In my desperate quest for cash, scratch, scrilluh, money and/or paper, I have managed to reach new a new low in employment. We are talking below the basement "oh hell, is that you Satan?" low. I just secured a temporary gig as an enumerator at Corey, Canapary and Galanis. While initially it may sound like a glorious job at a powerful law firm where one would prance about doing something worthwhile or stimulating, once you realize that you have at least a flimsy grasp of the English language you will find that an enumerator counts stuff. Nothing more. One, two, three, four, will somebody kill me or at least beat me so severely that I will qualify for full disability, five, six... you get the fucking picture. For the next two weeks I will be counting people boarding and leaving AC Transit buses at the Transbay Terminal. While I am sure that shit-flinging monkeys can easily accomplish this job, and a few of the employees do appear to be shit-flinging monkeys, I am glad that I have this so-called job. I actually took a picture of one of the other applicants outside the building to show you all the type of people who will be working with me.
Anyway, money is fucking money and I am going to keep telling myself that so I do not end up stepping in front of one of the departing buses.
Today I attended the "training" session for my future in enumeration and I nearly had to kill everyone in the room. In the room with me were 13 of the dumbest assclowns I have ever met. The great majority of them have cornbread stuffing or possibly raw ground beef for brains, which is apparently provides enough brainpower to breathe and ask stupid ass questions. At first I was wondering why they set aside an hour and a half to tell a group of people how to count bodies pouring on and off buses, then I realized that about 88 minutes were reserved for asking retarded questions. Sure, one could just look at the sheet of paper they handed out that pretty much tells you everything you need to know to accomplish this mundane task, or one could listen to the grotesquely wrinkled old bag who was reading the instructions out loud. But noooo. Every brain-dead cum dumpster had to ask a question THAT IS CLEARLY EXPLAINED ON THE INFORAMTION SHEET. Now, if these asslickers had the attention span to either finish reading the goddamn info sheet or listen to grandma's moldy old ass without interrupting her, only one question would have to be asked: "What time do I come in tomorrow?" I was thinking about asking questions like "is it OK if I shit my pants while enumerating," or "do you think anyone would know if I had a vibrator buzzing away in my ass while wore women's panties," or "who loves Al Queda" to break the fucking monotony. To top it all off the sickly old whore running the meeting had the nerve to ask me if I was in her fucking church choir. So I told her "no you stupid old bitch, I am not in your church's gay ass little band. Do I look like I go to church? Uhh, No. Please take you Alzheimer�s medicine before you talk to me again." Really, that is exactly what I said. Then I pissed on her face for making me mad. Church choir. Whatthefuckever, lady.
This is not saying a whole lot for my employability or me either. Just in case you were wondering, yes, I do feel a bit more worthless than I did yesterday and I do want to kill myself. I really hope someone offers me a somewhat tolerable job soon because I sure hate working with the mentally handicapped, I mean fucking drooling retards. Ok, I am going to drink a beer and dream about winning the lottery now.
Oh, and here is me eating a street barricade because I have no money for real food. Rarrr!