So the girlfriend finally gets to me and I agree to go her parents place for tea.
I get to the outlaws place, and they're making polite pre-dinner conversation at me, avoiding sentences like "Have you poked her yet?" so that the old man doesn't have to ease the shotgun out of the shoulder holster till after dessert. I, for my part am avoiding anything that might suggest that we have anything but a purely platonic relationship, calling her "Miss", smiling in a benevolent way, and keeping my hands away from her and my privates. All goes well till it comes time to sit round the table and chug down a bowl of the entree - a soupy thing that looks like it's made out of pureed dog's vomit.
I notice they're all paused, waiting for me to take a sip, which means that this is either on of those terrible personal tests, the results of which will decide my future in the house, OR it really IS pureed dog's vomit, and it'll taste like it too. Or both. Mentally I weigh up girlfriend versus stomach upset. Into the equation I add the deciding factors. At home I've got seltzer, but I've run out of Oven Mitts. I sip.
It's not too bad as far as pureed dog's vomit goes - I've tasted worse. The moment of truth over, the family smiles and tucks into their soup. No worries. The conversation starts.
"So Simon" Daddy Outlaw says "What have you been doing with yourself?"
"That's a rather personal question" I say, smiling at my wit
Goes down like a lead balloon. I slip the steak knife under the table in case ritual suicide becomes necessary.
"Oh!" I say, recovering like Rumplestiltskin "I see. Well, as you may know, I work in computers"
"Yes, but what do you actually DO?"
Shit I hate it when people say that. The conversation usually goes
Me: Well, you know mainframes? Them: no Me: Computers Them: Like my Apple II? Me: Yes, only bigger, much bigger, with hundreds of people using them. Them: Do they all take turns at the keyboard? .. .. .. . . 2 hours on the basics of computing later Them: Oh. So what do you DO? Me: GET FUCKED! Them: What? I was only... Me: GET FUCKED! GET FUCKED! GET FUCKED!!!!!
Secretly, I hope the steak knife's a little blunt so it tears as it slides up through his Aorta, endocardium, myocardium and pericardium, just before his lifeless torso slumps across the grape preserve...
"Coffee anyone" Mother Outlaw interrupts, reducing the dining table death toll by one.
"And who do you work for?" Daddy Outlaw asks, to keep a friendly atmosphere
"A pack of puss-sucking, bum-wiping, anal-retentive, back-sliding, Oedipal refugee, dick-whacking, slime-gargling, urine drinking, turd-smoking, bull buggering, arse-bandits who I wouldn't cross the road to urinate on if they were on fire."
"And which company is that?"
"Mega-Multinational-Third-World Limited"
The silence is deafening.
"But I own that company?!" Daddy in-law says, shocked and confused.
It's a save - he's passing me a "safe home" and all I have to do is take it.
"I'm sorry" I say "I was lying"
He smiles.
"I would cross the road to piss on you if you were on fire..."
The grey bucket #2, Santa wants Sunshine.
So it's time to look for another job - only the employment company is a bunch of bastards who keep sending me to places wanting advertising executives and Retail Managers with hard-nosed experience. I keep telling them I'm in the computer field, but it makes no difference, they know if I stop going to the interviews I lose my unemployment cheque.
I go to the next interview, with "Loose Bowel Media Marketing Limited", a subsidiary of "Anal Action Incorperated", and straight away I know I'm at the part of the barrel which we computer types refer to as the bottom. I want this job like a rash so I do all the usual things, feet on the interview table, playing with my balls, picking my nose and eating it, shouting "LISTEN TO THIS!" and farting loudly.
None of it works, they still want me. Apparently they treasure someone who's in touch with his private parts.
"What about someone else's private parts?" I say looking towards the typing pool.
"Sorry. We don't believe in interspecies relationships. They're human you understand"
I didn't really understand, but I knew it meant I was a goober again.
"So what exactly is the job I'm employed for, when do I start and how much does it pay?"
"Well" the chairman says "As we are a up and coming (ooo-eeer) company, we need someone to keep the talents and feelings of our staff razor sharp and cut throat"
"Yes?"
-Ever wonder who does this?-
"So, you'll be expected to do things to annoy them - You know - put little dings in their vehicles in the car-park, leave little drips of pee on toilet seats, clog up toilets with toilet paper, hoik in desktop ashtrays, get in lifts and press all the buttons and get out, break pencil leads and wear out ball points, make appointments and don't turn up, ring people and hang up just before they get there, then ring back again, Toot your horn outside the meeting room - that sort of thing. Can you handle it?"
I cough open-mouthed at them. "I think so"
"Excellent. You'll be paid on a commission-like basis judging by fatal staff altercations."
"No worries"
Later, as he's filling me in on my job, I push him down the stairwell - all 23 flights. This month's bonus is on the way. I duck into the toilets and lock all the doors from the outside....
Now this is a job I can really get into!