As anyone not blessed with independent means or the bliss of Urdummheit (the primal stupidity of livestock and Vice-Presidential timber) is aware, the job market sucks wormwood and will not improve until all of us are locked into career tracks doing things we loathe. The people who make the decisions about this stuff have decided to fuck us, specifically us, and are not going to be reasoned with. Honest. If you don’t believe me, read Nostradamus; page 154, I think. Not that I think you will need convincing - really, if you had a positive attitude and job prospects, you wouldn’t even know where to find this magazine, and would you be reading it? No, you’d be home, reading mass-produced Saf-T-Porn and jerking off with one of your Mom’s jaunty yellow Playtex gloves.
The only people happy about this are told-you-so Collegiate Trust-Fund Marxists, who are thankfully mostly vegetarians and thus one step closer to the glorious day when their prating will cease to echo in sensible people’s coffee shops, and Temp Agencies. Imagine, if you will, the joy in the clotted hearts of the chief executives at Temps Indentured upon seeing the most overeducated generation of Americans since that wave of effete Brits besotted with Rousseau came over to write dreary novels and cough themselves to death in the woods blunder out of top colleges to find: Jack D. Shit. No Jobs. No glot, clom back 2035. Imagine the warmth spreading through the greasy loins of the Chickenhawk Pimps at the Greyhound station upon seeing a full busload of dewy blond teenage runaways disembark, shivering in thin jackets, eyes dull from hunger, sadness, and need.
Hey kid, you okay? You need a job? You may run now, retching with horror at the prospect, but we’ll see you again. And again. And sooner or later, you’ll come to us. We’ll dress you up how our customers like to see you, we’ll teach you how to service them, we’ll send you out to them on call, and you’ll get your little cut of the hefty fee we charge them. You don’t like it? You feel degraded? Your poor little wrists are sore? Fine, baby. Go find your own work. See how you like McDonald’s and minimum wage.
Thanks, guys. Thanks for health insurance after X number of hours, nice that you have total control over how many hours we get. Thanks for the experience, which no prospective employer will take seriously. Thanks for charging an exorbitant headhunting fee to discourage any customer who might offer us a position. Thanks for forgetting who’s going to be running things when you get old and helpless. It’s going to be a real party when we gut medicare and social security and bulldoze your cancerous carcasses into mass graves by the highways.
In the meanwhile, remember that a disgruntled employee with access to computer
systems can profit immensely by pirating software and can also with a minimum of expertise do untold (and untraceable) damage. And, since a temp will not be there to be inconvenienced by damage done, there is no incentive beyond compassion not to appropriate or monkeywrench everything in sight just to keep the day going. And compassion is a rare flower.
1 That’s right, the “Uberloser Guy”.
