I am borderline-unemployable. Work ethic is an utterly foreign concept to me. My dedication to my own unprofitable, doomed interests at the expense of my employer, or potential employers’ insignificant concerns is so all-encompassing, so voracious, it could single-handily shred the last remaining fibers of the American Dream. My job experience is flimsy and sporadic at best, my resume almost entirely void of integrity, its ginormous gaps cauterized by epic bullshit. Swap my communications degree from a top-75 university (8 years ago… still counts!) for a GED and a felony prison record, sprinkle in my pre-existing disdain for work, and BAM… America’s Worst Job Candidate.
All I have going for me is my youthful Boy-Next-Door looks that temporarily mask the depraved demon within. If you make the grave error of hiring me, congratulations. You just shepherded your company down a path to certain bankruptcy, and downgraded your personal reputation into Unflattering First Date Google Search territory.
And now, in honor of my bumbling miscarriage of a job search, whose highlight thus far has been a post-brain-injury CEO, after first pitching her Somalian Pirates-kidnap-Jennifer Lopez-playing-her movie idea, kicking our interview into high gear by casually telling me “I like pieces of you”… I present an abridged version of my life, in resume form. My Soul-Crushing Life Resume:
RESUME
Harry Aspen: Writer/Masturbater Masturbater/Masturbater
OBJECTIVE: To destroy a corporation from the inside out of sheer systematic self-scorn, to thoroughly besmirch a potential employer’s reputation by a mere association with me, and to definitively castrate any distant notion of a promising future for myself.
EXPERIENCE:
- I peed on my dad’s face when I was one day old. You hire me, and I’ll probably symbolically piss on your face, too.
- As a toddler, I let the cute girl next door trick me into eating orange rinds, while she ate the juicy slices of sweet, delicious orange. Hmm, wonder if she’s on Facebook…
- I suck at fighting. I was small and scrawny, and I would inevitably start crying at some point during every neighborhood fight in elementary school. Realizing I was the hapless Polish peasants tossing sticks and rocks at Nazi tanks, I adapted my get-punched-and-cry fighting style. I went for the balls. FYI, targeting the gonads is the great equalizer for an emotionally-unbalanced twerp with savage douchebag neighbors. I vividly remember the day I shouted “BALL ROOM DANCING!” as an extremely pathetic, underhanded homage to “Mortal Kombat” battle cries, before swinging, and missing, at my fat evil neighbor’s genitals.
- Decision-Making Prowess: I skipped a Cub Scout Jamboree to play in my machine pitch rookie league baseball game, for a team that would finish the season 1-14. We lost 36-3. I later quit Boy Scouts because the meetings conflicted with “Saved By the Bell: The College Years”. Is it any surprise I would go on to twice move across the country with $400 in the bank and no job prospects? Eagle Scouts close deals and slay pussy.
- My first job, shelving books at the library the summer before my senior year of high school, set the tone for my flat-lined career trajectory. I often vanished among the stacks, glancing through such titles as “A Complete Idiot’s Guide To Dating”, or anything that vaguely had to do with sex, my hand in my pants while pretending to shelve them.
- Remarkably, I once went 54 days without masturbating. I finally caved in on Christmas Eve, 2005, after the Bears beat the Packers to clinch the NFC North division. And yes, I pictured men triumphing over other men as part of the agglomerate flash of images that triggered my long-awaited return to a life of frequent flesh rocket flogging. Fortunately, my angry penis had not withered from atrophy, but the now-foreign sensation of violent release caused my right leg to jerk outward, as if yanked sharply by an invisible marionette master. So yeah, I almost blew out my knee jerking off. Tearing an ACL without health insurance while masturbating on Christmas was the catastrophic near-miss of my slipshod, deadbeat life. My Cuban Missile Crisis.
- I’ve jacked off at nearly every job I’ve had. If you hired me between the years of 2004 and 2012, even for a day, chances are I spanked my meat puppet in your bathroom’s handicapped stall. And because I’m highly skilled at petty math, I calculate (often synched to my penultimate pump before climax) exactly how much money your organization is wasting on my ejaculatory excursions. Usually around $1.74 per squirt, since I’ve never made more than $15/hr. in my illustrious non-career. Conversely, I’ve flushed millions of would-be underachiever sperm down company toilets. Surely this will get my resume flagged for upper management positions on TheLadders.com.
- I still use Hotmail.
- When my parents pick up the check on every restaurant meal I am mercifully invited to, I close my eyes and try to estimate precisely how much I have cost them across my lifespan, like a “Guess How Many Marbles” jar jam-packed with their palpable parental regret.
- My cousin once told me, at a holiday dinner, “Please don’t teach my son about life”.
- I am a degenerate gambler. I lost $100 on a women’s basketball game, which is like betting on the circus.
- I got punched in the face, on a bus, by a large black girl with a strong resemblance to Precious.
- My concept of how much an abortion costs is entirely derived from the 1981 film, “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”.
There you go, Degenerates. A brief overview of my deplorable existence, from ungrateful infant to pointless semi-adult. Call it radical honesty for the Unemployed and hopeless.
And so, Suits of the World, Harbingers of my Continued Spiritual Descent… if you’re going to anonymously reject me from a job I don’t want in the first place, so help me, you will reject the real me: a repugnant skeleton of the Boy Next Door, steadily mutating into an amorphous specter of thwarted creativity and feckless sperm.
I love it!