I was born. I suffered.
I suffered some more, and hopefully,
I won't die a painful death.
This is my life.

Job interview tips for the damned.

It is time once again for another job interview. Hearing those words usually makes me want to break a beer bottle and stick it into my neck. This is a brutal pressure cooker that I liken to a Gestapo interrogation. I have been on so many interviews, I have post traumatic stress syndrome. When the new job actually has the potential to bring some sort of relief from the monotony, I get really excited.

Unfortunately, most employers still use the same stale old questions for everyone they interview. With the help of a certain soulless bank manager, let's call him Craig, I have compiled a list of common questions that make old school bosses cream their pants. I will give the question then the answer I want to give, and then what I should say.

1. What do you know about our company?
BAD: Nothing. I just emailed my resume to someone on Monster.com. Your receptionist is smokin' hot though.
GOOD: (Have a printout from company website from the "about us" link) You have many very interesting projects and clients listed on your website, can you tell me a little more about your client list?
2. What are your strengths and your weaknesses?
BAD: I am very good at video games. I have a weakness for taking a liquid lunch.
GOOD: I have a voracious need to learn and I thrive on challenge. My only weakness is that I try to do too much at one time. But, I am a great multitasker, so I always get my work done.
3. Where do you look to be 3 years from now?
BAD: I want to be an international playboy.
GOOD: I would like to find a nice stable position with the opportunity for growth.
4. What do you do in your current job?
BAD: I stare at a computer screen for eight hours a day. My office building is in the landing path of the Syracuse airport, you see, so I just sit there and hope that a jet loses an engine. Oh! Did I say that out loud? Sorry.
GOOD: I am one of the lucky few in my company that gets to compile all of the data from our various environmental remediation projects and prepare it for our clients.
5. What do you like most about your current job?  What do you like least?
 BAD: My office is five minutes from my apartment.  The pathetic amount of pay that I receive only allows me to afford $100 a month in food and soon I will be forced to sell sexual favors in back alleys.  That and I can't wear shorts to work.
GOOD:  Being involved in the cleanup efforts of many environmental disaster sites, is what makes my job at the end of the day worthwhile.  I was hoping at this stage in my career to be making a salary worthy of my talents.

 Those are just a few of the random dronings that can be launched at you during an interview.  If you learn to bite your tongue and say the right things, you too can be gainfully employed in the paper-pushing middle management position of your dreams.

Come on shoddy American inspecting of jet engine bolts!

Fun with bone saws.

When I am home sitting in my one chair and watching World War II documentaries on The Military Channel, I often wonder what job could be worse than mine? I have come up with an answer. That answer is: Civil War Battlefield Surgeon.

Yup, being knee deep in blood, body parts and beards had to have been worse than copying and pasting all day long. I know what you're thinking: "Eric, sawing off shattered limbs all day sounds exciting." Yes, it does have a certain morose attraction. Let's see what an actual battlefield surgeon has to say about it. Here is a nice quote from eHistory.com: "We operated in old blood-stained and often pus-stained coats, we used undisinfected instruments from undisinfected plush lined cases. If a sponge (if they had sponges) or instrument fell on the floor it was washed and squeezed in a basin of water and used as if it was clean"
Yumaay. What a 'bedside manner' you would have to have. Actually, it would be like being a barber. They would say things like: "If gangrene develops, come back and I can trim a little more off."

So next time you're sitting in your little gray cubicle, take a moment and reflect upon those poorly trained bearded men hacking off some poor bastard's extremities, and tell yourself, "At least I can get to Facebook at work."

Skin and Pizza

When you work in an office with eighty some odd people, there are bound to be things that disturb you on a daily basis. Close talkers, loud talkers, bad breath and body oder come to mind.

This where I do my Rabbi Glickman from Seinfeld impersonation. There is a person in my office, let's call him Marty. Well, Marty seems to have an overwhelming urge to pick at his skin. He will do this in his office. He does it in meetings, and just walking through the hall. You will see him walk by and his hands will be probing and prodding his head face and arms. Now this would be all fine and dandy if not for one little point. What "prizes" he finds automatically go into his mouth.

Yes, bits of skin, scabs, zits, and magic nose goblins all go into that mug. It is great fun. It is also sure to kill the enthusiasm of any chili cook-off. I have a lovely time averting my eyes from him in various office shindigs, as to not hurl my vegetable soup all over the floor. And I need all the nourishment I can get.

As I was thinking about writing this last week, the planets aligned, massive sunflares or some other cosmic bullshit intervened and Marty was let go. I can't help thinking that in some weird way, I was responsible. Now that's just the bees knees. Nothing can put a half smile on my face like the thought of me causing someone else misery.

With all this talk of office functions, to me, one word comes to mind, pizza. Yes, that saturated fat laden greasy blob of cheesy cardboard. Delish. But for the tightwads in corporate america, it is a godsend. Like a British hooker, it's cheap and nasty. For any non-client paid meeting in my office we have, only pizza is provided. I swear, the pizza shop our pies come from must get their cheese from a moulded plastics factory. This doesn't curtail anyone's fervor for mowing this sludge down. Oh no, not the cows in my office. Like a dog going down on a bored housewife's peanut butter- smeared crotch, they go to town. OM NOM NOM.

On the other hand, meetings paid for by a client are spectacular events with salads, and panini sandwiches. This is comparable to first class on a trans-atlantic flight. Those who aren't invited to the fancy meetings, i.e., the poor slobs in steerage, can only stare into the conference room and dream.

Oh well that's the seemingly never-ending misery called life. So raise a slice, pick your nose, and Marty, wherever you are, drive those poor bastards in the next company insane.

Samuel Adams Summer Ale

If you are one of those poor unfortunates who have never tasted a Samuel Adams Summer Ale, I can honestly say that I am luckier than you. One taste of its' citrusy flavor will melt some of your hellacious problems away.  

 Now for some of the Bud drinking drones out there, their sheeple taste buds will be overwhelmed. They will be forced to follow the Summer Ale with the usual.  Do not fault them for there is not enough room in our club.  

 So go out to the nearest store and pick up a pack.  Ding Hao.


Drinking alcoholic beverages will not produce long lasting happiness

Your life will be just as pathetic

Alcohol will increase the risk of waking up next to a hag

"Death Becomes Me" will not be held responsible for any of the above

Divorced and hating it

As a supplement to this weeks blog, I have just received word from my lawyer that I'm now legally divorced.  Before you get all silly on me,  I don't want to hear any "yeehaws", "congrats", or "see, things are getting better",  bullshit.  My lawyer mentioned, but not included his additional fee above and beyond his retainer.  No doubt, this searing rectal agony will throw a monkey wrench into any partying in the immediate future.

I'm sure that the three letters written, and one court appearance, will amount to an insurmountable bill that will require the selling of miscellaneous electronics, sperm, and pirated dvd collection.  Life is good.

Dating tips for the clinically depressed.

Spring is here and love is in the air. OK. I know, I know, you're saying, "Eric, people who want to hurl themselves in front of a bus need some lovin' too?" Yeah, sad but true. Though, there is sort of a problem with this scenario. It's hard to attract the opposite sex, or the same sex if you swing that way, when you HATE the world.

There is hope. You too can follow a few short tips to find the love of your life, or at least one that won't hang up on you when you call them.

Location. Location. Location. The best places for the morbidly depressed to meet are not bars and parties. Instead, one must retool one's thinking. Hospitals, doctor's offices, funerals, are all great places to meet people.

The more horrible the place or event the better. With death, dismemberment, root canals, prostate exams, blood work, and pelvic exams all around you, your sad demeanor can be masked. For instance, you are sitting in your dentist's office waiting to be poked and scraped for your bi-yearly cleaning, and you see and beautiful young Fraulein across the room. You notice that she is nervous and shifting around in her chair. Strike up a conversation. Say things like: "You know dentists have the greatest number of suicides by profession." Or: "I hate when the hygienist tells me my gums are bleeding. Yeah, no shit, you just rammed that pick an inch into my gum line." Trust me, laughs will ensue.

Following this simple plan will ensure at least a couple of dates before the other person finds out what a wretched and horrible mess you really are.

Next week: Disgusting personal habits of co-workers. Plus: How much pizza can you possibly eat?

How to annoy the ex in three easy steps.

Originally, I was going to write about dealing with the IRS this week, but the tears running down my face, arms, and hands will short out my keyboard.  Therefore, this week's topic will be how to annoy your ex in three easy steps.

1) Get a low-paying part-time job.  With such meager restitution your part-time job cannot merit paying a baby sitter.  Guess what?  The ex must watch the kids when you work.  Now don't get too cocky.  You will end up being bludgeoned by the harpy somehow.  But like Superman taking a kryptonite enema, the ex will feel some sort of discomfort.  So raise a half-smile and drop that kid off at the witch's castle.

2) Tell your 11 year old daughter that you agree to buy a her complete Goth wardrobe for the upcoming school year.  Yes! I can die a happy man, well not really.  My offspring has inherited my unique outlook on life.  And by unique, I mean napalming every person on the planet.  My daughter wants to become a vampire and change her name to Raven.  I know what you're saying, "Eric, you can't let a little girl dress like Rob Zombie."  Yes, I can.  Currently, her "look" is hooker makeup and a push-up bra.  So yeah, black nail polish and a dog collar will be an improvement.  Best of all the ex will despise you.  Prepare for hate emails and text messages.

3) Kill them...with kindness.  Give them compliments like, "Wow, that tight shirt really hides the stomach cellulite."  Does the wretched ex have a new significant other?  Make comments along the lines of, "Your new boyfriend sounds really boring."  Or, "Man, if you get pregnant, with both your set of genes, that kid is going to look like Captain Caveman."   Anything to plant that seed of doubt in their evil little brain to make them say, "You know, he's not so bad after all.  In fact, he's a friggin catch."

Remember, you don't want the ex back.  The unrelenting pain and agonizing stress would be too great to overcome.

Honey, call me.  Please!

Next week: Dating tips for the clinically depressed.