Posts Tagged ‘Employment’

Anything I feel is worth doing should be worth going utterly overboard. Whether it’s Tough Mudders, Halloween Costumes, Homecoming Alcoholism, or college (I was an undergrad for only a decade)– if I’m going to do it, I’m taking it too far.  It’s just who I am.  Yes, I have lately shirked my passion for the written word to have an affair with my first love– tech.  Believe you me, it’s getting torrid and she’s offering to pay me to stay.

Let me pause to let the slow kids catch up with the metaphor.

There, now that we’re all on the same page (the part where my old laptop has a part time job), I decided to take a step outside my comfort zone.  I like to be solely responsible for all of my successes– and therefore my failures.  I realized my Bitcoin mining operation was not growing fast enough– or rather, I have learned all that I can at this stage.  My current hardware is earning for me, yes, but not at a rate where I can get ridiculous.  I don’t have the funds for that kind of hardware, either.  So I did something that I’m not comfortable doing– I asked for help.

Ladies and gentlemen, Hunter S.

Exactly why I bit the bullet… I wanna get back into the thick of life.

So I went ahead and looked at Kickstarter after hearing about the dude that cranked in over $50 grand for a $10 potato salad, and upon realizing that my “fund” is just to start a business (as opposed for public benefit)– I had to look elsewhere.  I ended up landing on GoFundMe.  I usually scoff at this sort of thing, and if I can’t do it myself– I don’t deserve it.  My pride can be a personality flaw at times.

Realizing that I will never have time to write, nor really do the things for Cortana that I want, I started off my own page.  If, by some amazingly unlikely galactic twist, this works– I’ll finally be able to put all of my talents to use.  My tech background will provide the funds to get me in a permanent writing mode–  and who knows, maybe Cortana will get her way sooner than later and I’ll bring about the apocalypse (by reproducing… it’s the 8th Sign, after all).

So, everyone, share the link wherever you may.  After all, it’s a starter for a business– and pretty much a totally revamped life.  I guess we’ll see what happens.


The mindset.

Seriously though.  Give it a click and give it a share if you can’t give it a buck.



It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor, why in the Nine Levels of Dante’s Infernal Pit do I have to be everyone’s frigging neighbor?  Seriously, I understand the mechanics of how this happened— but it doesn’t mean I like it any the more.  I always valued my anonymity, my ability to meld into a crowd and vanish, but Jesus Hydrophobic Christ on a tugboat– I never realized how much I’d miss it once it’s gone.

Believe you me, it hasn’t just gone full Houdini–  it’s even worse.  I’ve seemed to go full-on Fred fucking Rogers.

Fuck off, neighbor!

Look at that crooked middle finger! It almost seems appropriate with that benevolent Jimmy Carter grin…

Yes indeedy, at first it was an insidious change…  once in awhile stumbling over one of my boxholders at Wegmans, or someone’d recognize me on the random happenstance that I went out for a drink…  but I quickly realized that it didn’t stop there.  I have learned quite quickly that I can’t go anywhere in this general area without someone recognizing me.

This is the point where I invoke the almighty holy-shit-time-out-4th-wall-breaking-power-of-Zack-Morris.

I no longer can be out in public shitfaced, because I have suddenly become the antithesis of the guy nobody saw sober.  Instead of being sober and surprising everyone– now people know sober me…. and worse off, sober and stressed to the point of bad puns at work me.  This will not fucking do.  What in the Lovecraftian concept of fuck is wrong with this picture besides… I don’t know… everything?!

No, today it all came to a head while I was walking home for lunch…  one of the local kids (and damned in Hell if I know what the little ginger’s name is) waved and called me by name.  Yeah, I know, real cute– right?  Oh no, the rest of the kids apparently now know me too.

Ladies 'n' Gentlemen, Mr. Jon Stewart.

Yeah, my reaction too.

So yeah, I guess that just cements the fact that I’ve been installed as a fixture in the community…  I can no longer get shitfaced where I live, nor near where I live, nor go out in public after the fact…  because hey— the last thing I want to deal with is someone who knows me from work trying to talk shop while I’m endeavoring to enjoy a proper buzz and mind my own goddamn business.

Son… of a bitch.
I miss being a ghost, one rarely if never recognized nor seen around my old home town.


Fuck all kinds of duck.
… and people wonder why I prefer to drink at home for more than just cost-effectiveness and lack of DUI’s.


Over the past couple months, I’ve seen a lot of posts giving attention to the picketers demanding over $15 an hour to work at McShitheads.  It’s either that or ridiculously raising the minimum wage.  Political posturing aside, let’s break this down for the dumb kids who think this is a good idea…

Truth hurts, don't it?

Truth to life– there are consequences to your actions, no matter what those asshole Baby Boomers tried to litigate out of reality. (Newsflash– they failed.)

First things first– supply and demand.  If suddenly everyone at Greasy’s was paid over $15 an hour, that would be justification for ridonculous inflation.  Meaning– that $15 bucks an hour is going to buy even less than the “minimum wage” you’re getting today.  Interesting sidebar– most of these jobs pay a buck over minimum wage, and you don’t even need to pee in a cup to get them.

You think that life’s too damn expensive now?  Just wait until there’s a sudden influx of money into the system.  Prices will skyrocket as the money will be devalued– and the corporate fat cats will justify raising them to “stay in business.”  We all know this is a blatant lie, but come on– if you truly don’t think this is going to happen, you’re even dumber than you look.  Case and point?  Just look at the asshole ways these employers have gotten around providing healthcare.  This situation is no different, and don’t delude yourself into thinking otherwise.

This disastrous desire would utterly screw each and every American by opening this flood gate, especially seniors who are on fixed incomes.  Not to mention, that increase would be across the board– rent, groceries, gas, healthcare, everything would go up faster than anyone has seen in this country… ever.

Crank faster, buddy, we need more money!

You probably think this is a solution to all our economic issues.

Was that clear enough to start with?  Let’s move on to another reason that fast food isn’t worth premium pay– do you honestly think that the people who did their time in the grease traps and worked their way into good jobs are going to get a commensurate raise to match yours?

Here’s another revelation– they won’t!  That’s right all my little sacks of soylent green, all that time you spent struggling, studying, working, and achieving will be negated.  In fact, if you have done your time in the grease traps (myself included), you might just find yourself making significantly less than the drive-thru operator that just fucked up your order.  Everything you’ve done with your life to better it has officially been for nothing.

Excuse me, I run a post office alone 6 days a week…  I’m responsible for everything that happens in that building, about $20,000 in inventory, and roughly 1,000 customers worth of delivery.  I have keys to a fucking federal building, and I don’t even make $13 an hour.  Do you mean to tell me that slapping processed ass on a bun is worth more than what I do?  Do you think I’ll get a raise too?

Go fuck yourself with a salt-crusted cactus.  Twice.

Guess what, you fucked up-- and I don't care.

Take that spatula, polish it up real nice, turn that summbitch sideways and cram it straight up your ass!

Here are a few small revelations for you if you support this bastardized assholery.  Fast food joints were meant to be supplementary income, starter jobs, or meant to remove the unemployment curse.  It’s called a stepping stone– and almost everyone I know has been there and done that, myself included.  If you can’t step above that stone, I feel bad for you.  I’m not being facetious here, because it’s a thankless job.

Let’s be honest here, it’s not about the job.   The primary problem is people who are working can’t pay to live.  That’s wrong.  The discussion shouldn’t be about unrealistically raising the wages of Thomasina Taco, Franky Frenchfry, and Bobby Burger– because let’s face it: you shouldn’t get $15.00 an hour to fuck up my drive-thru order.  The discussion should be about how to realistically lower the cost of living.

Then again, welcome to America– where rationally assessing and fixing a problem is apparently a thing of the past.


… I was watching Colbert on Hulu last night after a rousing bout at the gym, and realized that I need to run for office.  I’m not talking some chintzy country comptroller position, oh no.  I’m talking a position high enough on the food chain, I can shoryuken a senator in the sack and get away with it because we all know that Washington criminals can pretty much get away with murder.  Ain’t that right, Ted Kennedy?  Wait, he’s dead?  Doesn’t matter, you get the point.

Hell, screw murder, the bigwigs can take a shit on the Constitution with things like PRISM and nobody bats an eye.  However, I digress, I got carried away with my metaphorical assault.  Honestly, anyone who can claim to vote upon a 1,990 page bill with the authority to put it into law because they read and understood the whole thing is probably too delusional to notice a proper dick punch (or cunt punt… gotta be fair to the womens).  That’s right, I haven’t read enough about it to even comment on the results— but I can bag on the fact that the vote/signing went down in the first place.  Care to remember that infamous Pelosi quote?  “But we have to pass the [health care] bill so that you can find out what’s in it….”

That’s even dumber than making a binge run to Taco Bell and not being sure if you have TP for when you get home.

Nope, I took the high road and made a child warfare joke.

And you thought I was going to take the low road and make a retard joke. Fucking cretins.

Ahhhh, but this is what we get when– for years– most of our political choices are the equivalent of choosing between a giant douche and a turd sandwich.  Unlike Trey and Matt’s witty metaphor, this shit is only funny to a misanthropic cynic for the delectable I-fucking-told-you-so moment.  Unsurprisingly, those same bastards and bitches are downright clairvoyant when it comes to anything Washington-related… which ties back to me being in office would be fantastically dangerous– and hilariously awesome.

Naturally (and firstly), it wouldn’t happen, because I exist in the real world.

People generally agree that healthcare is something you kinda sorta need to survive in this day and age.  Now, am I the only one who sees how stupid it is to put an hourly threshold for mandatory benefits?  Ladies and gentlemen, Perry Cox was right when he proclaimed that people are “bastard coated bastards with bastard filling.”  What do you think a bastard is going to do when you say that they must provide Harry Hourly and Mindy Minimum with healthcare if they work a certain amount of hours a week?

If you said, “cut their hours,” you are officially smarter than every brain dead suit in Washington, and their sycophantic stooges on the news.

I think most high schoolers would immediately recognize this joke...  It's older than they are.

… yes, these are the same people we are supposed to trust to “report” on our government’s plans for our future.

So, someone’s probably drumming their fingers while reading this and wondering what my self-impressed, narcissistic, insufferable, toned ass would do to fix the situation.  How would I get more universal healthcare to the masses, without utterly boning small business owners into oblivion?  Grab your calculator and roll some numbers with me.

The poverty line in America for one person is a damn-near unlivable $11,490.  At that point, you qualify for Medicaid anyway– so moot point.  So let’s bump it up a bit, but not get crazy here–  let’s say our earner is making $18,000.  That’s still a beyond-shit wage, but you can make ends meet if you’re smart about it.  Instead of fucking the worker by providing an out for the corporation– we institute the 10-1 rule.  If the highest paid member/owner of your organization makes more than ten times the lowest paid member– guess what, you have to provide healthcare.   Most small business owners don’t make more than ten times what they pay their employees, so guess what– they’re going to continue business as usual, and not get screwed over by having part time employees…  but if one person is making a penny over $180k (for this example, at least)…

In short, companies would have incentive to hire on full time (may as well have a full-time workforce if you’re gonna have to pay for them, right?), and small business would still have the advantage of being able to hire part-timers without getting saddled with insurance mandates.  Now, to really drive the nail home– allow insurance companies to compete across state lines so competition (and a larger premium base) will drive the average costs down.

In short, having a job would mean having healthcare (and most likely working full time to boot)– and if you’re unemployed, you’re either retired (Medicare) or covered by Medicaid.   More people covered (which everyone seems to agree is a good thing), and zero opportunity for large corporations to continue dry fucking the working stiffs.

— snark and jokes included, I pretty much handled the issue in under 900 words.

So, someone run me for a major office.  I promise not to show up drunk.

Yeah, that was a lie.


…  why yes, I guess I should let the proverbial cat out of the bag, provided that bag was not given to me by a certain guy named Schrodinger.  I’ll let the slow kids Google it while the rest of us ponder how much more awesome Schrodinger’s Cat would have been if he wasn’t in a box– but a bag.  That’s a whole new dimension, and you love me more for making your brain hurt with it– doncha?  It’s okay to admit, seriously, that dirty feeling washes off with a few gin ‘n’ tonics.

So it may or may not come as a shock to you that I have begun working for the United States Postal Service.  That’s right, I’m workin’ for the government– and freaking loving it.  Hang on to your obligatory “go postal” jokes, I’ll get to those in a minute.  I need to take a moment to gloat at my own expense.

It's about time for me to go Postal...

The ONLY government entity not generally mistrusted by the general public. Blamed for lost checks/bills/packages  (even when not at fault), maybe– but nobody ever calls you a shady dickhole! I call that a win.

Lemme back up for a second, I’m not a carrier– those people have the hard job.  Granted, if I had been offered said position, I would have jumped on it with both feet like Mario on a Koopa– but I lucked out and landed a clerk position.  Not only did I land a clerk position– but it’s at a small-town post office where I run the joint.  Not only do I run the joint– I’m my own postman, and I can walk to work in under four minutes.  I can run to fucking work faster than most people can put the pedal to the metal– and not even get winded.

See me give a flying fuck that it’s not “full time,” I’m saving a ton on gas, and I get an hour and a half for lunch.  If this isn’t a situation utterly soaked in awesomesauce– hand me the winning Powerball numbers.  Otherwise, don’t judge me– because this is a job I can legitimately care about and not feel shitty for doing so.

Let me clarify this for a second before some of you jump on the judgmental bandwagon.  I felt dirty caring about my assistant manager’s job at the Rent-to-Own company because I hated that job for more reasons than I want to delineate here.  The two most recent part time jobs, yeah if I could have found a reason to give a damn about either one of them– I’d have felt dirtier than a hooker running a 2-for-1 Saturday night special.  This position, right here?  I freely give a shit about it– because although it’s not a glamorous job… it’s fucking important that it’s done right.  I can get behind that.  A sense of genuine purpose, no matter how seemingly mundane, goes a long way for a guy like me.

— and here you all thought I was just a shaken bottle of chaos and alcohol.

I highly doubt I'll be using a cat as a silencer in the near future...

Who me?? Nahhhhhh….

Sure, I don’t tend to play nice with bureaucratic horseshit because I’ve got a viper wit and an opportunist’s sense of patience– but I haven’t noticed any of those traditionally federal shenanigans.  Honestly, everyone I have worked with so far has been pretty freaking nice– even if sometimes it appears that overlying web of command is more layered than one of my infamous pans of lasagna.  Seeing how I’m pretty accustomed to being told what to do, it doesn’t matter to me if it’s one or fifty people doling out the orders.

Out in out?  I’m working for the last government organization that is trusted by the public– and that specific fact is pretty well understood by the upper levels of management.  In fact, in spite of the confusing web of command that makes decisions– there is one constant.  The security and efficiency of the mail/package service is the primary imperative to be considered at all junctures.

This is a career path that isn’t glitz and glam, but I’ll tell you one thing.  Compared to anything I’ve done in the past, without question, I will always be able to justify giving 160% and feel good about it… even if I am a bit confused by the “government” way of running things.

Not to mention, the hours are ideal to get me back into a writing/publishing state of being– which was my initial goal to begin with!  Not to mention, being the only employee– I can count on things being done the right way, or I can kick my own ass for screwing up.  It’s also a help that the “small town” atmosphere of my location brings in some pretty nice people to chat with.  Win-win baby.


After several months and one successful article, the infamous unemployment curse was broken.  I would have said “mercifully,” however that’d violate the pacing of this little tale.  Protip: one thing that writing and banging have in common– you don’t want to get to the finish prematurely.

Back to the curse breaking– I was stunned to find out that not only had I picked up a part time merchandising job, I had even got my foot in the door at UPS.  Scuttlebutt had it that UPS treated their employees right, and I figured that this could be a potential career move since the company appears to be as healthy as a strain of AIDS at a Kenyan orgy.  All arrows pointed at Brown, and I should have know that shit was about to splatter in my direction.


In other news: Murphy’s an assjack.

The first indicator that this might have been an imminent case of surprise buttsex was the pay rate: $8.50 per hour.  If you’re going to work for a company as large and successful as UPS, and you’re going to make as much as a McJob, start worrying.  I, being ecstatic that I had doubly become a taxpayer again (after having been treated like a leper with dysentery), didn’t think that worrying mattered– they took care of their employees, right?

Hell, they’re all Teamsters, so there had to be a silver lining of benefits and job security– right?


You were expecting a

Falling for that shit was about as naive as falling for this.

Even including Jill 2.0’s handi-capable situation, I’m in pretty damn good shape.  I’m a Tough Mudder, for crying out loud, so I didn’t think about what the hiring lady was saying when she said that this job burns out 20 year olds.  What she didn’t say was that they treat unloading cargo semis like a good, ol’ fashioned, Egyptian pyramid raising.  I’m not sure how universal this is, but at this particular location–  they want a single person to empty an entire semi in under an hour.  The quoted rate by my (former) supervisor was 1000 packages per hour…  mostly solo.

Let’s do the math here:

1000 packages ÷ 60 minutes = 16.67 packages/minute

…for 3 freaking trailers.  Did I mention that the job starts before 5am?  Or that there’s only one 10 minute break between trailers two and three?

Now, let’s add in the fun part that these trailers are packed floor to ceiling– poorly– and the walls of cargo like to fall.  Let’s also add in that you can find anything from hot water heaters, to tires, to 50lb cases of copy paper, to electronics, to mail, to motor oil, to 45lb farming cases of onions… well shit, you get the point….  this kind of whip-cracking bullshit for the same pay rate as flipping a ¼ lb burger, potentially stoned.

Thanks to the way their benefits are figured– and the laughable total hours– I wasn’t going to qualify for even a bottle of ibuprofen for at least 5 months.  Something tells me that Jill 2.0 isn’t about to demonstrate some kind of bionic durability– and with that slave wage, there’s no way I’d be able to afford another surgery.

Who do you think you're talking to?

You were probably expecting the Double Deuce, but my grandma wanted me to be more like Jesus…  He used a thumb and index finger…. Come to think of it… so did I, when I called HR!  Grandma would be proud!

So, covered in contusions, minor cuts, and feeling like I had a run in with the Bear Jew–  I took my old man’s advice and cut my losses.  They’re looking for slave labor, and they got two back-breaking days out of me.  They’re not getting another moment, and I flat out told the girl on the phone about my concern for the inevitable injury.  It’s not like me to just cut out without a two week notice– but this is an at will state, and that shit is a two way street.

Guess who’s not waking up at 3AM to go get his ass beat for a slave wage– just to be told to work faster?

Thank all that is holy and/or alcohol-bearing that my other job, although part-time, at least has a decent pay rate… and can be made to look sexy on a resume.  As for Brown– you know what they can do for me?

They can get flushed along with the curse.


So I was surfing around, looking for a new job, and found out that Bungie’s hiring in Seattle, WA.  I’m a bit of a Halo junkie (hence the Cortana reference), and I am pretty much over the whole Eastern Time Zone thing.  So I figured, why the Hell not?  Gretzky said, “You miss 100% of the shots you never take.”  Assuming I quoted and attributed that correctly, here’s my shot– and believe you me, it’s a freaking doozie.

Funny part is, I'm more of a sword-whore.

Boom. Headshot.

So yeah, they needed a production assistant– and realizing that Bungie rules because they don’t use some bastard third-party ATS– I decided to stick out of the crowd with my cover letter….

To whomever is blessed with fielding this email address:

Since I cannot juggle chainsaws, the staff will be thoroughly entertained when I try to snag the first one out of the air.  Since I have a degree in English, you can guarantee that the resulting obscenity-laden tirade could very well be in sonnet form (I prefer Petrarchan)– complete with Elizabethan epithets.  I possess two keen eyes for detail when not masquerading as a pirate, and an attention span that doesn’t make that bi-ocular detail-orientation seem like OCD.  When it comes to seeking a multifaceted production assistant that can handle anything and everything that can be thrown in their general direction, not including multiple chainsaws, look no further.

Obvious reasons for wanting to work at Bungie aside (ascending beyond a glorified free-kill in Halo), my versatility and talents are not finding useful outlets in the corner of the nation that I have known all my life.  Desire for a challenge mentally equivalent to a Tough Mudder (I’ve already completed one) is what’s pushing me towards Bungie– and the manner the job posting was worded was too geared towards my personality to resist.  I’ve worked with people from the most humble bumpkin to well-educated engineers and doctors (as well as wealthy sycophants less intelligent than the aforementioned bumpkins.)  I have a natural ability to figure out what makes people tick, and adapting to those quirks like a Borg on crack is my key to being an exceptional team player.

This specific production assistant job is something I was made for, and having a look at the attached resume might provide a tip about all I could bring to Bungie.  That said– it’s never just the tip, and just like any similar enticement– this is about the whole package.  I want to relocate to the Seattle, WA area as I said before– and I can’t think of a better way to usher in a new era of growth than by throwing myself face-first into a dynamic career at Bungie.  I’m looking forward to hearing from whomever may eventually end up with my credentials, and I do sincerely hope said contact is not just a generic form letter befitting lesser, generic applications.

After that, I attached my updated resume, signed off, and figured this might set me apart from the thousands of other emails that flooded their centralized “” address.  A couple minutes later–  here’s the reply I got:

Thanks for your interest in opportunities at Bungie. We’re flattered—sincerely!  We promise that your resume hasn’t gone into the dark void; it’s actually being pored over by a real, live person.  We’ll contact you as soon as possible if there’s a match between your skills and our opening(s).  If there’s not a match at this time, promise to keep your information on hand and reach out as appropriate opportunities pop up. In the meantime, thanks again!


PS: If you’re an artist and have not yet submitted your reel, please do. We’d love to see your work! A detailed description of the work you performed or a comprehensive shot breakdown should accompany your submission.

This shit's gonna be hilarious.

My general reaction.

I don’t think much more needs to be said here…

… in other news, click this link to my first publication– 6 Ways Companies Are Secretly Screwing Job Applicants

Why?  Because my broke ass could use the monetary site-traffic bonus, and I’m in direct competition with every other Cracked article posted this month– and I was started with an 18 day handicap.

Help a brother out, post that link everywhere, and click on it as often as possible.
Do work, people, I may write because I love it– but dammit, I want something back this time!

(This has been my shameless plug of the night)