Joy, another college co-ed trying to convince me to hire her. She’s all zipped up in her fancy shirts and eager-pants while doing her best impression of someone who wants to commit fifty hours a week for the next twenty-five years to analyzing rat poison supply chain schematics. I know, pinch me; my job is just so fucking fantastic I must be dreaming instead of abusing painkillers each night in my studio apartment in Bumblepoo, Ohio.
Holy Type II Diabetes, Batman, this one is way too enthusiastic. She found our mission statement, “We Good, Rats Bad”, and is giving an introspective reflection on what that means to her and how it’s shaped her outlook on life. Actually, that mission was from our, near illiterate, savant founder. Yes, our Public Relations department has done a great job covering up such revealing aspects of his life, like his numerous financial contributions to the American Nazi party and that he celebrates the fact that we are the preferred rat poison for cults committing mass suicide. His idea to run a marketing campaign on that last tenant would have been, well, suicide.
Wow, she’s still going on how these four monosyllabic words have explained the universe to her. With one word I could stop this torrent of embarrassment gushing out of her mouth, but, then what would I do for entertainment?
Hard worker, team player, tolerator of the diverse, mhmm, yeah, I’ve heard those generic lines from everyone, sweetie, yet I’m still left with a lazy, selfish, workforce who continues to insist on contributing significant portions of their paychecks to the American Nazi party, so why should I believe you? Oh, here’s why you think that—it’s because you listed it on your resume, a resume that, tragically, you wrote in Comic Sans for some misguided reason. That’s adorable; you’re talking about why you put it in Comic Sans, as if you could ever justify it or as if I would ever care. No, sweet cheeks, it doesn’t come across as kitschy, creative, or “showcasing your fun side”. Honestly, both our lives have been set on darker courses for having listened to you or even being here today.
This is getting pathetic; Comic Sans just asked a question about our third quarter earnings versus our expected annual growth. Let’s have some fun with this.
Man, giving overly complicated sounding answers that are really just saying buzzwords and jargon nonsensically strung together is becoming addicting, not as addicting as painkillers, but addicting nevertheless. “Glocal economies are what we anticipate synergizing once our Six Sigma black belts can conquer some new Asian territory versus the Federal Reserve’s self-corrections”. Yeah, that sounded like Bjork read a Wall Street Journal and then tried to write lyrics for a new album no one wants. Yet Comic Sans over here is frantically scribbling down every bit of it like it’s the cure for cancer or the Colonel’s secret blend of herbs and spices.
She’s just trying too hard to get this interview; I think she might pull a muscle in her face from giggling at literally everything I said. I can tell you right now that we’re not going to interview her. She has no experience; she gave generic, plain-flavored-Quaker-oatmeal-esque answers to everything; and she has blonde hair and blue eyes that are only going to enforce the prevalent Nazi stereotype of our company. Overall, she strikes me as really dumb, like the type who would be perplexed if her new toaster didn’t come with a manual.
Although she’s a terrible candidate for a supply chain position but as a candidate I could flex into a sexual position? Yeah, let’s go for it—I’m down to stick my pen in some non-company stink.
“Hey, would you want to discuss this opportunity over a drink with me later?”
Joy, I think this business prick is trying to hit on me. I just came to this career fair wanting a job—and not a job that’s prefaced with “suck”, “rim”, or “manual labor”, mind you. This short, corporate-rat-poison prick with his lazy-ish, well, just not as hard-working, eye will be in for a rude awakening if sex is what’s in his poison-riddled mind right now. Here he goes into his best impression of the guy he thinks I’d want to be with for the next twenty-five years or so when in reality he’s just another guy in a fancy shirt and eager-pants looking get off the clock and subsequently get off all over me.
Holy shot of penicillin, Batman, I think he just leaned in and tried to make a joke. I couldn’t discern a punch line from his monosyllabic stammer, but all of a sudden he stopped the surge of anti-charm coming out of his mouth and looked for a reaction out of me before he started uncontrollably sweating and clicking his jaw. I just tried to force a little laugh. Not too much though, we wouldn’t want him to think he’s actually funny or have him, god-forbid, attempt another joke. We just need to force enough laughter for him to save face so that he doesn’t go home and kick a dog or take a bunch of painkillers to ease his sexual frustration; I wouldn’t want a dog hurt out of my lack of amusement, and, seriously, guys who look like short business Nazis have done worse for less.
Oof, he’s still going with this, generously named, “comedy” part of his flirting. I don’t know why he keeps going with this; honestly, I think Michael Richards could get more laughs at an Al Sharpton’s birthday party. With one word I could stop this speeding locomotive of humiliation he’s riding, but, then what would I do for entertainment?
Open minded, free spirit, thorough, mhmm, yeah, I’ve hear those generic lines before, guy. Is that why you wore your puka shell necklace under your tie? Does that really stick it to those one-percent, corporate fat cats? Never mind, He’s too busy explaining the tattoo sleeve of civil rights figures he wants to get. No, that tattoo doesn’t make you “deep” and it certainly doesn’t “heel the scars of slavery” as he put; that tattoo makes you the idiot who’s trying too hard to seem not racist.
Wow, he just segued from speaking about his civil rights sleeve to asking me about my ancestry. I swear if he brings up the universe or Burning Man next I’m going to barf angrily.
It should be illegal to have as much fun as that answer was to give. He’s absorbed by my non-sequiturs and my fabrications about “the old country traditions,” “my real birthday versus my German birthday”, and “waltzes during eclipses of the harvest moon under Sagittarius at the gord festival”. Hilarious, he’s eating it up every word like it’s some fair-trade oats that he claims to give a shit about.
This is even better, he’s trying to analyze it and make sense of it. I think I just heard him misquote Aristotle, Descartes, and Savage Garden all in an attempt at an explanation for the concept of “culture”. Jesus, this is getting painful. I really wish one of us could just die right now to put me out of the misery of this conversation—where is a D.C. Sniper when you need one?
Okay, he’s still trying to convince me; this is beyond human politeness. He would be a terrible coworker and I’m guessing a horrible sexual partner, since, based on his vanity, I think his life is too empty and he’s too sad to achieve orgasm. I’m don’t want to deal with all this; I just want money from a job.
I’ve seen enough; I don’t really give a shit about my chances at a rat poison company anyways. I’m just going to cough in his face and walk away.