BUDDY CAN YOU LOAN ME A GRAND

This is another story from the dusty (cough) caverns of yesterday. I composed it in a time of suffering because, at that time, my journalistic endeavors were not panning out. Later that would all change. I put it on the blog so we could all be reminded of those pitiful days of unemployment. And forgive the first paragraph--it did not want to fall in line with the rest of the column

For reason's unknown I can share many a tale about the horrific pains associated with pounding the pavement looking for a job. I've been downsized, upsized and criticized. Still after all the hassle with the nitwits who hire the likes of myself, there are precious few jobs to satisfy my thirst for capitalistic gain.

There are two areas of the classifieds in my local newspaper that create disturbing thoughts of chaos and madness deep within my soul, the Help Wanted and the Mate Wanted section. I consider both to be for the down-and-out.

The sweetheart ads, as I see it, are for those who can't live without an annoying, nagging, room temperature body hanging around complaining about everything you do, say and think. Meanwhile the Help Wanted ads are also for those who can't live without an annoying, nagging, room temperature body hanging around complaining about everything you do, say and think.

Understand my dilemma, I really do want to be gainfully employed, but stopping white collar businessmen on the streets with the old "Buddy can you spare a job," routine is a unbecoming to my staunch Scandinavian heritage work ethic.

So instead, I awake every morning, convince myself it is advantageous to leave the safe haven from underneath my nice cozy down-filled quilt. Then begins the journey to jump-start my life. The coffee pot must be activated which requires me to first walk outside, grab my soggy newspaper, conveniently tossed under the lawn sprinklers, consume a mandatory 12 cups of coffee in order to bring my energy level to a somewhat higher point than the rigor mortis that claimed my body overnight. Then and then only do I dare turn to the Help Wanted Section.

For the sake of good mental stability and to show mercy towards my delicate psyche, I choose a maximum of three businesses per day from the ads and grant them complete permission to work me over by telling me I don't qualify because they need a stiff who can speak seven languages, operate heavy equipment, answer the phone and have the uncanny ability to understand 32 computer programs, be under 40, willing to work for $6,25 an hour and provide their own desk.

Okay, now this is my simple philosophy on job seeking, " Attempting to prove ones worthiness to consume precious oxygen in front of a nit wit potential employer, who really cares less if you can fulfill the above requirements, but has a job that pays substantial money if you can whistle Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's Don Giovanni Overture backwards, is a one way ticket to neuroses." Stay away from such.

It is a documented fact that if you fill out more than three job applications per day, your mental health will deteriorate to a level where drooling and hallucinations may occur. I recall reading that 64 percent of people who attended four or more interviews a day had a high tendency of postal transformation. Foraging for the elusive splendid job is bad mental hygiene.

One secret I discovered--nobody is straightforward about the job you are expected to perform after applying for your wonderful new livelihood. If you are unfortunate enough to be searching for a job then cut out the following paragraphs and keep it posted on the fridge for a reference.

Below is a guide for employment opportunities:

Advertising executive means hanging fliers on doors of possible voters for the party of your choice. Drivers wanted means taking your car and running off your 100, 000 mile warranty, using up all your gas and likely bouncing up your insurance premiums, in order to feed couch potatoes all across your community. Customer relations means greeting folks at Wal Mart while handing out shopping carts to grouchy seniors and placing smiley face stickers on deranged children.

Sales jobs. Potential to make $15,000 a month is the same category as a protozoa life substance from Uranus launching into orbit only to crash through your living room window. Entertainment means nude dancing, psychic hot line jibber-jabbering or worse yet, sex line chats for some rapid breathing, unshaven low-life.

As I wind down the list of horrific jobs, we arrive at the telemarketer. Why in God's name (which is mighty) would I want a job doing what I wish my phone had a strangle button for. Many a time, a double flip and half twist was performed trying to get to the phone as quick as possible because that illusive job offer was beckoning me to the phone. Odds were three million to one that the dream job would appear, so with bated breath the receiver lifted slowly from the cradle only to hear some remedial reading student slowly parrot 25 lines off an index card and finally break his or her monotone voice asking, "Now doesn't that sound like a great deal."

"Zzzz, snore, huh, wha', sure I'll take a dozen. Good bye. Click."

This I pray Dear Lord

Please help writers avoid day jobs. Allow us to sit at Starbucks all morning and observe the yuppies come down out of the hills for their ritualistic feeding. Give us each day our daily hob-nob with the colorful locals at the corner cafe. Let us thus hear the tales of life which so enriches our imagination. Grant us free time every night to snuggle up in big overstuffed chairs and read novels that makes of envious of the writer.

For more inspiration I pray.

Amen.