In a Pickle

Searching for employment has never been any easier than it is today. Jobs are scarce and landing one is harder than ever, but searching and applying for employment all comes down to a web search and applying for a job is as easy as pressing a button. As if that weren't enough, there's Monster, CareerBuilder, LinkedIn and a plethora of others, all clamoring for attention and every single one of them swearing on a stack of Bibles and your children's lives that they are going to help land you the job of your dreams.

Yeah.

Sure.

Smells like bullshit to me.

Smells like bullshit to him, too.

Believe it or not, searching for a job wasn't always like this; it wasn't always so simple, easy and worry-free. Once upon a time, there were no online job searches. Back in the bad old days, in a world long forgotten, long before the Monsters and their ilk, so far back it was before the modern Internet even and people were still using AOL, long before there were scrolling job searches from your smart phone, email job prospects and recruitment firms, you actually had to get your hands dirty. Literally. You see, you had to physically peruse this thing called a newspaper. I shit you not. The newspaper was a large part of the analog experience, but I think that most people really bought them for the coupons and the TV guide, but it was also useful for the comics, horoscope and the classified ads where you could buy used, broken crap or search the help wanted ads. But the worst thing about newspapers was that they were very cheaply printed and the ink would rub off and get all over your hands, turning them black. The horrors, the horrors...

Newspaper Example

These are actual headlines.

In the bad old days, if you wanted to find a job, you would have to start by searching through the employment section, hoping to find something suitable and circling all of the jobs that you wanted to apply for. Oh, joy of joys; such fun. The ads would usually direct you to physically mail a paper resume and cover letter to a designated address, or you would be directed to apply in person, or you would be directed to call, so that you could be told that you have to apply in person. Apply in person. As in, get up off your ass, make yourself pretty and actually speak to a human. Omigod, the fucking horrors.

If you're really lucky, you just might find your dream job. I found mine once. I'd tell you about it, but I signed a confidentiality agreement.

Well, one fine day, many years ago, I was thumbing through the employment section of the local newspaper, I was in the trenches, man, getting my hands dirty, when I came across an ad for a local factory that needed production workers and they were paying very well. Not having anything better to do at the time and because I really needed a job and money to pay for silly little things like rent, electricity and food. Plus, I was starting to get a little low on a few of life's little luxuries, such as weed, booze and dollar bills for strippers. Money would go a long way towards solving that problem and easing my anxiety.

Anxiety can kill, you know. This was all about taking care of myself and concern for my own well-being.

I picked up the rotary phone and I dialed the number in the ad. Okay, it wasn't really a rotary phone, but it was a house phone, a land line, an honest to God cordless phone with an extending metal antenna and everything, like something you'd see on Friends or in the Smithsonian or something.

Anyway, I dialed the number and the phone was answered by a woman with an incredibly deep-throated, husky and sexy voice. I automatically assumed that she was ugly. That's been my experience, anyway. Consider it a precious pearl of wisdom that I'm imparting to you. Free. No charge. No need to thank me, that's just the kind of guy that I am, such a generous soul am I.

Don't forget, you get what you pay for.

Ms Sexy Voice, whom I was certain was incredibly ugly, informed me that the job placement for the factory was through the temp agency that she worked for, that it was full-time employment and fairly easy work. Plus, it paid a living wage.

I asked her what kind of factory it was and she told me that they manufactured bath tubs and that my job would be to move the tubs from the finishing area to the packing area, for shipment.

It sounded easy enough and like I mentioned, the pay was pretty decent for back then.

Ms Sexy Voice, whom I was certain was incredibly ugly, asked me if I would be interested in coming down to her office in a few hours for an interview and I told her that it wouldn't be a problem. We set a time for the interview and we were just about to hang up when she dropped a bomb on me.

"Do you have a problem with taking and passing a drug test?" she asked me.

Well, fuck me.

The mention of a drug test made it a bit of a sticky wicket and I was now in a bit of a conundrum. I looked at the pile of weed sitting in front of me as I briefly pondered the unfairness of life.

"Absolutely," I totally fucking lied, told her that I would see her in a couple of hours and hung up the phone.

I broke into a cold sweat and I started to panic. A little. Okay, it was a fucking lot. Happy now?

I was well and truly fucked. There was no way in hell that I was going to pass a drug test. I had been doing bong hits while thumbing through the classifieds, fer fuck's sake. My mind raced through possible solutions. I could try to use a coverup or a masking agent, but I already knew that shit was worthless. I had previously tried The Stuff, which advertised itself as The Shit and it certainly was. Shit, I mean. It was definitely shit and I didn't have time for that shit. The clock was ticking and when the bell tolled...

I took a bong hit and a deep breath to help settle my nerves, since I was still in a bit of a tizzy.  I tried to figure out what to do, but I was completely bereft of any logical thoughts.

I needed to think outside of the box. I needed to think illogical thoughts, sort of like a bizarro Mr. Spock on some severely fucked up, bad acid trip version of Star Trek. That was when I had an epiphany. Maybe it was just a mini stroke. Who the fuck knows?

I now had a plan of action. Kind of. Baby steps, people.

I needed to call my friend Chad. Chad would know what to do. You see, good old Chad was a bigger pothead than I was and he changed jobs a lot, always managing to pass his pre-employment drug screenings. I had to call Chad. I needed to know his secrets.

I picked up the phone and hurriedly dialed his number. Thankfully, Chad was awake and somewhat coherent. More importantly, for my purposes, he'd answered his fucking phone.

"Dude," I said.

"Dude," he answered.

High brow conversation has always been my forte.

"Dude, I need your help," I pleaded.

"Dude," he said, "I'm not helping you move shit and no, you can't borrow my truck."

"Dude," I countered, "I'm not moving anything and I don't need your fucking truck. This is about me, so stop trying to make it about you, you selfish fucking asshole. I have to take a drug test in a little bit and I need to know how you always pass them.

"Dude, that's easy," said Chad. "Do you have a jar of pickles?"

Pickles??? WTF???

Clearly, Chad had lost his fucking mind.

"Yeah, dude," I said. "I have a jar of pickles. What the fuck do I need a jar of pickles for?"

"Dude, you need to drink the pickle juice," he told me. "The vinegar in there will skew the results of the drug test and you'll pass.  It's all about like alkalinity and ph levels and shit. That's my method, that's how I pass all of my drug tests. You need to trust me on this one, dude."

Upon reflection, that is the moment that I should have known that I was doomed. It is a proven scientific fact that any time that someone says the words "trust me," they're really just politely saying, "Fuck you." Trust me on this...

"Okay," I said. "Thanks, Chad. I'll give it a try." I hung up the phone.

What did I have to lose?

If I only knew then what I know now...

Well, innocent, pure, naive and trusting soul that I am, I walked over to the refrigerator, opened the door and peered inside. There it was, gleaming in all of its green ghastliness. I stared at that jar of pickles and that jar of pickles stared back at me; taunting me, daring me. I looked into the abyss and it looked into me. It was a Mexican standoff and someone had to flinch first. Deep down, I knew that it was going to be me. Pickle jars are incapable of flinching. I'm insane, I'm not fucking stupid.

My balls dropped. I manned up and I seized the jar, choking the shit out of that mocking little bastard. I opened the jar and I took a whiff.

I shuddered.

"Fuck me," I thought.

I gulped and then I slugged that shit down. It was cold, disgusting and vile. If I had to compare it to something, I'd say it was a lot like kissing my ex-wife.

The pickle juice hit my stomach like a fat guy doing a bad belly flop in a Mr. Turtle pool. My little tummy was not pleased. Nope, not pleased at all.

Meanwhile, the clock was still ticking.

I went upstairs to shower and shave. All through this, my stomach let me know what it thought of the pickle juice, repeatedly threatening to exorcise the demon from within my body. Unknown to me, my stomach was also biding its time and plotting its revenge.

I got dressed, all by myself and I made myself look and smell pretty, just in case Ms. Sexy Voice, whom I automatically assumed was ugly, turned out to be a hot chick. Besides, it pays to be pretty and you just never know, right? Just say right and shut the fuck up. It's all about me, remember?

My stomach rumbled again, louder and more forcefully. It was making noises the likes of which I'd never heard before and which I had previously thought weren't humanly possible. I started to feel a little bit of worry creep into my newfound confidence, but I couldn't dwell on a case of nerves as my time was now up and I had to leave for the interview. I took one last bong hit for luck and I walked out to the car. The employment agency's office was only a fifteen minute drive from my house. I quickly drove through town and I hit the highway. It seemed to me as if the moment that I merged into traffic, my stomach started freaking out like a ninety year old grandmother that just ate an entire bag of magic mushrooms. My colon was doing cartwheels. That was definitely not a good sign. I broke into a cold sweat and my sphincter began to tremble. I hoped and prayed that I could get the car off of the highway before my ass achieved liftoff at eighty miles per hour.

I made it to my exit and floored the gas pedal, leaving rubber behind in my hurry to make it to the office. There was some good news, at least. My pants were still dry; score one for the home team.

I arrived at the office building without further incident, which was a good thing. Trust me on this. I parked my car, hopped out and entered the building. My stomach started up again, much more urgently than before. I looked around for the restrooms and was rewarded with nothing. Seriously? How do you build an office building and not put a fucking bathroom in the fucking lobby for people who are about to shit their fucking pants? WTF? WTF? WTF?

Seriously. What the fuck? Who does that shit? It's fucking cruel is what it is.

I swear, if I had a drink for every time I've said, "What the fuck?" I'd never have a sober moment.

I was starting to feel a little desperate because my gut was beginning to lose its patience with me.

"Fuck it," I thought.

I walked over to the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. The doors closed, the doors opened and I found myself confronted by an extraordinarily long hallway that stretched to both my left and my right.

"I wonder if there's a bathroom up here," I thought to myself, "and if there is, whichever direction it's in, I'm sure that I'll pick the wrong fucking one."

My poor little tummy once again voiced its displeasure. Loudly. I could feel a lot of pressure starting to build up and it was urgently demanding release. I needed to fart. I was scared. No, I wasn't scared, I was fucking terrified. There was no fucking way in hell that I was going to trust that fart. I started wishing that I had a cork. Don't ask.

I decided to try searching in the direction that the employment agency was in and for once, blind luck paid off. I had found the fucking bathroom! I was saved! I did a little dance in my head. It was like a little pirate jig. Mainly because my ass was saying, "Argh!"

I reached for the doorknob and MOTHERFUCKER! that sonofabitch was locked. What kind of sick, cruel and sadistic joke was this? What kind of sick fucking bastard locks a bathroom door in the middle of Bumfuck, West Virginia? At that moment, right there and then, I could have shanked a bitch.

"Fuck it," I thought.

I sucked it up and unbunched my panties, putting myself back on the path for the employment agency and my interview, which of course had to be all the way at the very end of the longest fucking hallway in the world. Each and every step seemed to be a mile and my stomach was warning me that I was approaching a state of dire peril. The pressure in my bowels was building to a crashing crescendo. I could feel the sweat on my brow. I was frightened, scared, but unfortunately, I wasn't scared shitless.

Things didn't look good...

After what seemed an eternity and the equivalent of being forced to hike to school, uphill, barefoot and in the snow, I finally arrived at my destination. I wiped the sweat off of my forehead, straightened my tie, put on an I'm really not about to shit my pants smile and entered the office, where I was immediately greeted by Ms. Sexy Voice whom I immediately assumed must be ugly.

She wasn't ugly at all. Nope, not ugly at all. She was hot. No, she was beyond hot. Standing before me was one of the most incredibly beautiful women that I have ever seen.

"Hi," Ms. Sexy Voice said in that incredibly sexy voice of hers. "Are you Steve?"

I nodded my head, which was a good thing. I couldn't form words, much less a complete sentence or a coherent response. I mumbled something that hopefully resembled a "Yes," but the sound that came out of my mouth sounded more like something that a stroke victim might say, but I'm sure the stroke victim would have been easier to understand.

I gathered my wits, what little wits I had anyway. It wasn't much.

I introduced myself and we shook hands. I had to remind myself to let go. She asked me to follow her back to her office, which was great because it gave me the opportunity to check out her butt, too. Her ass was so tight, I could have bounced quarters off of it. We entered her office and she closed and locked the door.

And that was when she started to undress, slowly peeling her clothes off. She asked me if I'd ever had sex on an office desk before.

Holy fuck, I was flabbergasted.

Okay, that entire part is complete bullshit, but I know that's the way that it should have played out. Alas, life is a cruel and vicious bitch, because the reality of the situation was that it was taking all of my concentration and muscle control to keep my ass reigned in so that I wouldn't shit myself and I was unbelievably uncomfortable. I just wanted to barrel my way through this interview so that I could find a bathroom, bush or even a tree that I could hide behind.

I started off the interview by apologizing to Ms. Sexy Voiced Super Hot Chick and explaining that I was feeling very much under the weather and that I had been sick all morning, somehow managing to gather my strength and crawl out from my deathbed because this interview was just so gosh darned important to me. Ms. Sexy Voice seemed very understanding of my 'illness' and showed a great deal of empathy as she started the interview.

My stomach chose that moment to remind me that it was displeased with me and the unnatural sound that it produced was embarrassingly loud. I noticed that Ms. Sexy Voice's eyebrows had shot upwards a little bit. just a little. Like the distance form the earth to the moon, just a little. Oh fuck, why did I have to humiliate myself in front of the hot chick? Please, please, please, please, PLEASE do not let me shit myself in front of this woman.

After about twenty minutes of questions and answers, a line had been crossed and the dam was ready to breach. I had to go and Right Fucking Now! Literally. My ass wasn't going to wait for shit. Again, literally.

I apologized again, profusely and I informed Ms. Sexy Voice that I was about to be very sick and asked for directions to the restroom. I don't think that she was very surprised. Nope, I don't think that she was very surprised at all.

"I understand," she said, "and it's no problem." She then proceeded to tell me where I'd find the bathroom (all the way back down the fucking hall, of course) and she held up a gleaming metal object.

The Key! The fucking Key! I felt as if I had found the Holy Grail, even if I was only headed for a porcelain chalice. Still, I had the fucking key and my salvation was close at hand. I wanted to marry this woman, who had suddenly become both my savior and my soulmate, but that would have to wait for the nonce as I had some very pressing business that I needed to attend to quite urgently. Happily though, I had the key and you can praise whoever the fuck you feel like praising. The only thing that mattered to me right then and there was that key. Well, maybe the key and not shitting my pants. Not shitting my pants was pretty high on my list of priorities and I was now safe, because I had the key.

I did another little dance in my head.

Fuck yeah!

I calmly excused myself and left the office, gently closing the door behind me. I casually took two steps and then I broke into a sprint. At that moment, I could have shamed an Olympic runner, I was running so fast. I ran down that hallway faster than Kim Kardashian can figure out new ways to whore herself for money. Yep, it was that fucking fast. My stomach was churning and burning. I was beyond frantic. I felt as if I were on a countdown timer; I had mere moments at best, before that hallway would experience a shit tsunami of truly epic proportions.

I made it to the restroom, grabbed the door and inserted the key. No, I didn't. Do you really think that I could possibly ever be that lucky or that I could manage to accomplish such a simple task? Not fucking likely. I dropped the fucking key. Of course, I dropped the fucking key. What else would you fucking expect?

I picked up the key and I tried again.

Why is it that my inability to insert the key directly into the lock is always magnified tenfold by how badly I have to use the restroom? That's some serious shit to ponder, right there. No pun intended, I take that shit way too seriously.

After only like three or four zillion tries, I finally managed to unlock the door and I rushed inside, locking the door behind me. I frantically yanked down my pants while attempting to sit on the toilet in one fluid motion. I'd like to say that it worked, but alas, it just wasn't meant to be. I didn't make it. The seal shattered. The dam broke. That poor toilet was the Pompeii to my Mount Vesuvius. It was like watching an oil well make a strike in one of those old movies. It was a fountain of foaming feces, a crap frappe, a fecal fondue, a bountiful bonanza of bubbling filth as the pureed contents of my internal organs shot out of my ass like a flaming barrel of monkeys and I released a pent up scream of pain, mixed with relief. There was nothing that I could do except ride the storm out.

My ass hit the seat. No wetness. That was a good sign, it meant that I wasn't sitting in shit, which was a good thing, because that pickle juice wasn't done with me just yet. The entire bathroom smelled like pickles and shit. Yum. Pickled shit. Coming soon, to a convenience store near you.

The thing about tsunamis is that there's always more than just the initial wave. There can be several waves, one right after the other and there were. I held on to the handicap rail as if my life depended on it.

The next wave was so brutal that it actually lifted my ass off of the toilet seat. No shit! Well, yes shit, actually and plenty of it. I pictured my spleen floating out to sea on a froth of filth. I can't even begin to describe the sound effects that accompanied my moments of bliss, but they must have really been something, because my performance did not go unnoticed.

There was a knock at the door.

I froze.

Ohfuckohfuckohfuck.

The knock came again, louder this time.

Are you fucking kidding me? Doesn't anyone have any fucking decency?

And then I heard a voice. Oh, fuck me. I was mortified. Fuck me a thousand times. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. I was now trapped in the bathroom and afraid to leave. I was too afraid of being seen by anyone and later recognized; to be pointed out for public ridicule. Hey, I lived in a very small town.

"Sir, are you okay in there?" came the stranger's voice.

I mumbled something and he left. At least I hoped he'd left. I finished burying the remains of my stomach at sea and cleaned myself up. I washed my hands and prepared to make my escape from the room of doom, hoping that no one was around to see whom had unleashed an unholy horror from Hell within the building. Still wanting to avoid that whole public ridicule thing, I stealthily cracked open the door and peeked out, half expecting to see a small crowd, but I the coast was clear and I was safe. Talk about lucky. I'm truly grateful that I'm able to lead such a charmed fucking life. I'm just going to go ahead and count my lucky fucking stars and smoke some of those four leaf clovers. Yippee!

While I'm busy patting myself on the back for being able to exit a bathroom, let me bring us all back to the reality block party with the reminder that my interview was not finished and I had to make the ten million mile march of death back to the temp agency's office.

I trudged and I staggered my way back down the hallway from hell, bouncing from wall to wall as if I were trapped in a pinball machine. Visualize this as a low tech version of Tron. We'll call my version Tard and we'll just leave it at that. I tried my best to walk normally, but that's next to impossible when everything under your skin has been liquified and shat out of your body. I dreaded returning to the interview because I was so embarrassed by what had happened, but my embarrassment took a back seat to my empty wallet, so I swallowed my pride and shit it right back out as I reentered the office. I needn't have worried about my dignity, because I left my dignity at the bottom of a jar of pickles.

When I got back to Ms. Sexy Voice's office, it was with my tail between my legs, but she acted as if nothing had happened and I followed her lead. She offered me the job and I realized that to her, I was just a number and she was only interested in making the numbers. Any monkey would have been hired for that position. I idly wondered if I were still eligible for sex on her desk as some sort of bizarro signing bonus or maybe a little beej action. I should have asked.

Ms. Sexy Voice had me fill out some paperwork. I authorized a background check, credit report, drug test and proved that I had the right to work in these here United States. I signed this and I signed that, set up direct deposit, health insurance and an anal probe. Just kidding. I wanted a paper check.

As we finished up, Ms. Sexy Voice asked me if I had any questions, so I asked her to show me her tits. Okay, I didn't but I really wish that I had. I'm not ashamed to say that I like tits. Is that so wrong?

I had a real question, though. An incredibly important question.

"Just one," I said. "When do I take the drug test? Do I take that now?"

"Oh, no," she answered. "We'll schedule you to take that at another time."

Fuck. Me.

All of that struggle and effort, all of that pain and suffering; the humiliation, all of it, had been for naught. I had literally paid my pounds of flesh (so to speak) and it was all for nothing. I wanted to cry. I wanted to kill Chad. I'm not ashamed to say that I imagined his pain, suffering and ultimate death dozens of times that day. You'd be amazed at just how creative you can get with a jar of pickles. I kid, I kid. Chad's a lot bigger than me, he'd totally kick my ass.

Oh, and while I'm thinking about it, FUCK YOU, CHAD! That's his real name, by the way. That was some pretty shitty advice that you gave me. I'm not hiding your ass behind a fake identity; this isn't the fucking Witless Protection Program.

So, take this painful and humiliating little lesson to heart, DON'T trust your friends, they're full of shit and their bright ideas will be your downfall. Trust me on this.

One last thing...

Fuck you, Chad!