It began innocently enough. One 18 year old with one simple request: earn some money this summer to not have to eat what the homeless people throw away after getting the good stuff from the dumpsters first while you are stuck in class, picking what might well be bananas or rubber or what remains of Marvin Gaye from your teeth with the hook you received from a hangnail turned gangrenous after not having the money to catch a bus to the free clinic downtown.
But Jesus Christ on a Sodom salty cracker with an extra Virgin Mary olive oil spread! Finding a job in this town is finding tits on a boar that’s been dead since the mid ‘80s. Sometimes, they aren’t hiring, and sometimes they aren’t hiring, but they haven’t spoken to anyone since their pet pig died, so they decide to skull pound you.
”Excuse me, but are you hiring at this location?”
”You can put in an application!!”
”But, are you hiring?”
”Look, an application!”
”Has your Prince Albert caused jungle rot in the brain?”
”Knowledge is power!”
The worst is when you decide to apply anyway, but have to do so online. Ever heard of Unicru? Those glittery bastards seem to have a monopoly on Unskilled, Temporary, Pizza Faced Teenager, No to Even Less Income menial jobs, so not only are the applications more tedious than being Fred Phelp’s PR agent at a bukkake party, they are all the freaking same!
And oh, are they tedious. They all begin the same, with a series of disclaimers and We Don’t Like Your Kind, Mr. Four Chambered Heart questions.
After a couple of pages of this, they usually throw in a couple of questions that are impossible to answer, since you can’t really skip any. So, they will ask if you have worked before, then follow it up with an entire questionnaire on your previous employment, regardless of if you have worked before.
That’s actually the easy part. Next is where staggering stupidity meets the stupidly staggering, in a gauntlet of easily the Most Insane Questions Ever Asked.
I can understand one or two questions, or even a dozen. But these wankfests go on for THIRTY SEVEN pages. Thirty Seven!
I come from a proud family, where I’m expected to achieve much and do well in school. I’m to distance my self from scandals affecting only the lowly chavs. I’m not to bang a train station for STDs in an alley behind Macys the night before Christmas without telling my three wives in Utah first.
But holy dueling fucksticks, I don’t have some goddamn dashboard Jesus massaging my prostate! I’ll be working minimum wage at shitty, inconvenient hours for Blockbuster, or Lowe’s, or Home Depot, or Hollywood Video, or Comp USA, or Advanced Auto, or any of the other 50 understaffed fuckfests that I’ve applied to and “will hear back from” when some skinny assed horse rides in with all his mooching buddies and steal all of us unbeliever’s cable. I have no superiority complex, yet I find these endless applications to be so condescending in believing They Know Their Employees from some useless color by numbers, oh-fuck-our-formula-says-you’re-the-next-Lizzie Borden, waste of my precious goddamn time.
Just give me some fucking money! I may have a social security number, and a house address, and I may have a legitimate birth certificate, but I, too, can and am willingly to do crappy jobs for little money! Fuck eating ramen with crackers, I just want some ramen!
Oh, fuck is me.
