I quit my job today. I had turned in my two weeks notice and painfully and patiently endured, but as of today, I am free of that fucking snake pit, and do not intend to go back. Ever. I will happily consume a pint of Drain-O before the possibility is even considered for consideration.
I worked at a youth center. It was intended for grades 7-12, but since a band of 7th and 8th graders showed up en masse in the opening week, everyone older got frightened away by the paralyzing and catatonic fear of being labeled “lame” by their fellows. So now we have a youth center for grades 7-8. Junior high school students. Let me assure you, in case you do not experience their company with some regularity, that the American junior high school student is the biggest fucking asshole you will find across the wide and varied spectrum of humanity. These bovine creatures have already acquired the “Immortality Syndrome” common to all teens, but have yet to develop the idea of “Wait, I’ve got a future, and won’t be living with my parents forever? Perhaps I had better begin regulating my actions and striving for goals so that I don’t end up working at Denny’s for the next 45 years!”, hence referred to as the “Denny’s Regulatory Thesis.”
So, I got to work with a bunch of awkward, uncoordinated, mostly obese but sometimes anorexically thin children who each believe that they are Apollo. Here’s the kicker. I’m “The Man.” I sit behind a desk, regulate dispensation of equipment for games, and enforce the rules of common fucking human decency that you think their parents would have taught them by beating the shit out of them when they act like fucking gorillas instead of people. My being “The Man” requires that my authority should try to be usurped at every opportunity so that they and all of their fucktard friends can feel like they’re finally fighting back against their diabolical oppressor, since they personify in my person all of the people that are “keeping them down”, and so they might try and emulate all of the values they are imbued with by spending the free time they don’t spend pissing me off listening to Eminem and Ol’ Dirty Bastard albums.
Luckily, the youth center employees were invested with the power of kicking these fuckers out. The stipulation is, they have to break the same rule twice. These ass monkeys picked up on that clause mighty quick, and make it their business to break every rule at least once. Which means I have to step off of my throne, remove myself from the safe bastion that is “The Front Desk,” tap them on the shoulder, get them to look me in the eye, and correct them. I can not simply raise my voice to an audible level and say, “Hey, Johnny, don’t do that,” because Stupid Fucking Johnny will pretend that he can’t hear me over the fucking gargantuan twenty leagues that I’m trying to shout to (that is, ten feet. Ten fucking feet. You fucking bastards, you can hear me perfectly well, you know it, I know it, and I should throw your non-deaf ass out). So I have to do this with every kid in the damn building for every rule.
Additionally, all of these fucktards know all of the rules, because it’s the same fucking kids that come to this place every day! It cost about a million dollars for the Y to purchase and renovate this building, and it’s been turned into a private club by one group of thugs who would better serve mankind by being burned alive inside of the tires of a monster truck. They all know the rules. They are all intimately familiar with the rules because I remind them of them every, single, fucking, day. So why don’t I just throw them out immediately? Well, I don’t work alone. I work with a supervisor, someone part of the ‘professional’ Y staff. This individual does not sit on the field of battle, exposed to all of the unceasing racket that these banshees create, nor does she see their blatant and constant acts of disrespect to myself, to other people, and to the property. This individual sits in a cozy little office, with a door, that closes, that is more or less sound proof, with the A/C and furnace based inside, so as to actually feel the effects of the climate control devices that are supposed to be effecting the entire building, so that even I might feel them, at the front desk, next to the entrance, where she will input the daily attendance into Microsoft Fucking Excel (which takes two minutes a week to perform), play Solitaire, and run errands while I answer the phone and say she’s not available at the moment. Back to the fucking animals I’m paid to babysit. Everytime I tell them “That’s it, you fucking monster, get the hell out!” they flee to the office of my superior, where they whine about how they didn’t really mean to punch so-and-so, that they slipped on a banana peel, stumbled twenty feet, and as they flailed their arms in an attempt to regain their balance and evade a terrible injury by falling onto the plush carpet or bean bag chairs, their first lightly brushed against the soft, tender cheek of their pal. And, being hidden away in her office, having not seen what actually happened, having only heard the sugar coated version of events, and wanting the kids to be on a “buddy buddy” basis with her, my supervisor let’s them off with a warning to be more careful. When in fact Fucker #1 was bragging about his “girlfriend” that he doesn’t actually date, and Fucker #2 expressed his desire to have this girl for his own “girlfriend,” causing Fucker #1 to call Fuckdr #2 a fat piece of shit (because he is), inciting Fucker #2 to tackle Fucker #1 to the ground, and a flying fury of Fucker fists flew angrily about until I grabbed Fucker #2 and ordered him out of the building. Motherfuck.
So, basically, I am an Aryan Nazi Dictator, whilst my supervisor is a benevolent salvific angel. These monkeys, then, are obligated to resist me, since I’m a Nazi, and Nazi’s are bad, and happily seek the intercession of St. Supervisor. And I can’t just up and quit, because this will look great on a resumé. But it’s all over now. Thank you Sweet Jesus, it’s over now.
So, to flame…
To Bastard #1 - Fuck you. Didn’t you have anything better to do than stand around at the front desk and try to expose me for the hateful, bigoted, Bourgoise oppressor of the Proletariat that I am? Were you really obligated to sit there and say “I’ll bet you think you’re better than me because of [insert reason here].” No, I don’t think I’m better than you because you’re obese and I’m not, or because I tuck in my shirt and wear a belt and you don’t, or because I read Charles Dickens while you get busted looking at porn at the computers we offer for your use. I think I’m better than you because you are a mindless, selfish fuck. Fuck you, fucker!
To Bastard #2 - Yes, you’re black, I’m white. And you know what? I never gave a fuck who’s skin color was what, because it’s a non-issue, but you felt it necessary to believe that it was an integral and driving part of every disciplinary action I took against you. No, I didn’t take your pool stick away because you’re black, but because you were swinging the damn thing at people’s heads, you violent fuck!. And the only reason I didn’t ban your fucking ass for a month, the only reason I was overruled, was because your father works at the main building! Fuck you! Fuck you, swine!
To Bastard #3 - Well, you got yours, because they caught you fighting in the main building, where they actually take things seriously, and did get banned for a month. So fuck you.
To Bastard #4 - Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think trying to walk by the front desk and flashing a tattered guest pass will gain you admittance? Did you think I wasn’t going to notice that it had gone through the was and was dated as valid for one day two weeks ago? Did you think I was going to believe you when you told me that you had just gotten a membership and they hadn’t issued an official card yet? Did you think I couldn’t check the computer database to see if you had, in fact, been registered as a member? After going through all of those steps, did you actually think I would give your word any value when you said they hadn’t put your name into the database yet? You lousy fucker, did you think I wasn’t going to tell you to waltz over the main building and have them print you a membership card, which takes a whopping thirty seconds? Fuck you. Get out and don’t come back you lying sack of dog shit.
To the rest - You’re not even unique enough in your shit-mongering to be individually honored with pointless flaming on a message board you will never see, because it’s more fun to waste the youth center’s paper on printing thousands of pictures of eminem and trying to sneak out printed porn. Fuck all of you, together, in a blender.
Dare I review and revise my post? Dare I check for errors? No, you’re not even worthy of proper grammar and spelling. Fuck all of you. May you choke to death on foosballs and air hockey pucks. Fuck. You.
Good luck in the job hunt. And Happy New Year!
I try, and thank you.