Tales in Hot Pink is a weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
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Interview
I was dressed in my best suit. I had brushed my teeth, combed my hair, put on a little cologne, and I was ready for the hard questions.The easy stuff came first, some small talk about the weather, some insincere concern about whether I had any trouble finding the place. I thought I sensed some tension on the interviewer's part, but I wrote it off to my own growing paranoia. It's been maturing like a fine wine ever since I found out the CIA has implanted a microchip in one of my molars to track my activities as an emissary for the deep space pioneers who have been visiting our planet since 1947. But that's another article, isn't it? When the small talk sputtered to an end, Randall, the interviewer, started out on a sour note. "I have to tell you," he sighed regretfully, "We have some very promising candidates for this position already, so the competition is quite stiff." "Well, Randall," I said confidently, "I live for a challenge." "I see," he said uncomfortably. "Why don't you tell me why you think you're qualified for the position?" I leaned back in my chair with a smug smile. I was about to raise my left leg and cross it over my right, because crossing my legs makes me look witty and urbane, when suddenly I realized… I had forgotten to wear shoes and socks. My ugly bent toes, twisted and hairy, were bright white and ghostly pale under the office fluorescent lights. Had he noticed? I wondered. I decided against crossing my legs and instead studied Randall's face for a clue. He had noticed, I realized. Though he was safely entrenched behind his office desk, his eyes kept darting to where my feet were. He must have spotted my naked feet when I walked in. Observant little bastard. Shake it off, I thought. Stay focused. "Well, Randall, " I said, "I noticed in the paper that this job would involve the use of computers, and I have a computer at home." "I see," he said, and cleared his throat. "You are familiar with different programming languages? C++? Java? Perl?" I had no idea what he was talking about, so I laughed. "You could say that," I said, as if the question was an inconvenience to me. "I'm also quite good at Pong." "Pong?" Randall asked, confused.. Amateur, I thought. "Yes," I explained. "Pong? Computer game? Two paddles? One ball?" He looked blank. "I can put a spin on that ball, Randall," I shook my head. "You just wouldn't believe." "Let me tell you a little about what we're looking for," Randall said. "Please do," I urged. "We're looking for someone familiar with proxy Radius with IP forwarding, VPN, BGP4, Cisco routers, switches, backbone connectivity, MS SQL administration, and NT systems or Unix Linux variants." Randall and I looked at each for a moment. I sensed the silence was not a comfortable one. "I have an Atari," I said. "People keep telling me I should upgrade, but when it comes to computers, the old ways are the best ways. Don't you agree, Randall?" "It says here," Randall said, looking at my resume, "that you're currently the CEO of" he read aloud, "A large, internet based entertainment company." "That's correct," I confirmed. "What sort of entertainment would that be, exactly?" Randall asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. "I don't go into the office very much." "I see." I realized I had misspoke, and it was time for some damage control. "I mean, I would, if I got this job. I'd come in all the time, maybe even every day." "You would leave your other job?" Randall asked. "Sure," I said. "They wouldn't even know I was gone." "I see." Time for more damage control. "I mean, they would know, if I told them I was leaving, but if I never mentioned it, they might think I was still in the office, because sometimes I leave through the window." "I see." "So I would leave," I said, "I just might not tell them, because then I could collect both checks, from here and from there, and that would be good, because I need the money, for alcohol and whatnot." "Alcohol." Randall repeated flatly. "Yes," I said, glad he was following me. "I'm a vodka man. Sometimes I bring it in to work in a water bottle. Little crème de menthe, looks just like water. Keeps your breath fresh too." The look on his face was not promising. More damage control was required. "I prefer Ms. Pac Man to the regular Pac Man," I added quickly. Randall looked momentarily confused. "Just thought I'd throw that in," I smiled. "In case you were wondering." "So you don't do any of the programming at this," he cleared his throat again, "corporation you work for." "Good God no," I laughed. "Do I look like a computer geek to you, Randall?" "Well, Mr. Skuja," Randall said, standing up. "Call me Tom," I offered, standing up too. "Tom…" he said. He offered a tentative hand. "We'll be in touch." I smiled knowingly. "I'm sure you will." We shook. His eyes fell to my naked feet. Think fast, I thought. "This is beautiful carpet," I said. "Plush. Springy. Very soothing." "Thank you," he said uncertainly. "Carpet like this," I said, sighing and looking it over, "just makes you want to get buck naked and roll around on it." "I see," Randall said. Time for damage control, I realized. "Not today, of course," I said, as he motioned for me to leave. "No," he agreed. "But later," I said. "After I get the job." "Right," he smiled nervously. I left and closed the door behind me. The secretary eyed me suspiciously, head to naked toe. "I think it went well," I told her. She looked less than enthused. |
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| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant
Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
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E-mail feedback, jokes or nekkid pickchures to Tom at:
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