Welcome to the last Issue of Volume 6. The year 2001 has seen 11 issues (an average of 0.9 issues per month), 48 articles (an average of 4.36 articles per issue or 4 per month), 22 acclamations and 11 Golden Testicles (averaging roughly a point 9 of a nad per month).
Volume 7 will hopefully be a little more constant in the mailboxes of our readership.
For those that had not noticed, it is currently that great commercial festivity also known as Christmas. I've had to endure shopping, not much for myself, mind you, but for being the lucky bloke that got picked for doing other people's purchases.
If that wasn't pain enough, as I have to body wrestle people in order to get that last gift (and God only knows I have yet to finish), I had to endure Office related parties. Not my office party, mind you. These are parties my girlfriend drags me to, mostly to show me off as that intellectual person I really am not, with the promise I will keep my mouth shut and not say something incredibly rude and offensive (she knows me so well... ah, love).
Unfortunately, while I'm happily unemployed at the moment and I have no 2.3 kids, my conversations options seem somewhat limited. That's all people seem to talk about. Their jobs and their kids. `Absolutely nothing' to what I do for a living and `I hate anything younger than 6 years of age' when talking about kids seems to leave me all alone for the rest of the evening...
I feel somewhat awkward at times to go visit my girlfriend's family. It's not that they are not nice or anything, but I feel a little odd, I don't understand them too well and the giant Sikh man that is her grandfather doesn't exactly like me. Fortunately, today, Grandpa Jihad wasn't there.
If hate could have a face, it would be his. I think it's the fact we live in Canada that he held himself from skinning me alive and leaving my body in the jungle for the tigers to find.
Stove fucking. Ever tried it? It's all in the beauty of living by yourself. And that's really all there is to it. The moment you live by yourself, in your own apartment, you can do whatever you want. All without the hassle of your mother telling you how to do things proper.
You can eat chocolate fudge cookies. Before dinner. In your bed.And when was the last time you actually did do your bed?
You can walk around the house naked wearing nothing more than your Fez.
You can have the TV on and not watch it.
And, you can fuck your stove.
This also brings, of course, a whole bunch of witty comments that apply in stove fucking. Such as `she got really hot' and `it was nice and steamy'. And let's not forget the classic `she had a real nice hot oven' or the `I turned all her knobs', which, per se, isquite the hoot.
I had originally started to write a witty editorial about how I was in vacation, and how the girl sitting next to me on the plane was beautiful but as charming as a pitbull, or how Canada Custom agents have the greatest sense of humour.
But no, not anymore. Since I first opened this file, to now, I went back into my bitter self. And no, it has nothing at to do with the clever, smart and intelligent (did I mention well hung?) Canada Custom agents. Not at all. I sleep soundly at night knowing that these brave men and women protect the entrance to my country.
Since finding a job for myself seemed to be a task next to impossible, considering how badly our economy is doing, I decided to rely on Head Hunters.
But now the economy is shit.Oh, I've put my resumes on sites. I've sent it to just every possible job position I find, even those that require the last two millennia in experience with computers.
And job sites were as dry as the Sahara desert.
I had never tried Head Hunters before. This was a time when the market was ripe and I was able to find work almost immediately, before and after going to College and getting the most useless and expensive piece of College issued toilet paper with my name on it.
My first head hunter was a chubby short little woman. She greeted me in her office, which reminded me more of a place to slaughter animals. There were several of us, actually, all well dressed, all looking hopeful.
In her pink dress with her high pitched piggy voice she starts asking me questions.
Clearly this woman cannot read. All the information she wants about me is on my two page curriculum vitae but she still asks me dates and personal info as if it was some sort of test.
She told me she will keep on looking for work for me until I tell her to stop.And that's the last I heard from her. Better yet, she ignores both my calls and my e-mails. And while I found some other Head Hunters, all of which promptly disappeared like her, she's the only one that comes back to mind.
Maybe I should drop by her office.
"Oh, hi.. er.." and she would fumble, looking for my resume with my name.
"I just wanted to set something clear between the two of us, is that okay?"
"It occured to me, and I find it important you should know that you are a stupid fuck".
"You heard me. And I should make it clear that whenever I'll talk to you, about you, or I'll refer people to you, you'll be known as STUPID FUCK. Got that?"I'm bitter.
Enjoy this very non-belated issue, for once.