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Tuesday, August 31, 2004
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SOMEWHERE OUT THERE A HEAVILY BEARDED STATUE IS BEING PULLED DOWN
I trust everyone remembers my continuing quest to be as hot as a captive Saddam Hussien. I was getting there, too. Christ, I was feeling so virile. I think I was actually falling in love with myself. As a matter of fact, during masturbation, my left hand stopped stroking my balls and began stroking the Saddam beard. I guess it turns out that my type is......well, me.
And sure, a friend of mine said that the Saddam beard looked "like ass." But I don't see her doing adventurous stuff like getting topless for me or anything. Besides, I dug it. I felt manly. Perhaps, once I was sufficently Saddam sexy, I would have gone for the full bin Laden.
Oh, I'm getting hard just thinking of that!
On the other hand, I do need to eat. This requires working for a living. I've been a bad boy lately. I haven't been as dilligent as I could have been on sending out resumes. And Daddy has creditors. So Daddy needs a full time job. That Daddy needs to stop referring to himself in the third person goes without saying.
I think you all see the problem there. Most companies that deal in public relations are reluctant to put a guy with a giant Saddam beard out before said public. It's only worse if you explain that a Saddam beard is the only plausible way for a man like me to get poontang. I know, I know.....it seems unreasonable to me too. Of course, that's much easier to understand once they see my face.
So yesterday I sent out a couple of resumes. And I got a bite, too. Within three hours. That's never happened before. Usually, it takes about a week to get a response from an e-mailed resume.
I think we all know what my immediate response to an interview the following morning was. If you guessed, "Fuck! Now I have to shave", you win. But shave I did. As much as it broke my heart, I did it.
As the clippers hit my cheek, I noticed something that I never knew before. A shaved head and goatee looks really cool with massive, Neil Young muttonchops. See?
That's when the fantasy started. I could go to the interview like that. And before you say it, I know that the clothes make the man. I covered that angle too. In my fantasy, I wore this t-shirt.
I think that I would've cut quite the dashing figure, what with no hair other than an untrimmed goatee and gargantuan muttonchops and a t-shirt with a child giving the finger to the interviewer. But pragmastism won out in the end. That really is my least favorite quality in myself. Damn you pragamatism for ruining all of my fun, damn you all to hell!
Here's what I looked like once the shearing was complete and the tears had dried.
You can see the despair in my eyes, right? I'm almost weeping at the memory of yesterday.
And it gets worse. Here's how I went to the interview.
I think you all can agree that that looks like ass!
The worst part is, I don't even think it mattered what I went to the interview looking like. This morning was the first interview I've ever had where not only was the job description never mentioned, the very industry was not talked about for more than three sentances. The whole thing was an hour long discussion on the Paul Bernardo/ Karla Homolka case, 9/11, how terrorists could be more effective and the South African intelligence service.
I can only conclude that the decision was made to hire me based on my resume and the sound of my voice on the phone. There are two problems with this. They are:
A) I'm a professional loser
B) I've got a horrible speaking voice. Think Jerry Lewis with the diction of Magic Johnson.
I'm right to fear for the future, right?
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