covers is exactly where you'll be tonight, whimpering while Sammy pounds you like the prison bitch you are, because YOU, you lowly excuse for a scum-sucking leech, just don't have what it takes to get a fucking job.
Seriously. I've been on the hunt for a job for basically the past three weeks, and it seems to be the most ungrateful motherfucking thing you can do.
It hasn't been this bad yet (pray to Buddha) but one thing has been emblazoned in my brain...waiting blows the horse's ass.
Little quirky personality tests? They suck your mom's dick for quarters. And hiring standards? Jesus. I feel like I'm trying to subscribe to a dating service. Yeah. It's generally crap. I could possibly become a hooker, but my hips aren't wide enough and my tits are hairy. Plus, this whole penis thing gets in the way too. Then again, there's always West Hollywood...Someone shoot me. Wait, no, the hell with that. Give me money to leave you alone.
It's the one thing we all hate to resort to, and the one thing that we all have to do at one point or another.
You spend hours scouring newspapers, looking in store windows, practically bending over on a streetcorner with a neon sign pointing to your asshole that says,"Open For Business." After snatching an armful of applications from various places, you run home like a pre-teen with his big brother's porno stash, spending hours under a dim bulb filling out question after question like, "Why did you accidentally fuck the star quarterback on October 10th in your junior year in high school?" and "Whose panties would you rather suck the crotch out of, Ethel Merman's, or Aunt Bea's?". You give them every bit of goddamn information you could glean from every nook and cranny of your brain, like your cat's penis size, the number of stitches in the American flag, the last name of the guy who ran the barbecue restaurant on Third Street in 1964...And God fucking forbid that you have to use one of those little dinky machines to apply. They ask you fourty billion questions, and give you the cutesiest personality test you ever saw in your whole life.
I shit you not. A personality test. A CORPORATE personality test, that ensures that they hire the most ideal, brainless, ditziest excuse of an asshole to take on a shoddy job as a cashier in some second-rate store. Personally, I've seen burger-flippers with more character than the people that they portray in these tests. It's ass, but it's corporate ass, and it has to be done. Of course, they also have to add the background check to ensure that you haven't fucked any pre-schoolers or sold crack to any old ladies within the past few months. That's fine, I say. My troublemaking days are behind me, and the last person I killed? Well, they deserved it. They were the one using a cell phone and driving.
You search, yearn, freak out over a diminishing pile of funds, and when you're eating your shoe, glaring at the cat to fight over who gets the last moldy crouton, and sucking the dew from your vinyl siding at three a.m. to parch your encrusted, sandy lips and quench your undying thirst, you don't think it could get any fucking worse. And right before the telephone company chainsaws through your connection in order to squeeze that last seventy-five cents out of you as collateral for missed payments, the phone rings. You leap for it, snatch it out of the surly Samoan telco guy's hands, and bring it to your ear just in time to hear: "Hello, this is Joe Shithole's Produce! We regret to inform you that all positions have been filled (probably by Sting, too) and you're screwed. Better sell your house, you stupid jobless son of a bitch! Oh, and have a fantastically wonderful and sunny day filled with fluffy kittens and rainbows." You drop the phone, weeping like a small girl on her first period, as the angry Samoan swings it by the cord to knock the shit out of you. You clutch your last few pennies, and as you wait for the handset to collide with your temple and knock you into sweet blissful death, the hulking brute of a man says, "Wait a minute, dude. You need a job? Hell, we're hiring right now!"
So, tittering like a schoolgirl, Sammy the Samoan clutches your hand and takes you off to the truck. Unfortunately, the job he had in mind for you sounds suspiciously like an "undercover" sort of thing. And under the covers is exactly where you'll be tonight, whimpering while Sammy pounds you like the prison bitch you are, because YOU, you lowly excuse for a scum-sucking leech, just don't have what it takes to get a fucking job.
Seriously. I've been on the hunt for a job for basically the past three weeks, and it seems to be the most ungrateful motherfucking thing you can do.
It hasn't been this bad yet (pray to Buddha) but one thing has been emblazoned in my brain...waiting blows the horse's ass.
Little quirky personality tests? They suck your mom's dick for quarters. And hiring standards? Jesus. I feel like I'm trying to subscribe to a dating service. Yeah. It's generally crap. I could possibly become a hooker, but my hips aren't wide enough and my tits are hairy. Plus, this whole penis thing gets in the way too. Then again, there's always West Hollywood...Someone shoot me. Wait, no, the hell with that. Give me money to leave you alone.