Tag Archives: work

To Whom It May Concern,

27 Sep
image stolen from careerealism.com

image stolen from careerealism.com

I’m writing to apply for the (TITLE GOES HERE) position you posted on Craigslist. Per your request, below you will find a detailed cover letter. My resume is also attached.

Or rather, a .pdf of a medium-resolution color portrait of my scrotum is attached, entitled “Delicious Tacos Resume.” Taken during the recent heat wave. Note the varicose veins. Like the back of your eyelids when you blink after lightning. The hairs, uniformly white. Wiry. I trim vigilantly but the brain coral contours of the human sac ensure that I’ll have missed a few. They grow to inordinate lengths. Form elaborate kinks and curls. Take on lint. Chunks of skin. Brown and pink wads stuck to them, hideously dangling. I have the balls of a one hundred twenty year old man, in other words. But rest assured I am of prime working age. Continue reading

Reader Mailbag: Career Advice

10 Aug
image stolen from nynjgoodwill.wordpress.com

image stolen from nynjgoodwill.wordpress.com

Bob Marley writes:

Since you know so much about careers, I wanted to ask for your personal opinion on which would be wise for a young lad in England to pursue.

I’ll take to heart whatever your decision may be.

Work is fundamentally evil. No matter what, it will make you unhappy. If you do what you love as work, you will come to hate it. Maybe this is not true of rock stars. But no future rock star ever asked for career advice.

So it doesn’t matter what you actually do for work. Live cheaply, and work at the place with the most pretty girls. Continue reading

Unemployment Diary: Money

6 Feb

Handling_atStore

Fuck– I gotta get gas.  Money down the drain.  Gas is too fucking expensive.  I hear there’s an oil boom in North Dakota; domestic production is gonna outstrip imports and we’re closer to energy independence.  Great, I’m sure we can all expect gas prices to drop real soon.

But, fuck it.  Who cares. I have no money, and I don’t give a shit.  I have no wife; I have no kids; I have no ailments.  Whatever education I need I’ll get off Wikipedia.  I have cheap internet so I can beat off and a bigass package of Von’s brand assorted chicken parts for 87 cents a pound.  What more do you need.  My car cost twelve hundred bucks and if it breaks I’ll buy another one for even less.  You can buy an old car for how much fixing a scratched bumper costs on a new car.  The Cubans are onto something; you can keep these old beasts running forever. High priced liquor is bullshit; all alcohol is caustic poison and it all tastes like ass.  So Von’s store brand brandy at 6 dollars a quart is just fucking fine.  They give it some fancy Dutch name, Van Der Hobo or some shit.  Getting drunk on it feels just as good. Continue reading

Work Diary: God Damn Do I Want to Fuck My Intern

2 Feb

God damn do I want to fuck my intern.  Christina.  Christina from Colombia.  She is not hot, but she is 23 years old and looks 15 and wears puffy white skirts sliding down at the back to show half an inch of innocent pink cotton panties; sheer blouses where you can see the outline of her bra; she sits with her legs open.  You can’t see pussy but you know it’s there.  You imagine it under all that soft white fabric.  The girl knows how to do laundry; her skirts are always white and fresh.  There must be some pheromone going on because I just get this sense around her of wanting to fuck urgently, like a jackal.  She is innocent; she comes off as a girl who hasn’t been with a lot of boys in her life.  But that sexuality.  Colombians. Continue reading

The Bills

27 Aug

Just going to work should be enough.  Just having a job should be enough.  Going in there ten hours per day.  “Networking.”  Reading work related material on weekends.  All the absurd time and energy demands of any “professional” “career” type gig in 2012 are more than enough of a burden on a human being’s brief life.

But you gotta pay the bills.  You gotta register your car.  You gotta serve jury duty.  You gotta do your taxes.  You have to go to the doctor, and sit in the waiting room, and fill out insurance forms which you have already filled out many times.  You have to go to the doctor again because the first doctor never knows what the fuck he is talking about. No general practitioner on the entire god damn planet is ever of any use whatsoever in terms of diagnosing, treating, or curing disease.  Always has to be the specialist, which you have to go to the general practitioner so you can even get told to go to the specialist. Find the specialist covered by your insurance plan.  Call the specialist, make an appointment with the specialist.  The specialist, like every other professional and business, is only open at the exact same time as you are working; you will have to take the time off of work.  This does not mean that amount of work goes away, mind you.  There is no one “covering” for anybody at work in 2012; productivity is maximized; man hours are stretched tight as a drum.  You will need to do this work in off hours, still ailing from what the specialist was unable to diagnose, treat, or cure, because it turns out all doctors are completely useless. If you are a doctor, fuck you.  Call the insurance company about the bills you got from the general practitioner and specialist, argue with them; get put on hold, get hung up on on hold, call them, get on hold again.  The toilet is broken.  Call somebody to fix the toilet.  They only operate during normal business hours.  Wait for the guy to come fix the toilet.
Continue reading

Opt Out

12 May

I need to get a new job.  And the sole criterion I am going to employ, rather than salary, potential for growth, intellectual fulfillment or any of that bullshit is whether girls work there.

Because that’s the only thing that matters. If you are where the pussy is, life is great.  If you are not where the pussy is, life is horrible. And friends, I am emphatically NOT where the fucking pussy is. For how little I am exposed to women, it is a god damn miracle that I ever get laid at all.  I must be a world record holder for opportunity/ pussy ratio.  Like a one-legged marathon runner.  Lots of guys get laid a lot more than me, but I am pulling a pretty god damn respectable time for hopping along with a fucking stump.

The problem is, the way our society is built– what you need to do to be “successful,”  to be “prosperous–”  the fruit is hanging so high that getting to the respectable middle consumes your whole life.  And it starts about forty five minutes after you come out of the womb. You need to work your ass off in high school and get into a good college. People talk about grade point average and SAT’s, you know– as though I worked hard, did well in school and killed that standardized test, now i’m going to get into a good college.  Bullshit.  All that stuff, those years of labor, homework and toil at the one time in your life when you have social and sexual access to fourteeen year old girls– all that just gets you to zero.  All that gets you to the point where you won’t be instantly eliminated from the first round of applicant pool. Continue reading

Dear Roxanne: Seeking a Second Job

22 Apr

OK seriously- why are you doing this? Is there any universe in which you do not land one of the worst jobs in America? Is there any way this gets you enough money to help with your debt in any meaningful way instead of merely making you so miserable that you are useless at your actual job, which you attended this expensive grad school to get? You are going to be “expressing” dogs’ anal glands at the pet groomer. You are going to be chastised by the most vigilant janitorial supervisor in the world for leaving a chunk of excrement in the executive washroom toilet which said supervisor discovered checking under the bowl rim with a dentist’s mirror. You are going to be hauling the giant bag of the day’s fetuses out to the biohazard dumpster behind the late term abortion clinic, to the jeers and taunts of protesters, and the abortion clinic will have been too cheap to even spring for an opaque bag. It will be a clear plastic bag which will on some days have a particularly horrible mutilated fetus part that will put you off your lunch, or, occasionally, a relatively intact fetus head that seems to make pleading eye contact with you from behind the plastic, and its forlorn mommy-why-did-you-kill-me look will haunt you forever. Something like this will happen. There is no one who knows you at all who doubts for one second that the second job you get will be something horrible, debasing, and destructive to all positive aspects of your life, because that is just the kind of shit that happens to you.

Don’t do it.

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