Fozz’s Journey Through Hell

I’ve been unemployed for a full year, despite having 30 years of experience in the marketing and communications industry. I also have a Master’s Degree from Johns Hopkins (doesn’t that impress you? It shouldn’t.) Along the way I have dealt with idiots and morons of all stripes, and the goal of this regular column is to entertain all of you and keep me from castrating and degloving everyone in my range of rage. Enjoy.

I’ve officially been on 11,908 interviews since I got shit canned. They have all been different, but they have all sucked ass. Having to tap dance for a person who’s younger and dumber than you is ego shredding, but Fozz Spawn have to eat and drink, and Mrs. Fozz wields a wicked rolling pin: aircraft-grade aluminum; tungsten core; black oak handles; the fucker weighs in at 20 pounds and she swings it like Rod Carew.

So I answer phone calls, I get on Zoom calls, I get on Google Meet calls, I get on Johnny Dipshit Fuckface calls. And a note to all the waterheads out there who think these are great “channels for communication”, you’re as wrong as John Madden calling a game with a pint of Old Crow pumping through his grease-packed brain. They suck.

Why?

Because assholes in this world don’t know how to communicate. And like every technology introduced into our society, people fuck it up with cutesy shit.

“Oooh look! Carol’s background is a beach in Tahiti. Tee-hee.”

“Jake’s kid just came into frame with shit in his hair. Har. Har.”

“OHMYGOD RACHAEL’S “HANG IN THERE” CAT PRINT IN THE BACKGROUND IS SOOOOO HILARIOUS.”

All of you can die in a fucking petroleum factory explosion. I will make rattles out of your teeth and use your skin to create pouches for carrying weed and wine. I will sell these on Etsy.

So here we go, a typical interview between Fozz and whatever slop jockey masquerading as a “hiring manager” he’s talking to this week. Well, not typical. The answers are what I’m thinking, not saying.

“So, tell me about yourself.”

“I’m in my 50s, I’ve been doing this shit for decades. I’m smarter than you and more experienced. Part of me wants to learn a new trade. Like cleaning out nuclear reactors. Every day is like slogging through trenches of offal. My wife is worried sick. My kids are scared. I want to punch the world in the face. Also, the left side of my body is tingling and my face has developed a severe tic.”

“Why did you choose this company?”

“I didn’t choose you, okay? I blindly applied to your position just like all the others. I don’t care if your company feeds kittens into an industrial size rending machine and then collects and captures the evil essence that flows out of them and sells them to fucktard wiccans or whoever the fuck stupid asshole would buy that shit. I fucking just don’t care. I need work. I’m like a goddamn character in a Springsteen song, but not as romantic or heroic. And I don’t live in Jersey.”

“I see you left your last job. What happened?”

Blood starts pouring from my ears. My fingernails dig trenches in my palms.

“Well, the boss was a fucking coward and his wife is running the show. My immediate report sold me the fuck out. I’m not young. I’m white and old. So, they let me go and blew sunshine up my ass and said ‘We will do everything we can to get you back. Hang on. You’re family.’ Then I watched while they hired other people who fit their hiring profile. Forget talent or experience, they’re ticking off items on a checklist.

I begin breathing hard. I smell like a wild animal that’s hungover from too much Schaefer’s beer and Wild Turkey.

“I feel totally abandoned and you know what? I worked my fucking ASS off for them. True story: I put together desks, chairs, and tables when we moved into our new office. I painted walls and hung pictures. I never said a thing. Kept a smile on my face. Well, why? Because this generation of fuckwads would never sully themselves on menial labor. I wanted to adorn the ceilings with their bloody, sawed-off heads. Instead, I just smiled. I felt like Charlie in Flowers for Algernon. Just getting dumber and smiling a lot.”

“What would you bring to this position?”

“Jesus jumped up CHRIST! You unoriginal toad. God, I want to track you down and flay you alive. Ok. I’ll play the game. Experience. Knowledge. Talent. Heart. Swarthiness. Passion. Anger. Oh yeah, and the fucking ability to get the job done without fucking bitching or crying or having to take a break to do Pilates or eat avocado toast or post reviews on Yelp. Hard work doesn’t bother me, I crave it. Did I mention my brain is tearing itself away from my skull?

“So, do you have any questions for me?”

“If I ask you how the hiring process is going, I will want to drive a Bowie knife through your ear after I hear you describe the next 10 steps that it will take before anyone in this Mongolian clusterfuck hears back.

So great, here are a few of my questions.

1. Do you really like this job or do you want to drive your car into the back of a garbage truck every morning?
2. Are your coworkers real or fake as you and me?
3. Does management really give a tin shit about anyone except themselves and preventing cream from rising to the top?
4. What time of insulting salary will you offer? Whatever it is, I’ll take it. I don’t care. I’m chugging Everclear mixed with Yoo Hoo every morning and I like it.
5. Finally, if I’m the only person who is constantly smelling burning ham, should I be concerned?”

“Thanks! We’ll be in touch.”

“No. You won’t. May the fleas of a thousand llamas infest the pubic areas on your body.”