2006-11-30 - 2:24 a.m.
My goodness, what’s this I’ve received in my mailbox, instead of my much desired paycheck from Pathetica or the Little Paper? Why, it’s none other than a letter from the Iranian president, Mr. Ahmedahmeddinnerplate.
Isn’t that lovely? My goodness – How touching. It seems to be printed on a type of lambskin that bears a striking resemblance to human flesh, complete with a tribal tattoo around the binding. And the ink President Ahmeddinnerplate writes in is blood red – rather as though it might actually be blood. Isn’t that amazing?
He writes:
“Greetings Diabolical Milky White Infidels of America!
“You loathsome servant of the Great Satan!
“You bloated, apathetic beasts! I wish each of you had a thousand heads so that I could take a single scimitar and chop them all off! I wish you had a billion throats so I could strangle you all again and again!
“Revolting demonic sow-pigs of the Third Bowge, when will you choke on your gluttonous Big Macs? When will your brain boil from the slutty gyrations of that modern day Whore of Babylon, Madonna? Why do you scurry about on the Earth, like human cockroaches, breathing the air of the good and drinking the water of the pure?
“Filthy monsters of satanic lust! With your endless pornography websites and ten course banquets of candy, cake, and chicken – if we sliced open your belly, the vomit of your filthy degenerate lives would spill out upon the Earth like a tsunami of greed and filth. How I hate you! Hate hate hate hata aaahahah ahahahahahhaaaaaaaaaa Glugabalaawubbadubba…
“And, yet, how we wish peace with you. And for this, all that you must do is withdraw from Iraq. You must withdraw from Iraq – and then, you must give up television! You must give up television and give up chocolate! And then you must convert to Islam. Your women – they must be beaten regularly like gongs. Your homosexuals – they must be strapped to the gigantic racks to have their legs sawed off and their heads drilled with electric drills. And then you must get down on your hands and knees, put your head between your legs, and kiss your bottom. And then – and only then – shall we love and adore you.
“This is the helpful advice we give you, with an open heart and much kindness. Yours truly, President Ahmedahmeddinnerplate!
…
All right, all right, I will admit that was not very good at all, but it has the great benefit of having been written totally while I have been sitting here in the Santa Monica Public Library Administrative Waiting Room, where I am waiting to interview for a job as a library clerk. I am seated comfortably in a pleather arm chair, across from four or five other gentlemen all of whom are looking rather nervous, as each awaits the arrival of the prune-faced library clerk who is doing the interviewing.
What am I doing interviewing for a gig at the library, you ask? Really, I am not entirely sure myself. It occurred to me that I would not mind another part time job, particularly one that was not affected by the cycles and vagueries of seasonal shifts – or, in the case of story analysis, by the whimsy of overage middle aged children who can’t be trusted to do THEIR jobs when the lure of the ski slope or the cocaine line is far more appealing.
The library gig was advertised on line and I decided to answer the ad. I don’t expect to get the job – looking around me, I see that the other candidates are younger, much poorer, and less well educated, which suggests that those are the people whom the librarians will be looking to fill the positions. But I expect it will be a useful thing to undergo the interview, just to say that I have done it.
Across from me is a decidedly slow witted African American man, late 20s, in a dirty pair of jeans and a rumpled and stained button up shirt. My goodness, don’t people dress for job interviews any more? The interviewers are running quite a bit behind – about 45 minutes so far, by my account – and the fellow is looking distinctly mutinous.
The African American fellow is seated not far from a young college kid with little round glasses in blue jeans. He’s quite cute, but he looks almost astonishingly nervous. Kid -- it’s just a library gig: Get over it. There are several other fruit-cake-y looking ruffians seated around and around me, as well. There is a peculiar mood of hopelessness and despair about the place. It is very curious, really. Everyone is looking sad as they wait. And, in spite of the fact that this is a library, none of the people waiting are using the time reading a book. That mystifies me. What are you doing trying to work for a library if you can’t read a book?
And there -- here comes the prunish library lady. The applicants for these jobs all appear to be guys in their 20s. Indeed, it looks like a casting call for a 99 Seat Equity play about people with OCD. And the people doing the interviews are, to a person, young women of spinsterly mien in their late 20s or early 30s. The smell of tuna fish oil wafts out of the Interview Room. And you can hear a weird ticking sound. Is this a job interview? Or an interview for prospective sperm donors for desperate ladies with their bio-clocks ticking down? Who can say?
“Rashid Williams?” the sharp-chinned young Baba Yaga smiles, reading from her clipboard.
The African American man heaves himself onto his feet and all but snarls at the lady, “It’s RASHEEEEED!” before lapsing into a series of mumbles about having been kept waiting for more than half an hour.
The sharp-chinned library lady’s smiles widens just a little more, turning on some of the fake charm, as she smirks, “Why, I thought that’s what I SAID.”
A fat library lady in black spandex leggings and a tight black blouse comes out of a room opposite, holding another clipboard. “Jonathan Twinkle” she smiles. The young kid jumps to his feet, eyes darting nervously. He and the fat lady move off together into a conference room, bringing to my mind the key-swapping scene from the movie THE ICE HOUSE in which the fat lady picks out the car key belonging to the cute young hunk.
And then it is my turn. A butch lesbian lady, wearing a workshirt and a pair of baggy cargo pants, calls me into another conference room. She and another girl -- 20s, smiley – pepper me with questions from a pre-fabricated form.
“What would you do if you were checking books in, and a cranky lady started yelling at you?” I am asked. Why, I would try and calm her down, of course.
“Suppose you are filing books, and you are asked to work with someone you totally loathe. What would you do?” Why, I would behave in a totally professional and impersonal manner – I would be robot man, I reply.
“How big is your penis? Is your sperm count rather high? Or are you afflicted by weak sperm motility issues?” Why, let me show you, I note, pulling down my pants and flashing my organ.
“Can you reach orgasm in two minutes or less? Will you do me now, right here on the conference table? If I get pregnant from your insemination, will you promise never to contact me or try to send the child Kwanza presents?” As the librarian lady leaps onto the table and pulls down her black leggings, I…
All right, all right, I made up the last few questions. It was nothing like that. But I still don’t think I got the job. I would suspect that I am somewhat overqualified. Alas! Because I surely do need the money.
