I'll Bet Hitler Got A Lot Of Bongs For Birthday Presents
I am used to being dicked around at work. Lately it has seemed as though the sole purpose of having a job is so that one can be consistently and thoroughly dicked around. When I just today received news that my hours at the cafe at which I work, these hours currently grand-totalling the delightfully poignant example of prior moments of being dicked around at a walloping three, would have to be cut because they just weren't pulling in enough sales. Okay. So the pathetically insignificant three hours I was working is going to be downgraded to the literally-holds-no-significance total of zero? Bitchin'! I don't need money anyway! I've really been enjoying living off of stolen saltine packets these past few weeks! I mean, this would be tantamount to being fired had I not begun picking up hours at the golf course as well, which is under the same behemoth-like and archetypally incompetent management of the big-bitch known as University Dining Services. Rather, it is a simple but effective dick-around in the middle of my already stressful day.
I sometimes feel that beyond the obvious reasons for being dicked around at work, ie mismanagement, idiotic higher-ups, general spirit-crushing inherent in any job, that the people who do the dicking genuinely enjoy it. There seems to be an art to it, even. My boss at Northrop Auditorium went above and beyond the call of duty when it came to dicking me around. Beyond the simple berating and "can we talk?"'s (of which there were plenty), a slew of minute but obscenely effective dick-arounds were thrust upon me like so much green slime on Nickelodeon. Not that I didn't deserve what befell, me, heavens no; I was certainly not a model employee. I was fired on grounds of incompetence; though that specific word was not used exactly, it was danced around like so many swaddled swan-maidens. I am not trying to come off as some blameless victim in this case. Merely, I relate to you of how I got dicked around. Before second semester started, I set my schedule up so I could get more hours at work. I wanted to work a lot more than I was because I was (am, ever shall be) poor. So I took classes on Tuesday and Thursday primarily, leaving my Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and weekends almost entirely open. I turn my schedule into my boss, who swiftly responds with "How would you like to work on Tuesdays and Thursdays?". Uh... I suppose... You know, I'll just be on campus from NINE O'CLOCK TO NINE O'CLOCK WITH A ONE HOUR BREAK AT FIVE PM is all. Yeah, no that works fine. I'll piss myself lazy on those FIVE FUCKING GOD DAMN DAYS I HAVE COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY OPEN while I shit myself stressed on the T days! Fine! Sure! Yeah! Great! Perfect! FUCKING DON'T WORRY BE HAPPY GONNA BE A BRIGHT SUNSHINY DAY LOLLIPOPS AND RAINBOWS I BELIEVE IN UNICORNS KEEBLER ELVES MAKE HAPPY YUM COOKIE BLAH BLAH PIXIES!!!!! My world is a god damned ray of sunlight dancing to the dew of spring! Fuck you! From there it was all snide talking to's and little "See me after works" until I finally caught on that I was the redheaded child of this office. On one schedule that went up, every other employee other than me was working a particular ballet show. I, uh, wasn't needed, or something. Fie. Eventually I began to feel the axe dangling above me, despite my best efforts to improve my performance. The ultimate slpa in my face was the day I was fired. The schedule for the next two weeks was put up and I was scheduled up through the end of it. Then I get the "Jack, come talk to me after work" schpiel. I got that feeling you get when your mom yells that at you from two floors below while you're watching internet porn. We talked, and I was "let go". Fine, your hands had been seeming awfully clammy lately anyhow. I didn't really mind being let go so much; I was pretty tired of being dicked around by those dicks that whole time. But what got me was the fact that they had me fill out a ten page personal workmanship review earlier in my shift. They knew I was getting fired at the end of that shift. Don't try to pretend like I wasn't. Everyone got these reviews to fill out, but everyone else kept their job after they walked out of there that day. I filled out this big long review for absolutely no reason, and they knew it. Assholes. That's some prime rib fuck you. Fuck 'em. Don't play house with bears with boners, that's what I always say.
The annoying thing is that these aren't even real jobs yet. All the jobs I've ever held have been the quintessential "you're in college or high school" jobs; once I start embarking upon the real, hardcore soul-crushing, suicide-rate increasing, deathly empty and depraving jobs of adulthood, I don't know that I'll have the stamina to make it out alive. Being dicked around sucks, being jerked around sucks, being pushed around will hurt, being sodomized around is a level I hope never to get to. But I will: The more "adult" and "actual" a job you have, the more cold-cocking penises there are going to be prodding you every direction until your very self is no more. I do not look forward to real life.
But! Fuck all that! I GET TO DRIVE A GOD DAMN GOLF CART WHILE LISTENING TO MASTODON. I couldn't possibly care less about any instances of being dicked around or how shitty my day is or how fucking bothersome all my customers are or any of that shit when I am blazing down the sidewalk at 15 miles per hour rocking out to the supple sounds of the boys from Atlanta. Oh my goodness. What a time. It's so synchonistic and pleasurable that I would dare to say all the piss I wind up taking in a day is worth it. I wonder if Mastodon knows they've crafted the perfect music to listen to while careening about in a golf cart (Perhaps I am not the best judge here; for me, Mastodon is like Sriracha: It goes with everything). What a beautiful, wonderful feeling. I have been wanting to steal a cart and go on a joyride around town with my boombox blasting Remission like you wouldn't believe. Somebody stop me, the joy is such that I would quit my job and shit on my clean record just for those precious minutes before I get mowed down by police. My god. I can't help but smile.
Please, find what makes you happy and do it. It almost makes this life worth the dick.
I sometimes feel that beyond the obvious reasons for being dicked around at work, ie mismanagement, idiotic higher-ups, general spirit-crushing inherent in any job, that the people who do the dicking genuinely enjoy it. There seems to be an art to it, even. My boss at Northrop Auditorium went above and beyond the call of duty when it came to dicking me around. Beyond the simple berating and "can we talk?"'s (of which there were plenty), a slew of minute but obscenely effective dick-arounds were thrust upon me like so much green slime on Nickelodeon. Not that I didn't deserve what befell, me, heavens no; I was certainly not a model employee. I was fired on grounds of incompetence; though that specific word was not used exactly, it was danced around like so many swaddled swan-maidens. I am not trying to come off as some blameless victim in this case. Merely, I relate to you of how I got dicked around. Before second semester started, I set my schedule up so I could get more hours at work. I wanted to work a lot more than I was because I was (am, ever shall be) poor. So I took classes on Tuesday and Thursday primarily, leaving my Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and weekends almost entirely open. I turn my schedule into my boss, who swiftly responds with "How would you like to work on Tuesdays and Thursdays?". Uh... I suppose... You know, I'll just be on campus from NINE O'CLOCK TO NINE O'CLOCK WITH A ONE HOUR BREAK AT FIVE PM is all. Yeah, no that works fine. I'll piss myself lazy on those FIVE FUCKING GOD DAMN DAYS I HAVE COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY OPEN while I shit myself stressed on the T days! Fine! Sure! Yeah! Great! Perfect! FUCKING DON'T WORRY BE HAPPY GONNA BE A BRIGHT SUNSHINY DAY LOLLIPOPS AND RAINBOWS I BELIEVE IN UNICORNS KEEBLER ELVES MAKE HAPPY YUM COOKIE BLAH BLAH PIXIES!!!!! My world is a god damned ray of sunlight dancing to the dew of spring! Fuck you! From there it was all snide talking to's and little "See me after works" until I finally caught on that I was the redheaded child of this office. On one schedule that went up, every other employee other than me was working a particular ballet show. I, uh, wasn't needed, or something. Fie. Eventually I began to feel the axe dangling above me, despite my best efforts to improve my performance. The ultimate slpa in my face was the day I was fired. The schedule for the next two weeks was put up and I was scheduled up through the end of it. Then I get the "Jack, come talk to me after work" schpiel. I got that feeling you get when your mom yells that at you from two floors below while you're watching internet porn. We talked, and I was "let go". Fine, your hands had been seeming awfully clammy lately anyhow. I didn't really mind being let go so much; I was pretty tired of being dicked around by those dicks that whole time. But what got me was the fact that they had me fill out a ten page personal workmanship review earlier in my shift. They knew I was getting fired at the end of that shift. Don't try to pretend like I wasn't. Everyone got these reviews to fill out, but everyone else kept their job after they walked out of there that day. I filled out this big long review for absolutely no reason, and they knew it. Assholes. That's some prime rib fuck you. Fuck 'em. Don't play house with bears with boners, that's what I always say.
The annoying thing is that these aren't even real jobs yet. All the jobs I've ever held have been the quintessential "you're in college or high school" jobs; once I start embarking upon the real, hardcore soul-crushing, suicide-rate increasing, deathly empty and depraving jobs of adulthood, I don't know that I'll have the stamina to make it out alive. Being dicked around sucks, being jerked around sucks, being pushed around will hurt, being sodomized around is a level I hope never to get to. But I will: The more "adult" and "actual" a job you have, the more cold-cocking penises there are going to be prodding you every direction until your very self is no more. I do not look forward to real life.
But! Fuck all that! I GET TO DRIVE A GOD DAMN GOLF CART WHILE LISTENING TO MASTODON. I couldn't possibly care less about any instances of being dicked around or how shitty my day is or how fucking bothersome all my customers are or any of that shit when I am blazing down the sidewalk at 15 miles per hour rocking out to the supple sounds of the boys from Atlanta. Oh my goodness. What a time. It's so synchonistic and pleasurable that I would dare to say all the piss I wind up taking in a day is worth it. I wonder if Mastodon knows they've crafted the perfect music to listen to while careening about in a golf cart (Perhaps I am not the best judge here; for me, Mastodon is like Sriracha: It goes with everything). What a beautiful, wonderful feeling. I have been wanting to steal a cart and go on a joyride around town with my boombox blasting Remission like you wouldn't believe. Somebody stop me, the joy is such that I would quit my job and shit on my clean record just for those precious minutes before I get mowed down by police. My god. I can't help but smile.
Please, find what makes you happy and do it. It almost makes this life worth the dick.
posted by MC Harv at 7:32 PM
3 Comments:
The more "adult" and "actual" a job you have, the more cold-cocking penises there are going to be prodding you every direction until your very self is no more.
You are wise beyond your years.
Yet with a potty mouth lagging behind a decade and a half.
Jack Spencer: Man, Myth, Potty Mouth.
-Thomas
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