Will Work for Money
I spent most of the last couple o' days looking for jobs. Those of you that know me know that last summer was spent entirely applying for jobs, getting rejected from jobs, getting a Janitor Job, then getting fired from that Janitor Job. Then back to the job search, where I eventually became the Pizza Man I am today.
Who gets fired from a job as a JANITOR? There's not much lower rung on the professional ladder than that. (Cept for politics, of course) Here's an article I wrote last year about my job search:
Who gets fired from a job as a JANITOR? There's not much lower rung on the professional ladder than that. (Cept for politics, of course) Here's an article I wrote last year about my job search:
--------------------------------------------
Will Work for Money.
Yes, there is a prospect even more terrifying than College. They call it, ominously enough, ‘work’. I’d heard of it before, but only in hushed whispers and chilling stories around the campfire. I even had a few unforgettable narrow brushes with the ‘w word’, in the form of lawn mowing, dish washing, and clothes laundering. There was even a time- I shudder even as I type this- that, lacking a remote, I actually had to pick myself up from the couch and walk over to my television and manually change the channel. Fortunately, thanks to several months of therapy the nightmares have finally ceased. This ‘work’ usually requires physical exertion, discipline, character and several other nasty and disgusting concepts.
But as any good Marxist will tell you, sometimes poverty drives the innocent to do the unthinkable. Since my original plan of ‘having my extremely wealthy Teacher Father pay for all of my college expenses’ fell through, I was forced, like Jean Valjean stealing a loaf of bread to save his sister’s son, to start seriously considering this concept of ‘work’ and even ‘work’s disfigured cousin, a “Job”.
I’ve read the Bible. ‘Job’ is a book filled mainly with suffering and death. And boils. Lots and lots of boils.
But what job? My computerized tests in the Career Center kept coming up “Midwife”, “Cosmetologist” and “Please retake this test and this time, answer these questions seriously”. They say that one should pursue a job based on your interests and skills. But when my interests are “eating” “sleeping” and “the Progressive Era” and my skills are “blowing spit bubbles” and “armpit noises” no obvious job presented itself.
So I simply started listing possibilities: Bask ‘n Red Robbins, StoneCold Creamery, Barnes, Noble’s, A or W, Ricky Ricardo’s Pizza, OK-mart, Fred Meyer’s, Oscar Meyer’s, Warren’s Buffet, Kaiser Aluminum, the Packingtown MeatPacking plant, the Coal mines, the Saw Mill, the Family Farm, become a British Pop Icon, join the Navy SEALS, help that generous and wealthy Nigerian Businessman, play Powerball or pull off One Last Heist!
Since I couldn’t decide between these tempting choices, like a Football Player at a Roadside Diner I decided to order D) All of the Above. But as I picked up the reams of applications, one problem became increasingly evident. This would require handwriting. Curse the villains! My greatest weakness! No matter how carefully I form my letters they always looks like a drunken dyslexic writing hieroglyphics with a broken crayon clutched between his teeth along a bumpy road. My cursive is even worse.
Fortunately, my Sister was willing to fill out my applications for me. The downside with this is that all the letters have curls at the end, all the ‘i’s have hearts over them, and my name reads “Anna Walters”, but I don’t want to criticize someone whose helped me so much.
I delivered all of these applications to their respective corporations, but I haven’t received any phone calls back. And whenever I call them, they say they’re ‘too busy’ or they’re ‘doing homework’ or ‘they have to wash their hair that night’. My employed friends tell me I need to be even more aggressive, and to ‘follow-up’. Maybe I should leave little ‘thinking of you’ notes where the managers might see it, or canvas their house with smiling portraits of me, or deliver a professionally formatted letter in professional stationary with letters cut out of professional magazines that says “Dear Sir, If you ever want to see your precious Fido again, consider hiring me for an entry-level employment position. Sincerely, Daniel T. Walters.”
That’s how Donald Trump got his job. At least they’ll recognize my name when they’re looking through applications.
When it comes right down to it, it’s all about money. Just show me the money, and I’ll work almost anywhere.
But if I’m doing 10 to 20 on a 9-5 at a 7/11, 24/7 in 2004, someone call 911.
But as any good Marxist will tell you, sometimes poverty drives the innocent to do the unthinkable. Since my original plan of ‘having my extremely wealthy Teacher Father pay for all of my college expenses’ fell through, I was forced, like Jean Valjean stealing a loaf of bread to save his sister’s son, to start seriously considering this concept of ‘work’ and even ‘work’s disfigured cousin, a “Job”.
I’ve read the Bible. ‘Job’ is a book filled mainly with suffering and death. And boils. Lots and lots of boils.
But what job? My computerized tests in the Career Center kept coming up “Midwife”, “Cosmetologist” and “Please retake this test and this time, answer these questions seriously”. They say that one should pursue a job based on your interests and skills. But when my interests are “eating” “sleeping” and “the Progressive Era” and my skills are “blowing spit bubbles” and “armpit noises” no obvious job presented itself.
So I simply started listing possibilities: Bask ‘n Red Robbins, StoneCold Creamery, Barnes, Noble’s, A or W, Ricky Ricardo’s Pizza, OK-mart, Fred Meyer’s, Oscar Meyer’s, Warren’s Buffet, Kaiser Aluminum, the Packingtown MeatPacking plant, the Coal mines, the Saw Mill, the Family Farm, become a British Pop Icon, join the Navy SEALS, help that generous and wealthy Nigerian Businessman, play Powerball or pull off One Last Heist!
Since I couldn’t decide between these tempting choices, like a Football Player at a Roadside Diner I decided to order D) All of the Above. But as I picked up the reams of applications, one problem became increasingly evident. This would require handwriting. Curse the villains! My greatest weakness! No matter how carefully I form my letters they always looks like a drunken dyslexic writing hieroglyphics with a broken crayon clutched between his teeth along a bumpy road. My cursive is even worse.
Fortunately, my Sister was willing to fill out my applications for me. The downside with this is that all the letters have curls at the end, all the ‘i’s have hearts over them, and my name reads “Anna Walters”, but I don’t want to criticize someone whose helped me so much.
I delivered all of these applications to their respective corporations, but I haven’t received any phone calls back. And whenever I call them, they say they’re ‘too busy’ or they’re ‘doing homework’ or ‘they have to wash their hair that night’. My employed friends tell me I need to be even more aggressive, and to ‘follow-up’. Maybe I should leave little ‘thinking of you’ notes where the managers might see it, or canvas their house with smiling portraits of me, or deliver a professionally formatted letter in professional stationary with letters cut out of professional magazines that says “Dear Sir, If you ever want to see your precious Fido again, consider hiring me for an entry-level employment position. Sincerely, Daniel T. Walters.”
That’s how Donald Trump got his job. At least they’ll recognize my name when they’re looking through applications.
When it comes right down to it, it’s all about money. Just show me the money, and I’ll work almost anywhere.
But if I’m doing 10 to 20 on a 9-5 at a 7/11, 24/7 in 2004, someone call 911.
-Daniel Walters at 10:40 PM
<< Home