First of all, I don’t consider myself one of “those” black people who, as Representative Sally Kern said, refuse work because I think”the government (is) going to take care of (me)”. Frankly, I don’t need it. I have my mom’s credit card for online purchases (read: porn and gently used sex dolls on Ebay) and big enough pockets to steal most groceries. If push comes to shove I can simply order Domino’s to the abandoned crack den on the end of my street, overpower the delivery driver and run home with my calzones.
But this; this is something I can’t do much longer. Yes, I do feel like an ass for complaining about a moderately well-paying job when people are struggling to find any kind of work, but I don’t care. Sorry. As much as I am an unabashed socialist, there’s a shameful libertarian streak I can’t seem to shake. If you’re not working it’s partly your fault. Nearly a fifth of black Americans are out of jobs and although you can assign a good chunk of this unemployment on racism, I can’t say it’s the only reason. Or even the most prominent.
Most companies are so greedy for profit, they would hire a registered sex offender so long as he agreed to work unpaid overtime and use his personal email to send crotch pictures to his co-workers.
I promised I wouldn’t allow myself to peel off on an anti-capitalist rant so I’ll list a few of my occupational pet peeves before it’s too late:
- Management-speak threatens to drive me mad. The next time my boss says “I have to interface with my ex-companion on establishing a time frame parameter that suits both our personal needs” instead of saying “I’m going into my office to loudly threaten my ex-wife for keeping the kids away from me” I’m going throw myself down the fire escape.
- I can’t go to another meeting. Is there any reason why I’m spending three hours a day meeting about work I should be doing? Want something done? Well then how about you actually let me do it?
- I need to find a job with non-standard working hours. And before you suggest prostitution, know that I’ve already tried it and the johns were not gentle with me. Plus I owe my pimp money. I can’t go back.
- More on the previous point: the standard 9-to-5 work days were designed because most jobs needed to maximize daylight. If I’m working indoors, on a chair that smells vaguely like the giraffe pen at the Calgary Zoo, beneath flourescent lights that chip away at my vision each day, why do I need to come in at that time? Give me a job to do. Give me a deadline. Then fuck off and let me do it on my own time. I like to work in my underwear, next to a bag of Doritos, so unless you want me to start doing this at work, let’s work out an arrangement I can stay home.
- When I’m my way back to my desk with food, stop asking me what I’m eating. Do you reckon the sandwich-shaped object I’m carrying is…wait for it… a fucking sandwich???
- Don’t say “TGIF” every single Friday. Yes, I’m glad I can get wasted and pick fights with cab drivers later that night, but it still reminds me that I’m coming right back two days later. While we’re on the subject of TGIF, what ever happened to the cast of Step by Step? Did that show ruin their careers? If the daughter on that show hasn’t gone all Jodie Sweeten, give her my number.
- Don’t insist I ask permission to take vacation. I’m a grown man who, aside from relationships and credit expenditure, is not a complete idiot. I’m not going to take off to Thailand for six weeks when there is a pile of work on my desk. Assume I’m not a child. I spent the first 18 years of my life asking for permission from my parents and teachers to do everything. Isn’t the only upside of adulthood being free to do what you want? No? God capitalism sucks.