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Funemployment

31 Mar

oblivion54

I’ve been playing a video game called Oblivion. It’s the predecessor to Skyrim– you wear armor and cast spells and fight skeletons in caves and shit. The point of these games is they are “sandboxes,” meaning: there’s a story to the game, but you don’t have to follow it. You can wander around the wilderness picking flowers and just chatting with the townsfolk if you want. It’s liberating, or it’s supposed to be– most video games constrain you to solving puzzles to get to the next cutscene. Nothing has changed since 8 bit Nintendo. Not so with this shit– you can be whoever you want, do whatever you want. Continue reading →

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Protected: Make Up To Zero Dollars A Week On Your Computer, Without Leaving Home

27 Mar

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How to Be a Screenwriter in Hollywood

7 Mar

adaptation-nicholas-cage

If I were a horrible person, I could make money telling people how to write and sell their screenplays.

I could have a hustle as a “script doctor” or “putting your screenplay in front of top young Hollywood execs.”  I am qualified to do this, since I am technically a former “development executive.”  Really I was an assistant with a fancy title and my creative work was far less important to my boss than calling somebody to fix the toilet.  But I made material creative contributions to projects that won big Oscars and Emmys and are probably somebody’s favorite movie and/or TV show.  I remain friends with a ton of people you would suck Abe Vigoda’s dick to get in a room with.  I could make a living. Continue reading →

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Unemployment Diary: The Job Market

21 Feb

jobbureau

You get scared when you leave a white collar job that you’re gonna end up picking up trash.  Well, not to worry. You can’t get that job.  It’s a union gig.  A city gig. You get scared that you’re gonna get trapped in some soul-crushing civil service shit for years like Bukowski. But you can’t get a job at the post office.  They’re cutting back.  You have to know somebody.  You can’t get a job flipping burgers.  You’re overqualified (in my case, this is true). You can’t do shit labor on a construction site.  Half of Mexico is up here trying to do that.

So what can you do.  You can get a job in a STEM field, they tell you.  If only you had gotten your degree in a STEM field, you would be in great demand.  Science, technology, engineering, mathematics.  A computer programmer, in other words.  Do you know how fucking hard that shit is?  I could barely pass my intro to C++ class, and I’m smart.  Your ability to do that shit is purely genetic, and it’s the same gene that makes you smell like cheese and talk like that pedophile’s RealDoll from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.  Hearing that little pussy talk makes me think we need more bullying in schools.  There is no talented computer programmer on the face of this earth who can buy a six pack at the liquor store and make small talk with the clerk normally.  There certainly isn’t one who can speak to a woman.   Continue reading →

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Work Diaries: Work Shit

11 Feb

December 2012

It’s too fucking cold.  It’s too cold and I may have to take the dreaded work shit.  Breaking a covenant I made with myself long ago, that after every shit would come a shower.  They scoff at me for this, society.  What’s the matter, can’t you wipe?  Yes, I can, but this is not an FDA-permitted 3 rat hairs in your can of chili situation.  Any amount of shit on your body ever is unacceptable.  I wipe till the paper comes up clean or bloody, but that is not enough.  If I shat on your hand, would you give it a couple dry passes with a napkin and call it a day?  No, knave, you’d wash your fucking hand.

I live in mortal fear of any pair of underwear I own getting skidmarks on them. The white bits turning brown from my musky taint sweat is not an issue; holes are not an issue– there are boxers where my distended left nut hangs fully outside the garment and grinds into my car keys. I still keep them around.  But once I see a skid mark, those underwear will be immolated.  No exceptions. Continue reading →

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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 →

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Work Diary Part Four: Bossman

6 Feb

July 2012

My boss is  a subhuman monster who should be tortured and killed in the most gruesome ways imaginable.  Flaying, fire, iron maiden– pruning shears nipping piecemeal at the genitals.  Acid.  Wild dogs.   Ants– fire ants, molasses.  Death by a canoe full of flies, like they had in ancient Greece.  Maybe psychologically broken first.  Call him fat or something.  Then physically tortured.  Then killed in a slow agonizing manner.  Then the corpse defiled, slashed almost but not quite beyond what is recognizable, and paraded in front of his family and whatever true friends he has, if any.  Then the family should also be killed.  Anyone sharing any genetic connection to this cruel and petty demon should be purged from the earth, maybe three or four generations back.  Incinerate the corpses, crush the bones, launch the remnants in small packets into deep space lest they reform into this thing again.  This thing that looks like a person but knows only hurt and selfishness.  This weird being, animate, but without a soul.  Without empathy.  Torture and kill him and play his screams over the PA system in schools, as a warning.  This is what happens when you are like this man. Continue reading →

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Unemployment Diary: What Do You Do

3 Feb

???

Pussy is heroin for the ego.  And I need a fucking hit.  It’s been a month.  Little more.  New Year’s Day was the last time.  I know I said New Year’s Eve is an ass desert and don’t go out and fuck New Year’s and etc.  But I was wrong; I took home an attractive woman I met at a  great party, and fucked her in the morning when I was sober enough for my dick to work.  Don’t ever listen to me.  But that was a month ago.

Gotta get back on OKCupid now but what do you say, you know.  All girls want to know what you do.  I’m unemployed.  I had put that I had a shitty job, but, a job is a job.  I had listed that my income was between forty and fifty thousand dollars a year.  Now it’s zero.  When girls asked what do you do, I would lie, I would tell them some outlandish shit.  But it was a lie with a powerful truth behind it, which was: I work on movies and TV shows you know about and love and I get to meet famous people and, you know, I have a place to go in the fucking morning Monday through Friday. Continue reading →

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

2 Feb

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Getting Fired Diary: Freedom Day Eve

31 Jan

Image stolen from flickr user andysternberg.

Tomorrow is Freedom Day.  My last day of work.  Most people in my work orbit don’t even know.  I don’t know how to tell them.  I don’t want to have the same conversation over and over.  I’m leaving the company.  They’ll try to sound out whether I left or got fired.  In fact, there is some nuance.  I’m getting fired, but I fucking really wanted to get fired.  Like when your house burns down but you hated that fucking house anyway, it was the fucking Amityville house with demons crawling out of pools of blood and you hallucinated that every meal was full of maggots, and at least now you can collect insurance.  They want to say I’m so sorry; they want to show sympathy for what they think I must be unhappy and scared about.  I don’t know any of these people, I realize now.  They don’t know me.  Because these jobs are like getting paid to slam your dick in a car door over and over  and anyone who does them is a fucking idiot.  We have such a short life; I have wasted so much of it at this.  I am glad to be free and I am sorry you’re still here, saying your work is going great like a battered wife talks about her marriage. Continue reading →

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