Job Hunter

March 1st, 2011 – Adventure #11...

Certainly, one of the problems of adding an influx of too many Hispanics into America is the danger of Mexican TV — like “Aztec Mummy vs. Human Robot” — replacing our current fine and cultured faire, like “Two And A Half Men” with that gifted thespian, Charlie Sheen. Do you think they hit themselves in the forehead South of the Border when they tune in “2.5 Men” and ask, perhaps in Spanish: “¿¡Is it me or is this 'Jersey Shore' only on crack!?”

Competition for Dwindling Job Resources:

'Those People' from Mexico Factor

In earlier chapters, we discussed the importance of résumé bloating. We also went over how this innocent fudging on a life misspent can give you, if only temporarily, a leg up on your fellow homo unemployici.

Unfortunately, due to an increased influx of U.F.E.N.s (Undocumented Friends from Emerging Nations), we are now blessed with an unasked-for richness of competition for the necessities of life. Millions of skilled and unskilled workers from faraway lands are applying for jobs heretofore reserved for homo unemployedicus americus.

Prove it for yourself.

Gather together the Board of Directors for General Motors, drive up to any Home Depot and yell: “I need a CEO for GM!”

Or, en Espanol:

“¡Hijole! Frijoles compadres… Necesito un Mero Mero por Chevy y G.M… No es necessario cer un “Low Rider.”

MIGRANT WORKER #1: “Hay que bueno. Descoje a mi’. Yo, antes era Lider de operaciones fiscales de PeMex por once anos. Tambien era un capitan de un submarino Sovieto.”

TRANSLATION: “Goodie! Pick me! I was CFO for Pemex for 11 years and was also a Soviet nuclear submarine captain!”

MIGRANT WORKER #2: “¡Si me discojes, yo devuelvo GM por solamente Doce dolares a la hora y tambien quiero opciones de invercion!”

TRANSLATION: “I’ll turn GM around for $12 an hour, plus stock options!”

MIGRANT WORKER #3: “¡Yo lo hare por Diez dolares a la hora, pero solamente si tambien discojes a el primo di mi esposa como un vice presidente de Mercado y un premio de cien dolares!”

TRANSLATION: “I’ll do it for $10 an hour, but only if you hire my wife’s cousin as VP of marketing and a one-time performance bonus of just $100!”

MIGRANT WORKER #4: “¡Yo te voy a cobrar solamente una vez, Quinientos dolares, y devuelvo GM. Ademas, pinto el edificio de la cabezera en Detroit con dos laminientos de pintura, sin primer!”

TRANSLATION: “For a one-time flat fee of $500, I’ll turn around GM, plus paint the Detroit headquarters, two coats, no primer.”

“All of you hop in the back of the truck!” you and the Board of directors yell.

Dear Mr. Job Hunter:

I’m not sure I’m liking where this chapter is going. Not that I’m a big fan of Political Correctness, but can one actually use or refer to the words, “Mexico” or especially “Mexican” anymore?

Just wondering.

Mel Gibson,

Actor/Director

Dear Mr. Gibson:

Only if you don’t make eye contact or say the words in front of anyone from the federal government or the media.

Before we go, did you hear the one about the prostitute who walked up to an elderly Mexican gentleman in Guadalajara? The voluptuous hooker huskily whispered into the old timer’s ear: “I’ll do anything you want for five pesos.” The elderly Mexican thought fir a moment then replied: “Paint my house.”

Best wishes for your continued recovery,

Homo unemployedicus americus (Job Hunter)

Other job-finding guidance books (like “Who Moved My Cheese”) will try to sell that you, personally, from the gooey insides, need to drastically change in order to adapt to a business climate that is morphing by the hour.

These experts solemnly shake their heads and warn that you need to learn the latest technonerd fab.com platform like ButtFace that will be de rigeur by the time you log in your first password. They will try to convince that you need to master German motorcycle repair, be on the cutting edge of 22nd century Green Energy or how to install breast implants in reticent women.

In your van.

Why?

Because they are consultants.

Consultants get paid to sell you knucklehead advice.

And the accepted definition of a consultant is someone who knows 202 Ways To Have Sex but doesn’t know any women.

Forget the retraining.

You are homo unemployedicus americus.

You will never work again.

What you will need to know in this ever-changing job market are some key Spanish phrases to help you at least survive until that day comes when you are mortally wounded while wrestling a tight-knit family of raccoons over chicken scraps inside a steaming KFC dumpster.

Those phrases are:

• “Disculpame. Por favor. Un momento de su tiempo? Estoy estacionario en esta bajo de freeway. Le puedo interesar en 5 kilos de naranjas, casi sabrosas, y sin estar robadas? No?? Possiblamente, pollo frito del Coronel con los babosos de los ratones limpiadas con cuidado? No?? Dime, que entonces??”

TRANSLATION: “A moment of your time? I’m standing on this freeway off ramp. Would you like to buy a 10-pound bag of mostly tasty and non-stolen Valencia oranges? No? Some fresh Kentucky Fried Chicken with all the raccoon spit carefully dabbed away? No? Tell me. What then?”

• “Por favor dile a tus ninos que no se asustan de mi aparencia. Pero, van ustedes a terminar de comer ese taco marisco?”

TRANSLATION: “Please tell your children not to be alarmed by my appearance. But are you going to finish that fish taco?”

• “Esta Agnes...”

TRANSLATION: “This is my twin sister, Agnes. Due to the unforeseen and harsh economic climate, she has gone through much trauma. I will trade you Agnes for some food or any shoes you might not be using.”

• “Badges? I don’t have to show you no stinking badges.” (…some things are just the same in whatever language you speak.)

TRANSLATION: “Badges? I don’t have to show you no stinking badges.”

• “Es posiblamente que han haber ven molestados con las pendejadas de narco-trafficantes pediendo si pudrian laver las ventanillas de su coche por cambio lento. Ce Debe de handar creciendo borodo. Hace mucho calor hoy. Yo estoy hambriado y bien seco. Es posible limpiar abajo de sus sobacos sudados con esta gara por un dolar?”

TRANSLATION: “You probably have been pestered by deranged drug addicts asking if they can clean your windshield for spare change. Surely that must be getting old. It’s a hot day. I am starving and dehydrated. May I clean under your moist armpits with this hardly used rag for a buck?”

• “¡No! Lo que queria decir es que usted me paga a mi el dólar!”

TRANSLATION: “No. I meant, you’d pay me the buck.”

— And, if not the most useful phrase, certainly the most practical:

• “Compadre. Nunca nos va tocar trabajo hoy. Vamos a comer. Yo te enseno un foto de mi cartera de mi grandiscima, peluda, atufada, paciente loca de la clinica, suegra; Y tu me encenias el foto de la tuya que aperece a una changa del circo. Nos tomamos una cervecita y nos recordamos de nuestros veces que fallaron de terminanos.”

• “Buddy. We’re never going to get a job today. Let’s go get something to eat. I’ll show you a wallet photo of my big ol’ hair-covered rageoholic outpatient of a mother-in-law and you show me a picture of your circus chimp mother-in-law. We’ll split a beer and reminisce over our failed suicide attempts.”

(AUTHOR’S NOTE: The translations provided in the above chapter were by the rarest of men, Conrad Villegas. Besides being rare for being such a swank chap, Con is a hispanic disk jockey in Alaska. Find two of them up there. I’d like to see you try. Muchas juevos rancheros, amigo. TRANSLATION: Thank you for not touching my luggage, o dear Wm. S. Hart High School cronie from the best of classes ever: 1968.)

(2nd AUTHOR’S NOTE: If someone out there who actually speaks Spanish discovers that Conrad has been translating into Pig Latin or has me ordering some sex act in a Chinese restaurant, please contact the blog site at once. We’ll get the Eskimoes and Irish up there to boycott his radio station.)

(3rd AUTHOR’S NOTE: We tried to get Conrad’s kid brother, Ernie Villegas, to translate this, but the only Spanish the former Mayor of Fillmore/Acting Speaker of the California House knows is: “Lay on me more of that compelling Taco Bell mild sauce, por favor.”)

February 1st, 2011 – Adventure #10...

The proper and neutral positioning of the eyes and mouth during a job interview.

(Photo of statue, at least we pray to all that’s holy that this IS a statue and not some poor Job Applicant zapped by corporate and set outside on a back parts lot to rot, comes courtesy of

Chris Shoemaker.)

Non-Verbal Communication During the Interview:

Part I

The Eyeballs.

A couple of facts.

First: the eyes are the mirrors to our souls. Which is why you must never, never, never, ever let corporate look into them because they will surely suck your interdimensional essence smack dab out of your fragile shell.

Second: 97 percent of all communication is non-verbal. That may not be completely true. But this is a humor/faux business book and not Scientific American and besides. Who are you, the hopelessly unemployed,, to be eye-balling us, the confident without cause employment expert?

See what we mean when you let management into your secret holy place?

Still. A person has to have a job. And to have a job, unless it’s as a Thailand sex slave, you’ve got to make proper use of your eyeballs.

Which leads us to the first section of our topic:

A. Crazy Eye.

Do you have Crazy Eye? Going on a job interview? Get it fixed. Quickly. Discretely. Permanently. Why? According to the U.S. Dept. of Labor, since 1951, when these statistics were first kept, more than 99.417 percent of people with Crazy Eye have been dismissed from work, no matter the quality of their work.

Dear Job Hunter:

No offense, but gosh those statistics seem off. I asked my staff to look up those numbers and we can’t even seem to access “Crazy Eye” as a beginning search term, let alone find any paperwork. Any chance of pointing us in the right direction?

Yours truly,

Hilda Solis,

United States Secretary of Labor

Dear Hilda,

The papers exist. Just don’t mad dog eyeball us like that.

Sincerely,

Mr. Job Hunter’s Personal Assistant

The Internationally Renowned Actress, Rula Lenska

Nothing puts off a human resources professional worse that Crazy Eye. I worked for a guy once who was under the spell of some serious physical and mental disorders. Eight times daily, he would take a snow shovel of barbiturates, antidepressants, antacids, blood thinners, blood thickeners, pills to grow ovaries, pills to grow testicles, pills to turn unwanted ovaries and testicles into harmless dust mites, Rogaine, prune juice for his bowels, nitroglycerin, penile enhancers and a quart of insulin all washed down by a Dr. Pepper.

I’d be sitting across the desk from this guy and you could almost hear the sitars. One eye would be disinterestedly fixed on you and the other would be probing the room, as if looking for something to eat. His tongue would wander down to the desk, searching for, and I’m just guessing, more drugs. Toying with his stringy long red hair and third nipple (NOTE FROM LEGAL: this thrown in to discourage any former employers from suing author) he sported a sly smile, like he had finally figured out the Vietnam War and why it had been fought because of him. The guy was a fat major creep out.

“I don’t understand your writing,” he said, Igor-like to me.

What do you say when your boss is a heroin addict?

Perhaps if you moved your finger faster across the page?

Under my breath, I would sing the old Donovon song:

“He will-bring happiness, in a pipe, he’ll ride away, on his, silver bike.

And apart from that, he’ll be so kind and consenting, to blow your mind…”

“Where is that music coming from?” he’d ask, awkwardly writhing to find its source like some obscene character banished from Alice in Wonderland.

“I’m glad you understand my work,” I said. “My work understands you, man…”

He’d laugh like a crack whore.

Point being, unless you want to host a liberal political talk show, don’t have Crazy Eye.

B. Goat Eyes.

The next type of eyes to avoid presenting while job hunting are Goat Eyes. Monkey eyes are okay. Most people in middle management have monkey eyes, those furtive, darting, always hungry peepers constantly searching for fleas on other people or scanning a nearby vista for predators or someone else in middle management sneaking up to steal their imaginary banana. Monkey eyes show initiative.

Personnel directors hate sitting across from someone with Goat Eyes because the possessor of these satanic orbs seem, well — evil.

And they are.

Some notable people from throughout history with Goat Eyes who have had jobs and were evil are:

• Actor George Clooney

• The other George Clooney, who isn’t an actor

• Paris Hilton

• Genghis Khan

• Pope Bennie, the Lactose Intolerant

• Merv Griffin

Job applicants with Goat Eyes also seem disinterested in answering questions about their qualifications, work history or how they can advance the corporation to be a world leader in garage door openers, smart phones, gopher suppositories or whatever terribly interesting corner of industry said company is trying to master. But, if you must bring Goat Eyes to an interview, make sure to stare while slowly chewing. The time can be written off to performance art. Bonus points for head-butting anyone over the rank of corporal in Human Resources.

C. Norma Desmond Eyes.

Remember that movie, “Sunset Boulevard?” It starred Gloria Swanson as the creepy old actress with the 50 pounds of make-up and a stare that conveys: “You have no idea what they’ve done to me.” Especially in manufacturing, where moving assembly lines exist, you don’t want someone staring off into space for days. Such jobs are best left for state workers or planners in CalTrans where vital signs are not a necessity for employment.

D. Weasil Wee-Wee-Weasily Eyes.

W.E.’s tend to dash back and forth like windshield wipers on warp speed. Usually the applicant afflicted so answers every question with a frenetic: “I know you are, but what am I?” Which may not be a bad thing. If you can pull it off, you could be confused with the owner’s useless rehab son or daughter and be given a corner office.

E. Other Retinal Appearances to be Avoided During a Job Interview

1. Spring-loaded dislocated retina joke glasses.

2. Nudie Cutie X-ray glasses ordered from the back of comic books.

3. Sunglasses (unless you’re applying for a job with ZZ Top or a remake of The Ray Charles Story.

4. Any eye disorder where you bleed from the tear ducts under the mildest of questioning.

5. “Funny” contact lenses featuring: dice, Bozo the Clown, butts, the Prophet Mohammad or a rebel flag.

F. Accentuating the Positive.

Notice the previous all approach the job interview opportunity from the negative. You are now ready to face the job acquisition process from a positive, can-do approach with these handy tips:

1. Maintain eye contact at all times. This can be difficult, especially if your hand is floundering about, searching for the Personnel Director’s outstretched mitt to shake. It’s okay to break your stare for an instant, provided it’s followed with a jocular: “Oh! That’s where the hell it went!” followed by “You washed this, didn’t you?” You also want your eyes to convey that you can see the future, not in any daft and embarrassing Joe Biden sort of way.

2. WINK OCASSIONALLY. This shows you’re with the program. The PD offers something inane like, “We’ve got inventory.” You nod, pretend to consider the statement for a minute. Wink and respond: “Inventory. Wow. Great idea, Bob…”

3. THE HEAD LASER. As the Human Resource flak is blah-buh-blahing you with the Celestial Wowness of his organization and justifying his own misplacement of a perfectly good human life, use your eyes as if you are literally tracing a fine line around the interviewer’s head with a high-powered precision laser. Still using your eyes to create a pretend tractor beam, remove the interviewer’s head. In a quick but fluid motion so as not to spill the laughable excuse for a brain, tilt the skull upside down. Blink once. Twice. Now using a thought control beam, send the following message in ever-increasing volume and vibrato: “Hire me… Hire me… Hire me right now… HIRE ME RIGHT NOW DAMN YOU DAMN YOU TO HELL!!! OOOOOOOoooooooooo-bey ME!” directly into the skull. Switch back to the tractor beam in your eyes to place the head back on the torso. It’s how Obama got elected.

January 11th, 2011 – Adventure #9...

The Interview Lunch

• Some Simple Do’s & Don’ts to Help Land You That Job! •

High in the distant mountains of job hunting, in the rarified air of employment, lives a distant magical place called The Get To Know You Lunch Land. Entry level grease monkeys applying at Midas Muffler do not get a lunch with the CEO. Likewise, greeters at WalMart, coal miners or the 400-pound toothless woman with the corncob pipe selling caramelized Twinkies at the Montana State Fairdo not get wined and dined at Spago.

(JOB HUNTING NOTE: In case you DO get invited to lunch by the suits, it’s not pronounced, SPAY-go. It’s SPAW-go. Or, if you’re taking a meeting with a table filled with Sylvester the Cats, it’s TTTHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHPPPPPPPPaaaa-go…”)

Mostly, inbred upper management types get courted at three-martini lunches. Why? Because nothing bad will happen if the owner and all the veeps are away from the plant for five hours. Nothing remotely awful will occur if everyone above the rank of corporate second lieutenant were to all drown drunk in an eight-inch deep golf course water hazard. Indeed, productivity would probably skyrocket.

Dear Mr. Boston:

See? I TOLD you!! Finally, after all these decades, my theories are vindicated. Glory! Glory! Workers of the world unite!

Best wishes for your continued success,

Karl Marx

Author of The Communist Manifesto and

The Kommunist Kitchen: 999 Mouth-Watering Recipes for Spoiled Cabbage, Grubs & Vodka!

Actually, the Father of Communism was right about one thing: It IS a class struggle. You could be the corporate version of Star Trek’s Captain James T. Kirk of the Star Ship Enterprise, saving entire galaxies while increasing profits by 33.4 percent. But, if you’re not part of the ruling BTC (Business Twit Class), management will set upon you like a pack of wolves on a partially opened family value 96-pack of Costco pull-dated pork chops.

If you want to be a connected management twit, you’re going to have to pass something you never gave much thought to in elementary school: lunch. You’re going to have to look, act and talk the part. The first thing you’ll want to invest in is the Sure Fire & Snappy John Boston’s Job Hunter Useless Upper Management Twit Ensemble. It’s just $1,399.99. Or, three easy payments of $1,299.99.* This one-of-a-kind offer comes with: a one-size-fits-most white powdered wig; a box of scented snuff; a presumptuous walking staff; a sword; some tights; a ruffled gay blouse and an annoying lap dog.

Or, if you’re applying for an executive career on a South Sea island, the above kit is just $1,499.99 (or three easy payments of $1,599.99**) and comes with a grass diaper; a seaweed power tie; some sunblock; a banana and a conch crown trimmed with our exciting new product: pearlz®. Please state if you’re a girl executive and we’ll include, for a small nominal fee,*** plus shipping and handling**** we’ll mail you a coconut shell brassiere. Please also send a color photograph of your breasts for sizing. If they’re funny looking, don’t bother. Well. Never mind. Go ahead anyway. It won’t hurt to look.

Appropriately dressed, you now have the confidence to mingle with executives or heretofore unknown jungle island tribesmen, not to be confused with the shoo-bop all-baritone quartet of the 1950s.

You might want to show initiative at the early stages of the lunch by berating your server when he brings the drinks. Cane him with your John Boston/Job Hunter walking stiff, adding, in a British accent: “I won’t stand for your beastly impertinence!!” As he apologizes, cane him some more. Straighten. Gather yourself. Adopt a smug expression and dismiss his existence and the existence of his kind with a simple: “Bloody wogs.”

If the waiter defends: “But I’m Swedish…”

…come back with, “Well then, you Swee-wog…”

Nothing speaks “Executive Material” like archaic colonial race consciousness.

What you drink speaks volumes.

Don’t raise your hand. When the wog, er, server, asks what you have, do not request: “Can you put some Trix in a blender with some milk and vanilla ice cream?”

The CEO’s mouth-breathing son-in-law can afford to be infantile. You cannot.

Likewise, do not order: a keg of anything; Olde English 800; Boone’s Farm Strawberry wine; or “a Wolf Blitzer with two straws and an umbrella” unless you’re applying at an all-gay men’s wilderness outfitter catalogue.

Don’t order salad.

It screams girl.

Even if you are a girl.

Don’t order salad.

Order red meat. If you’re applying for a company in Texas, add: “I want it RARE! Stampede it once through the broiler. I want it on a plate still breathing so I can look into its eyes while I’m eatin’ it!” Then laugh like you just lynched someone. If you’re going into sales, hand the lap dog to the waiter and have him cook it. It shows you have resolve, a lack of ethics and will do anything.

Don’t order dessert.

Again, it screams, “girl.” Likewise, don’t bat your eyes coyly and ask: “Do these mail order tights make my butt look fat?”

It’s a guaranteed conversation and job killer.

You’ll probably notice that with executives, they might make a passing reference about the Mother Ship. But mostly, business people are the most boring carbon-based lifeforms to ever walk the planet. Executives will talk about five and only five things:

1) Golf

2) The Servant Problem

3) Co-Workers Or Congressmen Who Have Been To Asia & Have Unsuccessfully Tried To Deduct “A Leggy & Creative Prostitute” On Their Business Expense Report and

4) A World Without Corporate Taxes

5) Breasts.

Even dedicated horndog Internet porn sniffers are embarrassed to be seen with business people at lunch because not only are business people obsessed with sex, they share their addiction poorly. Even the women executives. It’s embarrassing to be sitting with a table for eight of executive-ettes. After years of so desperately wanting to be equal, they now snigger like an old Beevis & Butt-head rerun, just repeating the sentence, “Breast. Heh-heh. Heh-heh-heh.” over and over.

The Servant Problem is actually a topic that’s interesting because it unveils an alarming state of mind. Golf? Be careful. There have been many instances where non-golfing job applicants have killed themselves at the table after hours of listening to some vanilla CFO recall, in excruciating detail, how he sliced his dog leg.

Thank you, Michael Vick.

If you really want that job, then develop good stories about how beautiful life would be if there were no corporate taxes.

None.

Whatsoever.

You’ll have the suits drooling.

Of course, in business, there’s always a down side. If you get the job, you’re going to spend most of the rest of your waking hours with these oafs of industry.

* Mail cash, check, money order or your entire credit card with password, social security #, etc., to: John Boston; Exciting Internet Upper Mgmt. Twit Costume Offer; P.O. Box 221916; Newhall, CA 91322.

** Mail cash, check, money order or your entire credit card with password, social security #, etc., to: John Boston; Exciting Internet Upper Mgmt. South Sea Twit Costume Offer; P.O. Box 221916; Newhall, CA 91322.

*** A surprisingly large amount of money

**** A ridiculously surprisingly large amount of money, considering we mail this stuff unpadded in a brown grocery bag and duct tape.

January 4th, 2011 – Adventure #8...

One way to get ahead of the job-hunting competition is to take on the name of famed disco duck,

Harry Wayne Casey, founder of K.C. & The Sunshine Boys, er… Band.

A New Job Can Start With Those Magic Two Words: Your Name.

If you’re persistent enough, some random forest monkey god representing dumb luck will pay you a visit and you will be on the first step to an actual job interview.

But, before that long-awaited day arrives, you’re going to have to fill out something called a Job Application.

Or, en español: la succion dignidad alma sonda.

The Dignity Sucking Soul Probe.

In Mexico, people wouldn’t dream of asking another human being nosy questions, like their address or number of uncontested felonies. A job application in Latin America is akin to mentioning the sexual predilections of someone’s hunchbacked mother and, well, nice people just don’t stoop to behavior like that.

Alas, in America, we’re stoopers.

The very first thing you’ll be filling out on a job application (solicitude de empleo) will be your name.

Some individuals — unemployed, hard-to-get-along-with individuals with Discipline and Authority Issues and Conspiracy Theorists — think of this as an invasion of privacy.

When confronted with a simple question, like:

NAME: ( )

a person who has been out of the job search adventure may dutifully print something like “TWO” because they have two names. Those with a middle name will write, “THREE.” European job-seeking royalty may count on their fingers as they mumble: “Countessa Maria Conchita Valpariso en la Biblioteco con Luis y Murphy Hapsburg,” and write: “TWELVE.”

Paranoid or megalomaniac applicants might use the space to complain: “How DARE you and damn you and all your male offspring to Hell. My name is not a blank spot. You cannot capture the essence of who I am and my accomplishments by drawing a line under blank space. How completely annihilating of you. I’m suing your slow-moving CalTrans ass.”

Then, there’s often a simple reality that your real name might not work in your favor. The example, “Billy Hitler” comes to mind.

If you are considering burning not just the bridge to a company, but all the farm crops within 400 miles of their corporate headquarters, consider drawing

little black footprints in the space provided for NAME to signify walking out in a big huff.

Just because you haven’t gone outdoors since Jimmy Carter was in the White House, there’s no need to be intimidated by the NAME question.

Think of this as an opportunity to recreate yourself.

With the chance of a new job, you can become a new person. Like:

NAME: (Bucky, the Cutest Little Tree Squirrel )

Or,

NAME: (Barbara-Ruth Mantooth, Lesbian Eskimo of the Frozen North )

Human Resources would just kill to hire a Lesbian Eskimo, especially if their company slurps at the trough of government subsidies. Their company would get something like a billion federal political correctness points, more if the applicant had but one leg.

NAME: (Barbara-Ruth Mantooth, The Plucky One-Legged Lesbian Eskimo of the Frozen North.)

If you’ve brought a guitar to your job interview, it wouldn’t hurt to entertain both staff and the waiting room of more deserving job applicants with a little song, in the key of R-ruptured flat:

“Folks up North call me Barbara-Ruth…

And that’s the truth BEEEE-------cause…

I’m a plucky little one-legged Eskimo…

Who commits lesbian faux pas.

(CHORUS)

O, Barbara-Ruth has a parrot do and a big ol’ bass deep voice,

She plays softball and that’s not all, she performs the sex of her choice.

In the land of the midnight sun I squeal,

Every time I club a seal,

I’m a plucky little one-legged Eskimo

Who’s gonna kiss Ally McBeal

(CHORUS)

O, Barbara-Ruth has a parrot do and a big ol’ bass deep voice,

She plays softball and that’s not all, she performs the sex of her choice.

This reinventing oneself as a one-legged lesbian Eskimo can be tricky, especially if you’re 1) a guy; or B) have all your limbs. However, if you dress up as a Moslem one-legged (being careful to tuck the extra leg under your bathrobe) lesbian Eskimo, Human Resources will be doing chimpanzee backflips at the obtuse gender/lifestyle demographics you fulfill for their corporation.

If this approach seems too avant garde, please feel free to borrow my oldest sister’s maiden name when job applying: Boo-Boo Latoogie.

Of course, there’s another song to go with that. Sing it to the melody of “A Boy Like That, He Killed Your Brother” from “West Side Story:”

My sister’s name… is Boo-Boo Latoogie.

If you get too close, she’ll give you a noogie…

Think of your own — kind. Think of your own — kind…”

Have you ever visited Starbucks and, with a straight face, ordered a half-caff, half-&-half vanilla noogie? And when the coffee Sherpa gives you that pleading, confused stare, you reach across the counter, lick them and start singing:

“My sister’s name… is Boo-Boo Latoogie.

If you get too close, she’ll give you a noogie…”

Personally, if I worked, I would love to share 10 hours of my waking hours with someone named Boo-Boo Latoogie.

“Boo-Boo Latoogie. Be a dear and team player. Bring me that file with the Citibank merger numbers and some spearmint chewing gum, please.”

If you’d really like a shot at that job, under that first question of NAME, write:

“Boo-Boo Latoogie (Formerly one of the Sunshine Boys, but not K.C., who was really stuck up and not very talented.)”

Dear Mr. Boston:

Reluctantly, I resurface from the Federal Witness Relocation Program to protest your many snide and childish implications along with some downright falsehoods.

First, it’s “Band.” Not “Boys.” Band. K.C. and the Sunshine “Band.” Cripes. Get it right. We had 187 gold records. Granted. Most of those were in Albania, where the simple people there in the meat hats mistook our music for the Texas Two-Step, which is understandable, if you’ve ever heard “Get Down Tonight.” Wait. I’ll have someone send you a CD so you can hear for yourself.

Second, I have been in a loving and bond-like relationship with my wife of several years. I am not married to your sister, Moo-Moo LaGoosh or whatever the hell her name is. Why did your mother name your sister “Moo-Moo?” And did you change your name from “LaGoosh” or did she change her name from “Boston?” I’ll also have you know our band has brought happiness to dozens of the same drunk people for decades.

And lastly, we’ll be playing the Radisson at the Elk Droppings, Nevada Cowboy Poetry Fest from March 3rd to November 30th, the longest Cowboy Poetry Festival in America. If you would let your reader know that, we’d be obliged.

Yours truly,

K.F.C.

P.S. And please don’t try anything sophomoric, like adding the letter “F” between my first and last initial. It’s beneath you. It’s beneath me. It’s beneath all of us. Oh. After Nov. 30, me and the band are looking for a job? Do you got any leads?

Dear Mr. Boston:

Hasn’t K.C. suffered enough ridicule over the years for one lousy lyric: “Play that funky music, white boy?” Can’t you leave my husband alone?

Best wishes for your continued success,

Sandra Bullock

Thank you, Mr. & Mrs. K.F.C. We at the Homeless Shelter really enjoy your Kentucky Fried Chicken month-old leftovers. Although after a regular diet of KFC leftovers, a friend of mine, Marty, says he’s been having trouble relaxing his left hand out of a gnarled fist position and complains of a shortness of breath.

Let’s see.

Where were we.

Yes.

Job Applications. Specifically, how to fill out the first line:

NAME: (__________________________________________ ).

Essentially, the rule of thumb is this. Many aboriginal societies believe that if someone takes your photograph, they own your soul. Pretty much, it’s the same thing for putting down your real name on a Job Application.

Or, as they say south of the border: la succion dignidad alma sonda.

The Dignity Sucking Soul Probe.

December 29, 2010 – Adventure #7...

While you may not get a job through your computer, it is a great place to find Korean Brides,

such as the author’s second wife, pictured above. We know. She doesn’t look Korean.

Using the Internet to not get a job

One of the great fallacies of the N.U.I.A. (New Unemployment Ice Age) is that you can get a job from the Internet.

If I may quote the imminent faux professor of economics, Curly Joe of the Three Stooges: “Gnyuck, gnyuck, gnyuck.”

You can download pornography from the Internet. You can get misinformation from the Internet. (EXAMPLE: “Attila the Hun was the 4th President of the United States and freed the slaves.” — courtesy, Wikipedia and DemocratsForFinallyTellingTheTruthAboutAttila.com.)

You can play poker on the Internet, monitor the exciting lives of your no-good out-of-work hoodlum friends (EXAMPLE: “2:11:25 — Inhaled. 2:11:33 — Exhaled. 2:11:41 — Inhaled, moved slightly in chair. Googled my own name. 2:12:01 — Exhaled.) You can even use the Internet to join a terrorist organization, which, by the way, does not really count as a job.

Rest assured. People have wasted trillions of combined hours filling out goofball techno forms on the World Wide Web that get translated into little 1’s and 0’s and are shot into the nothingness of space but NO ONE has ever obtained a job from the Internet. In these harsh economic climes, the few jobs available are going to management’s inbred children with the 14-inch foreheads or inlaws of the dullard mooncalves in Human Resources.

Dullard mooncalves in Human Resources.

It’s a lyric from an old Bob Dylan song, from his Damn Money And All It Buys album of 1972. Here. Hold your nose, practice with a few “neener-neener-neeners” so you sound like Dylan and sing along with me:

“Ohhhhhhhh… the dull-lurd mooncalves — in Hew-muhn Resources,

They drain, the soul of all-its-contemplative-forces.

And we, who work, and toil all the day

Must pay, our hearts to personnel in every way.

We ride, for a job, through fire and gale,

To feed, our children at a January White Sale.

Rivers, pirates, poets — they all run their courses

Repor-turrs they muuuuuuhhst — protect their sources…”

(yangy harmonica solo goes here…)

Dear Mr. Boston:

Read, with interest, your ad seeking a minstrel to follow you and sing about your adventures in job hunting.

While I am curious how an unemployment writer can afford to pay “mid-six-figures” plus “full medical/mental-dental, along with “use of a neighbor’s car from 1-4 a.m.” I am intrigued.

Besides earning several Grammys, John Lennon was my babysitter.

I am proficient in dozens of programs and applications, like Quark 1.1, Donkey Kong and Turbotax. Excited about starting an exciting new career in the minstrel business.

Your servant,
Bob Dylan

1-202-456-1111

Thank you, Bob. While we’re supposed to say, “we regret,” actually, we don’t. We enjoy a cruel, serial killer smarmy satisfaction in crushing dreams and bringing pain, doubt and disappointment to the unemployed. We will keep your resume on file, right under our parrot. The one we feed Campbell’s Pork & Beans. We are happy to inform you, however, that we do have an opening in our company for a Dog Realignment Engineer. Our dog fell out of the truck and is currently baffled about right angles, so we could use someone in the Unpaid Doofus Canine Butt-Following Intern category to follow our dog around during the day and helping it navigate turns. Note that you don’t have to actually lift any part of the dog. When the dog has gone too far in a straight line, merely clear your throat and nod your head to the negative.

Where were we?

Yes.

Job hunting over the Internet.

The basic problem is that you’re competing with millions of other lying, conniving, resume-bloating seekers of the elusive paycheck. Then, there is the very real possibility you could become victim to webscams, like:

Earn Hundreds of Thousands of Dollars

Sitting At Home And Hitting Yourself in the Face!

Thousands of job seekers are injured each year, some fatally, sitting in front of their computer screen and punching themselves really hard in the facial area. Some scams lure unsuspecting job seekers to non-existent high paying wages for striking themselves in the groin, which is still a misdemeanor in many Southern states, a felony if you mince, overact or carry on afterwards. Some companies, most of them centered in Palmdale, California and Nigeria, ask that you send them money and they will provide you with a cushy Washington job for life or claim that they have Jimmy Carter and will do something terrible to him if you don’t send money.

We are only human. You might want to e-mail back: “How terrible?” followed by a second missive: “Please ask Jimbo how would he like to make BIG $$$$ sitting at home and hitting himself in the groinal area? On camera?”

Strangely enough, many of the Korean bride Internet offers are on the up-and-up. I know. I ordered one. Granted. It was years ago, when the Internet, like our dreams, were fresh and new. A pensive Bo-bae Hei Chin (translation: Dorothy Vaseline) knocked on my door. Her first words were: “How do you know if a Korean has burgled your house?” I answered: “Because your dog’s missing and your homework’s done.” We smiled. We embraced. We were married for 14 beautiful years but Mrs. Vaseline-Boston had to return to her homeland when NAFTA was enacted.

I’ve always thought we should read treaties before we sign them. But that’s me. Old-fashion.

This being the 21st century, there are a variety of platforms and software that can give one the comfort and illusion of having a job.

Check out My Nice Job by Hasbro. It comes with a “Sensory Reality Helmet” that connects to your temples and naughty parts, sending work-related pleasing and realistic sounds and images. At 5 a.m., you will be awakened by a strikingly fetching husband or wife with “terrible needs that must be met” before you “get your wittle doggie biscuit and coffee.” After breakfast and a sincere thanks for being such a good provider, you dash outside to an awaiting luxury car where you commute to your job with Super Bowl MVP New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady and six Hawaiian Tropic bikini models. (There is a simple SHIFT/ /yt command where males can talk football and sex and females can talk about feelings and moisturizers.)

Once at the office, My Nice Job by Hasbro will simulate real-work situations, where you will Facebook and Twitter with friends, delegate projects, order coffee cake and photocopy your bare heinie as the Hawaiian Tropic models giggle and applaud. This program can be upgraded up to 12 levels, where you can fire people or assassinate icky people around the office.

Specify Mac or PC when ordering.

December 23, 2010 – Adventure #6...

Using famous dead people for letters of recommendation can add weight to your resume and in the actual job interview.

Be careful who you invent. Ronald Reagan may vault you to an undeserved vice-presidency in a Texas company,

but get you sissy-slapped applying at a West Hollywood All-Madonna 24-hour costume shop.

Crucial in a Job Hunt: The
Fake Letter of Recommendation

In job hunting, there is only one rule. It’s Who You Know. You’re unemployed. Obviously then, you slug, you know no one of importance. Ergo, like Dr. Frankenstein, you must create your own letters of recommendation.

Be forewarned. Forging is wrong. You’ll burn in hell. But, if you want to have a job, the time eater that sucks your soul but gives you a paycheck, the thing you cash to buy food, then you’re going to have to sell your soul. You’re going to have to pretend that you know someone with Juice. To your advantage, you’ll probably want to cite a person who is dead.

And not just any dead person.

“Who’s Dead Bob?” the dolt in Human Resources asks, glancing at your resume under RECOMMENDATIONS.

“You know. Bob?” you respond, “that important guy in the news who just died?”

Blink.

Interview over. Back home for a sobfest followed by a pity party, daytime TV and gnawing on a bread crumb you wrested from a pigeon.

Forget Dead Bob. You’ll want to use an actual famous former human being.

John F. Kennedy comes to mind.

“John F. Kennedy?” the dolt in Human Resources repeats, glancing at your resume with renewed interest. “You knew John F. Kennedy?”

“Yes. He was my babysitter, right before he was president and that terrible day when…” Take a moment to stare out the window in reflection with a well-practiced Oh What’s It All About stare. This being a possible job, there probably aren’t any windows. Pick a spot on a drab, fly-specked wall and focus.

“He was such a good, good man,” you say, sighing.

Also, make sure the math lines up on the age you scribbled on your resume and JFK’s assassination in 1963. If you’re younger, you might want to pick someone else who babysat, employed or remotely liked you.

Like George Harrison.

If you say, “John Lennon,” the interviewer might roll their eyes and go, “Yeah, right. You knew John Lennon. I’m calling security to have you clown bounced from the building.”

But Harrison was The Vague Beatle. Little is known about him. If you look him up on Wikipedia, it says: “Born in England. Played in a cute boy band and then he up and died.” You can make up anything about George Harrison.

Dear Lovely Whomever:

Best years of my life was with hangin’ with my friend (Your Name). He taught Eric Clapton how to play the guitar and invented zen, not to mention the automatic transmission, the snowboard and macrobiotics. You don’t want to “carry that weight.” Be a dear. Give the bloke a job, what.

George Harrison

The Obtuse Beatle

It should be noted the snopes.com, the website that checks out urban myths, notes that George Harrison is actually alive and is living in America under the name, “Garth Brooks.” George, Garth and the real Garth Brooks are nearly 90 now and listed in the phone book. Because of their age, you can probably put down their telephone number on your resume and if contacted, there’s a 50-50 chance they not only remember you, but will vouch for you.

You probably won’t get the job anyway. So it wouldn’t matter if you faked a recommendation from someone alive or dead. But dead people are better.

People with tragic deaths are even better choices still for recommendations. Like:

Punk rocker Curt Kolbain. Pink Panther creator Blake Edwards. Fang Yen Tew, the Malaysian civil rights activist. Certainly Cesar Chavez or Bruce Lee.

Bad dead people to recommend you are: Bernie Madoff’s son. The 26th president of the United States, Theodore Roosevelt. English king Henry VIII. A small caution if you do end up using Henry VIII. Use him as a recommendation only if your potential boss is in that 35 And Under Dumber Than Drywall generation. Having been connected to iPods most of their lives, that demographic thinks there is a six-month gap between the Vietnam war and dinosaurs. And, of course, avoid Dead Bob.

Again, another caution in name-dropping a famous dead person.

Not since the Civil War or the time of dinosaurs has the country been so divided. If you’re using Ronald Reagan as a reference, make sure you’re not applying for a job at an all-gay West Hollywood costume factory.

“You knew Ronald Reagan?” the all-gay boss asks. “As in a biblical sense?”

He fans himself rapidly with a stapler.

“I, uh, built his presidential library,” you respond. “Well. I helped. I led a team of 27 who spearheaded a move to put books in the library.”

Uncomfortable silence.

“That man was HITLER!!!!” your not-so-future gay boss screams, then breaks down on the desk sobbing. Head buried in his arms, he weakly gestures for you to leave.

No one needs the emotional turmoil of a work environment like that. Although you’d probably get great Christmas parties.

Keep your phony letter of recommendation short, say, three paragraphs. Or, en español: tres parrafos. EXAMPLE:

To whom it may concern:

It is my good pleasure to nominate this noble person (Your Name) for (Circle One) Noble Prize — Job — Congressional Medal of Honor.

(Your Name) served as a plucky little jungle bearer to me in ’nam, fetched water and procured fetching little massage therapists for our Fighting Army Yearbook Company C battalion. For three years, he risked his life, marching across the base in West Germany, having soldiers sign each others’ yearbooks. Once, (Your Name) saved if not my life, then a painful evening of indigestion when he/she asked: “Are you sure you want to eat that 24th sausage this close to bedtime?”

In that he/she currently does not own a car and is homeless, (Your Name) has set the planet ahead a thousand years fighting global warming.

I remain,

Rich, Fat and almost president,

Al Gore

Certainly measure the political climate of where you might not be working. There are certain parts of Texas where you can get shot saying the word, “Obamacare” and even if the wound if fatal, it’s just a misdemeanor in Texas.

The beauty of using a dead person to write you a letter of recommendation is endless, and, it makes sense. Who knows your talents, your strengths and that you have no weaknesses nor fear any natural predators better than you? Just because these words are coming from the cold lips of an 17th century composer or Immanuel Kant doesn’t make them any less true.

Had Carl Sagan, the 12 apostles (that would be the disciples of the famous spiritual light, not the Anabaptist faux rock band) or Martin Luther King known you, they’d probably be happy to pop for a letter of recommendation.

Or not.

Karl Marx was right about one thing. It IS a class struggle.

Get on the winning side. Create a stable of workplace giants to help you battle in this ever-decreasing and blood-letting work place.

December 13, 2010 – Adventure #5...

Bill Gates, explaining Job Hunting: “You put your left foot in,

you put your left foot out, you give Human Resources a sloppy kiss

and-a shout. And that’s what it’s all a-bout! Hey!”

Reverse Rejection:

Strike at Potential Employers

Before They Can Hurt You

For our hairy progenitors tens of thousands of years ago, job hunting was simple. You killed something. You ate it. There was no resume to expand, unless 12 stooped cavemen grunting your name around a campfire counts.

But the job hunter of the 21st century is a more complicated creature. Losing a job counting paperclips for 20 years can cause feelings of inadequacy, hopelessness, depression and, above all — acid indigestion.

Acid indigestion strikes 10 out of every 11 Americans many times daily. Some may not even notice the symptoms, which can include you dissolving your own stomach. Which is why you need Rolaids. Cavemen did not have Rolaids. That’s why they only lived to be 17.

Actually, that last paragraph is not necessarily true. I was just hoping that maybe someone from Rolaids would like to buy an ad for this web page.

What IS true is that as our society spins out of control toward anarchy, you can turn the tables with an exciting new self-empowerment technique called Reverse Rejection.

It’s much better than Rolfing, warm green tea colonics and a large bag of chips.

instead of waking bright and early at 11 and staring forlornly at the 110,000 Exciting Unpaid Internships on Craigslist, be proactive.

Reject them before they reject you.

Find a place where you would not want to work and write them a letter.

Example:

Mr. Bill Gates

Microsoft

The Little Strip Mall at 1835 73rd Ave. NE,

Medina, WA 98039

Dear Bill:

What’s with you? This is like the 4th time I’ve had to explain that I don’t want to work for you. Look at me. You need to stop stalking me and sending me applications and signed blank checks. It just won’t work out. If you try to hire me to run the PR wing of your tedious multi-billion-dollar company, I’m not going to call the police. I’m going to call Jason Miller on “Bully Beatdown” to confront you. You may think you can win $10,000 by defeating a mixed martial arts champion in the ring, but I’ve got news for you, Bill. You can’t. Leave. Me. Alone.

Best wishes for your continued success,

Mrs. Holly Peño

Grants Pass without the “P” Oregon

Important note: Mega-industrial magnates like Bill Gates run sit around their compounds all day in pastel jumpsuits and have an inordinate amount of time on their hands. They would enjoy nothing better than pushing a button and having the Microsoft S.W.A.T. team take you out while watching it from a satellite camera. Point being: Use a fake name.

However, if you are planning on contacting Mr. Gates with a legitimate business proposal, it wouldn’t hurt to use your real name and address so that Mr. Gates knows where to send the 9-figure cashier’s check.

Dear Mr. Gates:

As the chancellor of the Oxnard Oceanographic Defense Group, we have tirelessly worked to make the safety of the world a top priority. Recently, one of our crack research teams invented a process to cross chimpanzees with Great White sharks.

I know. I know. You’re saying: “Wait a second. Wouldn’t that be called a Chrimp? What is that? A hairy little appetizer served in cocktail sauce with a banana?”

No sir. Don’t want to disagree with someone who could blink an eye and make North Korea’s computer crash. But under special laboratory conditions, we’ve already spawned a creature filled with terrible resolve, who, at half-shark, half-ape, can swim the oceans and then use its powerful arms and legs to climb aboard pirate ships or Iranian nuclear submarines, or, for that matter, Latvian divorcees with low self-esteem. At the very least, it would make for a great attraction at Sea World.

Please send your investment participation check to the address below. Rest well knowing that part of the money will go toward Chrimp repellent.

Your pal,

Kevin Costner

But not That Kevin Costner

(use only if your name is actually Kevin Costner)

The Federal Government is apparently immune from any job downturns and is always a great place to job hunt. The problem is unless you write “Passive Aggressive” atop your resume, you’re not going to work there. So. What the heck. Attack first:

Dear President Obama:

Thank you for your recent inquiry about whether I would be interested in working on the next census in 2020. With all the expanded categories and exciting questions (“Do you have any dirty pictures of your wife? No? Would you like to buy some?) it sounds like a fun career. Guaranteed pension at 120 percent your lowest salary. Four hours a week. Six-figure income. But in checking my calendar, I’ll be washing my hair on that date. Thanks for thinking of me.

Sean Hannity

Fox News

Sometimes, it’s best to compose a Reverse Rejection letter short and sweet.

Vikram Pandit

CEO, Citibank

Dear Vikki:

Why are you doing this to me?

Wait a few days for the follow-up:

Vik:

Dude. Sorry. I miswrote. I meant: Why are you doing this to them?

Wait a few more days, then write:

Mr. Pandit:

Hi. I’m them. Why are you doing this to us? And, are there any messages for me?

Sincerely,

The Mormon Tabernacle Choir

P.S. Have you ever noted the irony of running an international bank with a last name that rhymes with Bandit? Speaking of, if you get us several hundred copies of Burt Reynolds’ autography, we’d be, ahem, indebted.

In the end, I suppose if the question ever comes up, you could share with Human Resources:

Hey. I already have a job. I’m being myself.

December 13, 2010 – Adventure #4...

The Burqa makes a powerful statement

for male job hunters while leveling the

playing field in these PC climes. Plus,

under Sharia Law — not to be confused

with Laverne & Shirley law — the

boss can’t pester you.

Dressing Right for that Job Interview

I am Job Hunter. Homo foodstampicus. The new Cro-Magnon for the 21st century and vanguard of an endangered species — the working man.

Today, we’re going to discuss what to wear to your next interview for that job you won’t be getting.

Like most Americans, if you’ve been out of the labor force for a while (national average, as of publication is 14.6 years), you might want to pay a visit to that moth zoo you call a closet, especially if you’re white collar.

Granted. You’ve been laid up on your sofa so your back went out and now you actually do walk like a caveman. Still. Scamper Cheetah-style and check out your business clothes. If you’re a male homo foodstampicus, does your business attire make you look like Link on Mod Squad?

The original 1968 goofball hippie TV series.

Not the pathetic poser film 1999 big screen remake.

Trust me. Unless you’re trying to become vice-president of the Broadway redux Hair, 2011, don’t put on bellbottoms, a paisley shirt and platform shoes for that interview. Especially don’t put them on if you’ve put on 50 pounds because nothing says Wrong For The Job than a semi truck tire inner tube dangerously hovering above a tie-dyed rope belt on a size 28 pair of pants. Don’t try to fit into a Don Johnson/Miama Vice leather spaghetti-thin tie accompanied by a silk sports coat with the sleeves rolled up, either.

Dear me.

What the world needs is a time machine to go back to the 1980s and kill all those people who wore parachute pants and Members Only jackets. (AUTHOR’S NOTE: If there is some high tech company that has such a machine and needs a pilot, please. See Essay #2 on Resume Bloating. I have vast experience visiting other dimensions and eliminating entire races of beings.)

Sidebar about the parachute pants: Scary thought. Most of the people who wore parachute pants are the daft and elderly and currently serving in Congress.

You women foodstampici. Ditto with the retro fashions. Leg warmers, the Cyndi Lopper deranged albeit self-righteous mutant from another planet hairdos and earrings the size of floor lamps send one message and one message only to Human Resources: Disco Slut.

Which actually may work in your favor in these pre-Armageddon hedonistic times because there actually is a company called Disco Slut. It’s a Chinese firm that makes those little rubber tractor bucket armatures for John Deere. Disco Slut is currently hiring thousands, the only proviso being that you speak Mandarin, don’t mind making $2.25 a day, can either relocate or commute, will sign a non-combat with the United States clause contract and will sleep with the boss. A fellow named The Evil Warlord Chang.

Some fashion designers predict a sheer, maxi-dress look for 2011 along with a refined, “lady-like” retro 1950s-60s look. For the men, the Vanilla Ice Look is returning, matched with the popular India Eunuch Look. It’s also a popular 3rd-grade tongue twister. Try saying “India Eunuch Look” real fast, 10 times.

Can’t be done.

What CAN be done, however, in job hunting, is to emulate white rapper Vanilla Ice at your next interview, albeit by adding the India Eunuch Look to your verbal. Grow a ridiculously tall 24-inch pompadour/jelly roll and whenever you are asked a question, wiggle violently and repeat: “Ithe-Ithe-Baby. Ithe-Ithe-Baby.” It shows Human Resources, historically an arm Homerically boring, that you are cutting edge. And no. It's not "EYE-see EYE-see Baby." Try saying Ice as if you pronounced your "Cs" with a "TH." Cripes. No wonder you're out of work.

If you are a woman, and applying for a job, say in India, it really doesn’t matter what you wear. Just memorize the phrase: “I will sleep with you for the job, two goats, the chance to wash your shirt and a baseball card of Gandhi.”

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Mahatma Gandhi, passing as a Puerto Rican, briefly played for the American Negro League for the St. Louis Verile Batsmen from 1919-21, hitting .286 for three seasons. A plucky second baseman, Gandhi, who only weighed 62 pounds, had to quit because the collision of breaking up a double play or getting hit by a pitch could prove fatal.)

These are uncharted waters for unemployment.

For the man, you may have to rethink your appearance to bring in that which is but a distant memory: a paycheck.

You may have to dress like a woman.

Nothing as safe like the Tom Hanks and Peter Scholari TV sitcom, Bosom Buddies. No. We’re talking M.G.S. — Major Gender Subterfuge here. If you want one of those high-paying, do-nothing corporate or government jobs, you might want to consider dressing like a full Sharia Law Muslim lady with everything covered up save for a wire eye slit to allow cable reception inside your one-size-fits-all bathrobe. Add bonus points for adding an eagle feather to the back of your burqa and posing as a Muslim/American Indian. Add more bonus points for putting a number on the back and front of your ensemble and passing as a Muslim/American Indian/Lesbian Softball Player. Major Corporate/Government PC points, plus, under Sharia Law, you’ll never have to speak to your employers nor probably have to even go to work because they’ll be scared your husband will make a scene in the lunch break room involving ordnance and a high-pitched lecture with lots of “L’s,” “M’s,” and “A’s.”

This is going way back into American television folklore, but some of you older job hunters might recall Islam’s first rodeo TV series: Stony Burqa.

NEXT EPISODE OF JOB HUNTER: Should you take a club to that Job Interview?

November 19, 2010 – Adventure #2...

How to Bloat One’s Resume

I am Job Hunter. Homo foodstampicus. The new Cro-Magnon for the 21st century and vanguard of an endangered species — the working man.

The key to not finding a job in this uncertain economic epoch is building a good resume. Not building a good CV, mind you. A good resume.

CV is supposed to stand for Curriculum Vitae — a paean to a life — your life — that has gone terribly wrong. You never got to run a winery or own your own cattle ranch. You never got to be a ballerina, play in the NFL or host your own cooking show on cable. No. You spent a life getting useless degrees, sitting on useless blue ribbon commissions for the inbred and addled while wasting decades nodding in feigned agreement. And no, you're unemployed. Forever. Still, you hunt.

If you want a job, don’t use a CV. Human resource departments joke that it stands for “Crushed Vitality.” It cries “sissy” and soft hands. No. If you’re going to pretend you’re going to get a job, what you is need what working people call a “resume.”

We are in unforgiving climes where entire species of job descriptions have become extinct overnight. With that comes a new, refreshing ethical flexibility. Still. You don’t necessarily want to share what you’ve been doing recently. Unless you’re applying for a job with organized crime or a Las Vegas union, which may actually be one in the same, no employer wants to read:

1992-to-Present — Fought elderly woman for free government cheese.

As employment experts and consultants note:

“This is not a prolonged moment of depression and tragedy preceded by eaten alive by a saber tooth tiger right before you qualify for Social Security. Unemployment is an opportunity for exciting change.”

Don’t laugh.

The same line got a doofus with less than no experience whatsoever the top job on the planet.

Many of today’s top human resource consultants suggest honesty in your resume.

Of course, if you can remember back to the time when you DID have a job, you will recall that a consultant is someone who knows 99 ways to have sex but doesn’t know any women. Or men. Or whatever.

Still. The question arises: How honest:

1992-to-Present — Depressed. Slept a lot. Hid in neighbor’s bushes so I could watch their big screen TV. Couldn’t watch my own big screen TV because it was repossessed. Then, there was that bothersome electricity thing. They stopped delivering it. Was on the ground floor being in on Reality TV.

No matter how you slice it, honesty sucks canal water. Have you ever heard of a happy ending to honestly answering your wife’s query: “Be honest. Do I look fat in these nylon parachute pants from the ‘80s?”

Nope. Face it. Our ancient ancestors had to hunt to find food. They starved to death. You’re going to have to lie on your resume to not get that dream job that is not awaiting you.

You see, this is not about impressing a future boss. This is about entertaining yourself as you enter this twilight where time no longer exists, where concepts like Wednesday or September are just dim memories of a life that used to be.

One key thing to remember is that in this divisive political climate, there are only two kinds of employers: wacky meat-hat liberal and death-to-traitors conservative. If you’re applying for a job testing organic sunblock run by a cult of passive-aggressive New Hampshire granola-eaters, you don’t want to mention that you were ever in the armed services or, for that matter, ever took P.E. or a shower in junior high. A good thing to put on your resume if you’re applying for a green job is something like:

1992-to-Present — Meditated.

Me. I’m more conservative. I like to put on my resume things like:

That's me, the guy in the hat,

right behind Putin.

1992-to-Present — Former captain of state-of-the-art stealth Russian nuclear submarine The Peter Ustinov. Oversaw crew of 240 men. Duties included patrolling North Pole and killing people from different walks of life. Defected in 2006, became U.S. citizen and served in U.S. House of Representatives, but was forced out by Nancy Pelosi after unfortunate incident where I beat a lobbyist from the Sierra Club nearly to death. Helped form the Tea Party. Don’t have much of a drinking problem. Will relocate.

There. Don’t you just feel better about yourself already just reading either one of these entries?

Some might ask: “What happens if I applied for a high-paying job as a brain surgeon? What if I actually get the job and I don’t have any experience?”

First, it’s not that hard. Second, they now have things called robots in medicine. Third, and most importantly, is change.

In the modern work place, change is the constant. It doesn’t matter what experience you have. Every 20 seconds, some nerd with an overbite has invented a confounding and aggravating piece of technology that will completely mess up any work environment. It could be a new piece of software, a machine so complicated no one knows how to operate it or the company is sold and now you have to learn Swedish/Hindi. If, by some lotto-winning Hail Mary chance you did land a job in a field where you have absolutely no experience, rest assured. You will be trained. Extensively. In fact, as the years progress, you will spend more time being trained than time actually working.

So. Work on livening up that resume with a bold abandon. Put down you were Mayor of Miami, Florida. (Prior, make sure to write a Wikipedia entry, complete with beach pictures of you Photoshopped into the article). Claim to have started GreenPeace or that you’re THAT Proctor of Proctor & Gamble. Heavens. If you’re looking for some cushy position with A.A.R.P., put in that you led troops in seven major engagements during the Civil War.

Then, when you drag yourself to the bathroom mirror in between segments of The Fox Business Report, you can arch your shoulders back, look at that reflection proudly, smile and say: “Look at you. You’re a former Russian nuclear submarine captain.”

Or, “I’ve been meditating for 18 years. Bring on the whole damn universe because I’m ready to take it on. Or not. Because who knows if the universe is actually there?”

NEXT EPISODE OF JOB HUNTER: The 25 Best Unemployment Movies of All Time.

November 15, 2010 – Adventure #1...

You'll Never Work Again. Get Used to it.

I am Job Hunter. Homo foodstampicus. The new Cro-Magnon for the 21st century and vanguard of an endangered species - the working man.

I may be like you. I have an 846-pound resume with more accommodations in my field than a former U.S.S.R. fleet admiral. Recommendations? Up, down, sideways, cross-cross and betwixt the ying-yang.

All right. Wait a second. I'm one of those psychological types, right? Trouble-maker? Late to work? More yearly sick days taken than the combined total for Bangladesh?

No.

I'm beyond productive. I'm strong. Brave. Run fast. I'm easy to get along with. Like an old Broadway musical, I'm the guy who cheerily vaults to a tree stump to belt out the corporate song to a grinning community. I've made tons of money for the mother ship. In my profession, I'm recognized as one of the best in the country at what I do.

And I will probably never work at a job ever again.

Like many of you in the Old Boy and Old Girl Network, I'm that alleged irreplaceable person they fired to save $10,000 so they could lose $11.5 million.

For months stretching into years now I've been MWJ (Man Without Job). Oh, I've been working. Working like a dog. I just haven't been collecting - what's that word I used to know so well?

A paycheck.

At first, I fought the ghost that haunted me. I polished up the curriculum vitae. Took meetings. Early on, I applied for jobs that were the next rung up the corporate ladder. As the savings dwindled, I broadened my horizons (Job Hunting Translation: lowered my standards), took more meetings and found myself smiling out of context and nodding enthusiastically when the 26-year-old sub-director of Human Resources gurgles over his company like he's narrating NFL Films: "Why, Goobertron is nothing less than the leader in the exciting field of fiduciary text residual simian flux flow enablers!"

I think I applied for a job as collector of used industrial monkey suppositories.

Which, with my work ethic, I would have been good at.

Which, I did not get.

Too bad.

It had good benefits.

Oh the meat heads with whom I've broken bread. I remember being out of work years ago. In between white-collar stints, I was a ranch hand. I got a call two complete mountain ranges away for a six-figure gig on The Miracle Mile in Los Angeles.

"I know this is such short notice, but we saw your r�sum� and I'm just dying to meet you!" said TBH (The Boss Himself). "This is so important to me. Could you make it here in 90 minutes?"

I'm covered in hay, dust, sweat, salt, dried sweat, animal parts, mud, caked-on sweat, creosote, diesel soot, DDT and probably dead birds.

"Well. You caught me in the middle of a work-out, but I'll hop in the shower and see you in an hour and change," I said, nonchalantly as I possibly could. I said "Good-bye" or "Tootles," which ever was the power adios of the for management back then. Standing in the orchard, I screamed, undressed, showered under an irrigation pipe, ran into the house nude, got into my best James Bond I Don't Really Need The Job Terrible Expensive Slacks & Sports Coat and nearly blew an engine in my 3.4-cylinder Chevy Vega, passing Bugattis, state police and invisible nuclear particles, covering 70 miles in 40 minutes. I not only found the penthouse with time to spare but spent that month's electric bill on Wilshire Blvd. valet parking.

The CEO ran passed his two covergirl and smiling personal secretaries and a receptionist to greet me. Guiding me into an executive office the size of an aircraft hanger, he poured me a brandy. I thought the hurry was that we were going out to lunch so he could talk to me heading up his new PR division. I was going to like working here. The man grinned warmly, asking me questions, laughing in all the right places. He marveled at my interesting life, asked me what I was doing and confessed the regrets of paths he should have taken.

We were compadres. Soul mates.

Three minutes later, TBH checked his watch, patted me on the arm as he guided me out the door and said: "You know, this company isn't even remotely right for you. But you had such an interesting and clever r�sum�, I really had to meet you. I'm so glad I did."

I'm standing at the elevator. He does an about-face to retrieve the glass. Then, I'm all alone.

And still jobless.

Soupkitchen

No thanks for interrupting you in the middle of pretending of the performance art that has become your life pretending you're a Dark Ages peasant digging for potatoes. No validating the $9,000 parking. No offer to introduce me to some other connected inbred suit.

It hit me with clarity. I could be stuck forever in a psychotic mouse wheel, forever hunting for a job that I will never capture.

And that may not be such a bad thing.

ADVENTURE #2 - The Killer Job Hunter Resume

John Boston has more than 100 major national, regional and California words for writing and was recently named Best Humor Columnist by the National Society of Newspaper Columnists. Again.

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