Bubonic technotronic

I Don’t Know Why…

…they always ask in a job interview “So why do you want this job?”  This is an eternally stupid question, especially if it’s a retail job, or a job at an establishment that serves 3 foods together in a paper rectangle which you order as a “basket.”  I mean, I haven’t sat through an interview for one of these jobs for a LOOOONG time (partly because I’ve been employed in retail ever since I can remember and vowed to cut my hands off before reaching the level of applying for a foodservice job ever again) so I imagine they’ve dropped this from the interview procedure.  Maybe not, because I’m pretty sure that The Company For Which I Currently Work still requires one to splop out something about loving sneakers, and enthusiasm, and winning, and, ugh, passion…and about really wanting to stick it to the Cambodians who have to make the shoes and deserve a life of torture, anywayyyy.

But when they ask you this question at an interview for, oh, say, an administrative assistant job, for, say, a moving company…what the fuck are you supposed to say?  “Oh, I just really feel alive when I’m administrative assistanting.”  I would find it delightfully refreshing to sit across from a girl who would say, “You know what?  I need the money.  And I am prepared to work for it.  So let’s get it on.”

Not that anyone has called me for any administrative assistant jobs, or any other of the five hundred million trillion jobs in Chicago and the suburbs I’ve applied for.  I’m convinced, though thorough testing and re-testing has proven otherwise, that when my resumé and cover letters are emailed, they translate into some freakish loser language, and the pages are stark white except for the words “Bloop, bloop, bloop!”

Would someone please call me and make sure my phone works?

I Don’t Know Why…

…I get some kind of pleasure out of watching Intervention.  I mean, it’s not funny to watch a fat bitch place bets on horse races while her four year old eats out of the trash can in the bathroom.  It’s not funny.  Come on.  It’s not.  Hey.

Aside from that, it’s just not entertaining to watch these jackoffs steal from their families, smoke crack, say stupid, boneheaded things into the camera, play some wacked-out songs on their guitars under a bridge somewhere, all for the last thirty seconds of the show, which only reveals a picture of their obese, sober ass fresh out of rehab, then a couple of lines about when they relapsed.  It’s usually like, thirty minutes after the camera crew left.

So whyyyy do I waaatch it helloooooooo?

I Don’t Know Why…

…I keep turning on my TV because EVERY TIME I TURN ON MY TV I’M LIKE WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT ON MY TV?

I Don’t Know Why…

…I can’t figure out which bills I forgot to pay this month, but I do know that yesterday in 1348 was the first day the bubonic plague showed up in England.  Hollerrrr!