The Interview

There really was no point in the man telling me not to count my chickens before they hatch. At this point, I don’t even own a chicken. But that’s what these bogus fancy folks with their alligator shoes tell you when they really have nothing better to say. Could he possibly get any more predictable or cliché? I know who this guy is. He’s the type that looks at his blackberry when he speaks instead of looking at you. His only knowledge of hockey sticks is a spike in sales at the end of a quarter. He is the same pathetic schmuck who as kid would search through a box of old National Geographic magazines to find the issue with the tribe of topless African women. If I didn’t need the job so badly I would have told the man with a red hat to screw himself.

It was an odd interview, to say the least, but the candidate pool was down just down to two. I was there and the other guy was 10 minutes late. In my book, that means the job should be mine, but according to Mr. Red Hat, these things can’t be rushed. He was actually going to ask us questions at the same time and have us answer in debate style. It’s amazing what you’ll put yourself through when you have no other way to feed the little mouths waiting for you at home. My own mouth was parched and I must have already gone through a gallon of water waiting for my competitor to arrive. Mr. Red Hat’s office was eclectic. The US Flag was prominently displayed next to his desk. Red Hat was a WWII vet and had the pleasure of meeting Byron Nelson over Thai food after his record breaking 18 win year in 1945. Red Hat looked very nervous and fidgeted in his chair like a Mexican jumping bean. What the hell was he so nervous about? I was the one who needed the money. He slid open the drawer, pulled out some sort of liquid concoction, and thanked me for my generous donation. With speed that didn’t seem possible for him to possess, he placed a rag over my nose and the scalpel came into view just as my eyes began to lose focus.