Why can’t I be the one that judges people for my job interview; why do they have to judge me? It’s become so easy for me to criticize and point out other’s flaws—and not just basic bald spot spotting or the ol’ Gout pointing out, but really identifying defects in people’s mannerisms and logic as well. Just watch, watch as I pounce like an opinionated puma as soon as an idiot moans that they don’t understand why they were once again rejected for a Macy’s credit card, since, as they reason, “Come on, man, I spend all my money at Macy’s!”
Seriously, why didn’t I ask the recruiter more questions when he called me? Does he want me to be relaxed or pumped up for this? Which boils down to the age old question: should I go all Jerky Boys on my wiggle-snake while I’m in the parking lot for the serenity factor? Or, do I go at it on the freeway for the pure ecstasy and adrenaline that accompanies trying to control a two-ton behemoth at eighty-miles per hour while still trying to drive my car?
What if I get too pumped up? The last time I was too pumped up was on my eighth-birthday and I ended up whipping a pinecone at my dad’s cornea and he bellowed, “If that’s how you’re going to treat your family then you can forget about going to the water park this year!” It wasn’t until years later that I found out Dad had lost his job earlier in the week when he showed up drunk to the go-kart track. He only freaked out at me because he wanted someone else to shoulder the blame for him being forced to cancel the family trip.
So, needless to say, I’m worried about showing up too pumped up.
Not being pumped up though makes me think I’m going to freeze. Everyone has been there where your mind goes blank and a cold sweat trickles down your back and find it’s way into the seat of your trousers just like Mark, that overly handsy attendant at Men’s Warehouse that keeps inviting me to go to Red Lobster with him.
My God, Mark, give it a rest. We both know there aren’t enough biscuits in all of Cheddar Bay to get me to go on that outing!
I’m finally in the building. I’m a little post pump-up sticky, but mostly puzzled. No, seriously, this facility doesn’t use room or floor numbers and clearly this is the wing that was designed by the overzealous architect the day after the MC Escher exhibit and Ancient Egypt exhibit were both sponsoring the annual monster truck show. Either way, tomato-potato, Darth Vader-Ralph Nader: it is real confusing. I’m becoming wary of going around the tight corners of the corridors, as I’m certain a temple guard is sure to lunge out at any minute. Hopefully, the temple guard isn’t a stickler will accepted resumes printed on ripped up cereal boxes instead of Pendants of Life for passage at this point.
Goddammit, I’m lost. I don’t know my way out. Why didn’t I leave a trail of breadcrumbs, or, at the very least, a hearty dusting of eczema flakes to find my way back out.
Through three bathroom lobbies plus a janitor’s barracks and I’m miraculously in the waiting room for my interview. The recruiter-guy said there were going to be five people interviewing me, but I’ve seen no less than eight people walk into the room marked for interviews. Why couldn’t there have been just one nice old man interviewing me? He could get sidetracked on stores about baseball, segregation, or just about how all his foreplay now is comprised of a little game called “Find the Werther’s Original”; I wouldn’t care. I could just sit there and nod; he would eventually comment on how good I am at listening and that I remind him of a nice boy he chats with on the suicide hotline on those lonely days when his family doesn’t call.
Five or more people interviewing me is intimidating; they could conspire to do any number of things to me. They could beat me up. They could throw a pizza party for me. They could cook a pizza, throw it in my face, and then steal my face skin. They could take a DNA sample to prove I’m the father of someone, but, in that case, they would be better off scrapping the whole interview scheme and just swabbing out my car’s ashtray. Five or more people make me think of something sinister akin to Julius Caesar, Murder on the Orient Express, or some sinister ploy in which they pin one of their rancid, rich-boy farts on me. I realize some of these revelations are good things, but, come one, it’s much more common for a stranger to have a fart blamed on them than to have a pizza party thrown for them.
All right, they’re calling me in. I really hope they all get a kick out of the new Bill Cosby voice I programmed into the radio for my joke-stoma.
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