Monday, January 28, 2013

I Can't Get No Satisfaction

So I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it seems our job market is poor. Barely a day goes by you don't see a headline like this:

[Your Name], Personally, Will Be Forced to Eat Own Fingers for Sustenance

Naturally this has me concerned. Not because of the lack of jobs, but because I fear that if this state of affairs persists, our society will lose track of something fundamental. We will lose track of the fact that jobs suck.

I think we can all agree that job hatred has long been the backbone of workplace culture. If you don't believe me, you can test out my claim via the following scientific experiment: first, walk into a familiar establishment, which we shall call T.J. Marshall's Lots Mart Store Place ("Crap for Less - Crap for You"). Now, study the employees, and you will notice a universal trait: they are all named Kayla. Is this strictly necessary? 

But never mind. I have strayed from my original point, which is this: they are all sullen and surly and consumed by job hatred violent enough to cause severe weather damage in Galveston, Texas (and you are located in Maine). If you dare to ask them a question, such as where to find the stationery,* they will leap forth roaring, hyena-style, in a concerted effort to eat your forearm whole. Assuming you escape unscathed and make no further moves toward the employee, s/he** will then calmly retreat to her own quiet corner, growling softly, to resume munching on her wildebeest carcass. 

And now we are facing the very real possibility, with the winnowing of the job market, that job hatred may itself die out. I don't know about you, but I don't want to live in that world, and I don't want my children to know it either.*** There are precious few things we can count on in this world, aside from surly employees, infomercials for things only the severely troubled would ever purchase, and Dunkin' Donuts. These are our national security blankets, our collective snuggle bears. It would be a massive rip in the fabric of our society were we to lose any one of them.

But I'm afraid the scarcer jobs become, the rosier and more romanticized our perceptions of them, until finally we long for them with the same sort of passionate yearning normally associated with hot burnin' monkey love, or sweet potato fries.

As far as I can see, there is but one solution to this problem: overcompensation, in the form of zealous job satisfaction. Before I go any further, let me clarify my position: I am sitting on the blue chair in the living room with one leg up and the other down. Now that we've cleared that up, I want to make clear that I am actually in favor of job satisfaction. I don't believe you should actually go around hating what you do, so much as I believe it's an integral part of workplace culture, like the water cooler in the hall that goes BLURP BLURP BLURP and the oft-opaque but viciously stated item of gossip about a co-worker ("OHMYGOD, DID YOU HEAR BETTY? SHE LIKE THINKS SHE'S ALL THAT").

Nonetheless, job satisfaction might be the way to go. Since this is on my mind lately, I've been going around taking notes, in hopes that I might improve the situation by sharing them with you, my public. Here they are. You're welcome.

1. You would probably do well to start finding mundane things unbearably exciting. There's a conductor on the Orange Line in Boston who seems to have this down pat. The other morning, he was announcing each station as if it was more exciting than Space Mountain and sexier than lust itself. Here is what he sounded like (I have done my best to transcribe accurately): "Lllllladies and gentlemen ... coming up .... our next stop ... DOWWWWWWWWN ... TOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWN ... KERRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-ROSSINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!" Needless to say, this visibly cheered up the passengers, who were made to look upon arrival at Downtown Crossing as a major event in the history of the cosmos, at least until .05 seconds after they stepped off the train. I didn't stay on much longer myself, but I assume the conductor kept topping himself with each stop, until with his announcement of Forest Hills he made a multiple orgasm seem like a tetanus booster.

2. This is one I came up with myself. If you work in the post office, which has got to be one of the most grueling and unappealing jobs on Earth, especially if you are dealing with customers like me ("Don't you think that "Media Mail" stamp might be a tad sub-par? Maybe you should stick some clear tape over it so as to prevent further smearing"), you should feel free to "let loose" every so often. One good way would be to come to work one day (I suggest this be a summer day) wearing nothing but postage stamps covering every nanometer of your body, then run around the P.O. roaring at top volume: "I ... am ... STAMP-MAN!!! For JUSTICE!! For LIBERTY!! FOREVER!!!"**** I guarantee you will experience job satisfaction from that moment till the last breath you take at Bellevue.

Well, that's all I got so far. I hope I've done my part toward stabilizing our workplace culture even in these trying economic times. I know I was concerned.

* Wouldn't you like to know.
** I know you are wondering, and yes, the males are named Kayla too.
*** Fortunately, they're not born, which pretty much takes care of that.
**** Hahaha! See what I did there? "Forever"? Stamps? ... Never mind.

1 comment:

DS,LK & F said...

Nay, nay...

Those of us who were savvy enough to follow the simple cant of "I have to work to live, and get laid and such, but I want to be HAPPY!" furthered our education in a fun, profitable, fun, advancement-filled, fun, field, and (here's the tricky bit):


I direct and edit video and make all manner of web thingies, training courses, explanatory expositions, professional development whatsis and the like.

It is fun. I get paid well to have fun. I wake up in the morning, suck down some java and go off and have fun crafting these tidbits of education together.

And, from time to time, get laid.

It's win-win-win.

Now, some suit recently appeared (cloud of sulpherous vapor, yada, yada), and informed me that if I were to continue my lighthearted, ingenious, and blasphemous ways, I might not be considered for a position in 'MANAGEMENT'.

When I said: "Don't care, don't want, can't make me, nyaaah" He disappeared, tiny carrot wilted, and chastising stick noticeably flaccid and unfulfilled.

Fun, for 33 years I've been having a good, fulfilling time with my life and knocking down enough dough to get along fine, thank you.

It's YOU that makes the difference.

Love & Hugs,
DeMille, Cecil B. (Mrs.)