The twenty-ninth circle of HELL!
Those who know me know that I’ve been looking around for a new job. My wants are simple, I think. All I’m after is more money, more respect, better hours and a place to sit where there is absolutely no danger of some meth-crazed bipolar hermit throwing a chair at my head. Is that too much to long for? I don’t think so. But the job-hunter’s road is a hard one, fraught with tension, disappointment and all manner of existential not-so-fresh feelings. You know it’s bad when I check out the help-wanted ads and sincerely wish that I had gotten my degree in finance or information technology or something, anything that isn’t hopelessly unemployable. It’s the classic English major’s lament, I suppose. Please–all you accountants and investment analysts and nanotechnologists—please take a moment out of your glorious lives to shed a tear for the poor, misguided English major, that accursed species who Monster.com has no use for. So smug in the coffeeshop, but so pitiful in the job interview. Woe is our due as we flip through the classified ads, only to be faced with page after page after page of exciting, challenging, well-compensated careers we’re not in the least bit qualified for.
Oh....Was I whining just now?
I was?
Sorry about that. I ought to look on the bright side. After all, I may be a liberal arts guy on the job hunt, but at least...
----Someone isn’t sneaking into my bedroom in the dead of night to stuff bubble gum up my urethra
----I’m not a professional weightlifter who, in attempting to hoist up a record-breaking load, suddenly notices that his rectum and half of his intestines have just fallen out of his butthole.*
----My self-esteem is not dependent on what Simon Cowell things about my heartfelt rendition of a Peabo Bryson song
----My beautiful clipper ship, the fastest in all of Portugal, is not being menaced by rum-numbed, lecherous pirates from the Barbary Shore.
----I am not Ann Coulter’s sex slave
—--I haven’t been programmed by master hypnotists to begin furiously masturbating whenever I hear the word “and”. Instead, I have been programmed by master hypnotists to begin furiously masturbating whenever I hear the word “marmalade”
Hooray! I feel better already!
*This totally happens, like, all the time...
