Depressalin: Chapter 5 “Take This Job and Shove It Up Your Ass”

I figured this would make for a good Saturday addition. Hopefully no one is TOO offended by this one. Then again, if you’re offended, you shouldn’t be reading this at all (for your own sake… I mean, why would you read something you dislike?). For the rest of you sick, evil jerks out there: Enjoy!

See you… in HELL.” — Suicide Commando “See You in Hell

Let’s face it, the now-old saying is right: Work sucks.

I don’t mean the kinda work like this. I enjoy writing. Sure, I’m usually an unmotivated and lazy writer who may or may not blow deadlines, depending on how motivated I am at the time (read: not drunk, depressed or fighting ninjas on behalf of children everywhere), but I love putting words to a page. Or a screen. Whatever. Thing is, I severely dislike having what is known in The Industry as a “DAYJOB”.

Yeah, it’s all-caps like that.

Having a DAYJOB sucks enormous bags of dicks of all kinds of nautical worker origins. There’s no other way to put it, honestly. When I worked my DAYJOB I wanted to murder myself every second of every minute.

Of every fucking hour.

When I moved to Canada with my wife, I didn’t take any time to ponder just what would become of my life should Charon decide that I, much like a DAYJOB, suck a bag of dicks and should be kicked to the curb as she did with so many of her childhood dreams. Oh, but kick me to me to the curb she did, and there I was left on that cold curb in December wondering what the fuck I was going to do.

But Charon had some of that shit planned out, and since I needed money right away, I was forced to sign a very disagreeable Separation Agreement. Within a month I was begging her for money, because before I had completely depended on her—being a House Husband who wasn’t even allowed to have his own bank account or drive, even—and I all of a sudden had nothing.

“Get a job, Steve.” Charon had told me.

Jesus, did I ever try. Ever attempt to get work in Canada with no Canadian work history, no Canadian credit history, and sponsored immigrant status? It didn’t matter I was already a permanent resident. Nope, no one gave a fuck. I was turned down from job after job after job after fucking job. I couldn’t even get work at McDonald’s for shit’s sake. I was told all manner of limp-dick reasons why I wasn’t getting hired anywhere. But I knew why. I was too old. Too educated. Too much of this or that. Prospective employers viewed me as a risk because they knew I would quit my new job as soon as something better came along.

OF COURSE I WOULD QUIT A LAME FUCKING JOB GIVEN THE CHANCE. DO YOU WANT TO FLIP BURGERS, SERVE DRUNKS OR WORK AT BLOCKBUSTER FOR-FUCKING-EVER?!

Yes, the caps were necessary. Shut it.

Eventually… like seven months later eventually, a couple of local friends hooked me up with a job working at a consumer electronics store chain. Right away I knew, and accepted, the corporate retail monkey-slave bullshit I would have to endure. At first, I didn’t mind. I had work and thus food and rent. And just in time, too, as Charon was insisting on cutting me off the lavish $500 a month stipend she was doling out to me from the bottom of her kind heart.

That’s oozing with sarcasm, by the way. $500 was, and still is, nothing. But she made me feel bad because I was taking a part of the $90k a year she made which was put to better use supporting our children, her need to drink any pain away, and finding a new Steven.

Seriously, there was a new Steven. How messed up is THAT?

Anyhow, I was delighted to be able to spend my newfound princely earnings of around or just less than $1000 a month on hookers and blow*.

(*Food and rent. Maybe a couple comic books. But mainly food and rent.)

Working a DAYJOB for the first time in about six years was weird, admittedly. After a while, the weirdness wore off and then it just started to, well, suck.

There is a crap potpourri of reasons why a job like that sucks. Firstly, it’s a store in a mall. A fucking MALL. I’d never had the pleasure of working in a mall; a shopping destination for idiot fucktards the world over. I simply cannot fully explain in words how hellish mall-work is.

Don’t worry, I’m gonna try anyway.

Now, I understand lots of poor motherfuckers drew the short straw in life and are stuck in mall-hell; stuck in the confined Stepford Village that represents the very best of the worst of capitalism. There are, of course, the scumbags who frequent malls, bothering “sales associates” (that’s the nice term for “overworked, underpaid schlubs”) with their stupid talk of whatever it is they want to talk about. These people don’t bother me, as I have a very Bukowskian view on things, and tend to find these scumbags to be entertaining. It’s even better if they’re drunk or high on something, like PCP or glue.

And a mall in Canada? Priceless. You can’t work that kind of shit-job without becoming, or seeming to become, a little racist in your worldview, either. Natives (First Nations– what Canadians call Injuns) usually show up before closing at 9pm with small kids in tow and their teenagers who also have their own small kids in tow (and those small kids probably have kids of their very own). These teens are usually pregnant with the next batch of oddities, as well. Native groups tend to waste your time, steal shit and call you a racist when you say “Hey, stop stealing shit, please”.

Please insert the obligatory “Not all First Nations people are thieves and/or racists” here. Of course not all Natives are bad. It’s stupid to even think that. In fact, I totally dig Native American / First Nations cultures and fully support their rights to their own identity. So shut the fuck up, you armchair moralists.

The “Bad Stereotype Natives” I got to deal with at the Mall Hell Store tended to have an angle on something they wanted, and complained frequently. Always a charming bunch, and while I don’t agree with racism, I can see why the usual beer-swilling hockey-kultur white bread Canuckistani spews horrible judgement on an entire ethic line (or lines) based on those late night shoppers I had to deal with.

I could write an entire book on how First Nations people are basically the African-Americans of Canada (or Vancouver Island, at least) as far as the whole Racism Paradigm works in these parts. It’s a whole interesting frustration of living here all unto its own. Moving on…

Next up were the Asian Tourists. They shop like they allegedly drive. Slow, without reason, and typically in a rude fashion. They won’t speak English and become frustrated with you if you can’t understand their iPod or iPhone needs right off the bat.

It’s always about iPods and iPhones, too.

Arabs liked to haggle. As if they didn’t get the memo on how shit works in these parts for the last fifty years. I usually did well with them, as I didn’t think they’d blow up the store in an Allah-induced rage. In fact, I always gave them the respect I gave anyone else. But wow, did they love to haggle. And haggle they would, almost always to the point of complete, soul-twisting irritation.

There’s more to be said about other types, but it becomes boring, and, well, racist. Truthfully, most people I got in the store were nice people with normal needs and attitudes, regardless of their creed, colour or genetic make-up. The real douchebags, the real all-star cockholes are White, and they are Upper Middle Class.

You’ll notice I have a huge hard-on for upper middle class people. That’s because nearly all of them are true assholes of the highest calibre. They should be weaponized and used against… someone or something. When the alien invaders from another galaxy show up, all we have to do is throw some fucking soccer moms from the ‘burbs at them and they’ll turn right the fuck around and get the fuck home, and only after they offer some kind of chittering apology in their own language in the vain hope we won’t finally band together and shoot all those upper middle class jag-offs into space in a final desperate act of FUCK YOU to the universe.

Yeah, I know. Wishful thinking on my part.

I guess I have said hard-on for Upper Middle Class douchebags (a redundancy, I know) because I’ve seen them from both sides of the fence. They’re all the same, too. Even the ones who don’t want to be the same—and I am no exception, okay? The advent of semi-rich corporate worker bees basically controlling all the lower aspects of society is a global calamity on par with the bubonic plague, Ebola-laced AIDS, nuclear holocausts and reality television.

They are all who reside here who are not poor people. Those who fall in between are the children of the upper middle class. The poor here in Victoria rent rooms from those of the UMC who have fallen on rougher times and need to keep up payments on their new second car, which is a BMW SUV.

And they shop at the mall. All of them. The poor people I didn’t mind, and they tend to bitch about high prices on cables and mp3 players. The semi-rich ones bitch about prices, too, which boggles the mind… those prices and their ability to afford them are what set them apart from the dirty, unwashed masses who serve them their drinks, who pack their grocery bags and who sell them overpriced batteries and cables.

Cunts. All of them.

(I guess I should say “Well, not all Upper Middle Class sorts are bad. I know a very many who are kind, sweet people, etc”. But, hey, I’m on a roll; so screw it.)

What’s even better is how they come up with subtle ways to put you down while you try to work a shit job to afford high rent on sub-standard housing (which they tend to own).

It is rather heartbreaking to see a mom point at you and tell her son that if his grades continue to drop, or if he won’t listen to her sage advice, he will end up working in a mall come his mid-30s.

Hey, bitchy McBitch bitch, I don’t work there any more, but if you’re lucky maybe your son will grow up to be a famous writer and secure his retirement from the royalties he receives on all the books he wrote on being brought up by suburban assholes like you.

There’s always hope.

It’s evident I didn’t mention the true enemy of everyone: the corporate dicks who run companies like the one I worked for. Let it be said that my co-workers were, and still are, hideously wonderful people who I think only the best of. The corporate overlords, however, are a different story. I think I’ll save those musings for another Chapter.

I mean, they deserve that much.

In summation, while I hated working at the Mall Mines, I did enjoy my job enough to almost regret writing this, should I ever need that DAYJOB again. Showing up to work and doing my thing was fine. My former co-workers and bosses are fine individuals who are young, driven and awesome. But I just mentioned how cool they are. I suppose it needed mentioning again.

But did I also mention my latest former DAYJOB paid eight bucks an hour plus a little bit more for commission? Yeah. Not exactly all that awesome.

Really, I’m just universe-shattering happy I was able to move on to writing professionally full-time.

Hah! Suckers.

Advertisements

2 Responses to “Depressalin: Chapter 5 “Take This Job and Shove It Up Your Ass””

  1. “It is rather heartbreaking to see a mom point at you and tell her son that if his grades continue to drop, or if he won’t listen to her sage advice, he will end up working in a mall come his mid-30s.”

    Dang, that’s effed up.

    • Ain’t it, though? To be fair, I did have some awesome parents who would tell their kids that if they went into sales, they hoped they’d be as good as me.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: