The Price of Financial Freedom: $19

I was sicker than a nudist camp for the obese. The mix of medicines was awesome. It felt a little like being stoned, only add really-angry. I was confused, paranoid and angry at everything. That must be what it is like to mix steroids and weed.

Then there was the bevy of physical injuries. There had been no feeling in my left foot for three weeks; due to a mishap during dog exercising (don't ask.) Then I hit my right shin so hard, my lower leg turned blue, or mayhaps that color was indigo? I fell and fucked up my right elbow and pinched a nerve in my neck. I burned my right hand so badly I threw up. Topping it all off; I'd been unemployed for three months.

I felt incredibly bad, just fucking awful. That is when it hit me. The cure: liquor, it was lots of brown liquor. I figured it couldn't possibly feel worse if I drank until taking a knee and hurling vomit like a fire hose.

Therefore, I commenced to crack into "Daddy's Stash" of Evan Williams. . Evan Williams is bullshit. No offense to the fine folks at Evan Williams, but damn! I had to switch from Jack Daniels to Evan Williams due to a severe case of unemployment. A sad fucking state of affairs; no job and taking a liquor downgrade.

After polishing off my "select reserve" I headed upstairs to the "public offering." Low and damn behold, my wife had finished my bourbon. I was madder than hell. So I called her at work, demanded that she not appear in the house until she replenished my liquor. She agreed and that was that. However, I had a better buzz than I realized.

The phone rang. I fucked up, I answered it. That was when I realized how trashed I was.

"Hi, Mr. Ert, this is Tina and I received your resume."

In my head I thought "Damn, this chick sounds hotter than a firecracker. I mean - really good. I bet she is a tall blonde, with C, no wait, D breasts and long legged. Hell, I bet she is wearing a pant suit with a pair of three inch 'bet you want to tap my ass' heels." While I was thinking this, she did not stop talking. Pity that women do not give you a moment to imagine your cock in their mouth, c'est la vie in the politically correct "information age."

"So Mr. Ert, would you come in tomorrow and interview with us?"

She trapped me, time to make a snap decision. She had rambled off information, of which I paid little attention. I don't think she said exactly what it was the position was for, or what the company did, or even the company name. I smelled a rat. It was probably life insurance sales.

"Sure, Tina, what time would be good for you?" I countenanced further business intercourse for three reasons.

One - I knew damn well, I did not have anything else to do.
Two - I was a fucked up as a football bat stuck in a soccer puck. Trashed I tell you. The flu had cooked my brain. The syrups, pills and effervescing shit made me batty. And then, there was the cheap ass bourbon.
Three - Ole girl sounded hot on the telephone.

The wife comes home an hour later. She finds me passed out on laundry. My better half kicked me on the painful right shin. "Wake up and drink this stupid bourbon you made me bring home." At this point, it was difficult to explain to my spouse that I had a job interview the next day. But I had no clue of the name of the company or pay or benefits or what the job was. Just that, the lady "sounded very pleasant on the telephone."

The next morning, I woke up at and ran a diagnostic on myself. My head hurt like a flaming mother fucker. The hang over head ache was resplendent. My mouth tasted like hot tire and my throat felt as if I had swallowed sand paper. My left foot was a faint echo on my leg. My right shin had a thumping, pinging, burning sensation. Mr. Spock was putting a constant "Vulcan Nerve Pinch" on the right side of my neck. My right hand squalled with burning pain. Then I realized, time to get moving, I was throwing up.

After a refreshing vomit, it became evident that I gained twenty pounds since I last put on my suit. You just can't get a fat ass in little pants.

An emergency trip was required to Men's Discount Outlet, home of the cheap shit. Had all I needed as I passed the tie display. "Hey that tie up front is perfect and only $8! No! Dirty Ert, you idiot, you got all kinds of ties at the house. Do not buy a tie." That was a decision I would regret.

At home, I spent an hour attempting to find my tie collection. I had some nice ties, the $50 a pop kind. It is not clear why I looked for them in the back of my unfinished second bathroom. There they were. And damn did they smell. Last year's minor "water containment failure" resulted in fungal colonies breeding on all my ties.

On the way to the interview, another fucking trip to the mall. The tie set me back $25. Son of a bitch!

At last I found myself at the "interview." Please keep in mind, at that moment I was still out of my head with fever, flu, hangover and cough syrup. I was in the waiting area with a guy in a Metallica T-shirt and cut off shorts. A massive lesbian in a bright orange dress suddenly appears. She kindly asked "Can I get you anything? We have coffee or popcorn."

I could handle the huge orange lesbian, but the combination of coffee and popcorn fucked my world up. My head was swimming, but I had to wrap my mind around it. Coffee and popcorn? How do these two things go together? Later on will they have Manhattan's and pancakes? I was discombobulated and breaking into a sweat.

A man walked up and introduced himself as Billy. I was still sketchy about the details of my interview, but figured maybe he was going to interview me and answer my questions; including the coffee and popcorn thing. Then Billy turned and introduced himself to Metallica T-shirt boy. "So if you two gentlemen will just follow me."

I just knew this was going to suck. A group interview with me and a dude in a Metallica T-shirt, may Evan Williams be damned!

We followed Billy into a conference room. I saw it: Power Point. My heart sank deep into my knees. No good has ever come from anything in Power Point form. There was a projector too. To my horror, the Power Point would take up a whole fucking wall.

As the "presentation" launched, I made a quick assessment of my situation. I felt roughly the same as when I woke up, minus the call to vomit. I had gotten passed the coffee and popcorn, only to find my situation had taken a horrible turn for the worst. I wished that I could go back to the lobby and gnaw on the coffee and popcorn some more. As the first slide completely filled to wall in front of me, I realized. Billy had not asked for my resume.

It was like watching a train wreck unfold in slow motion. The first ten slides talked about how stable and wonderful the company was, without saying the company's name or products. Worse yet, Billy read the slides out loud. You got to love it when someone reads a Power Point to you. I cringed for that final moment; when the lead locomotive slams into a tractor trailer full of propane.

Then it hit.

"You can achieve financial independence and help save the environment for only a $19 investment. And it all starts today when you enroll in Amway."

The vomit feeling jumped back into my throat.

This was no job interview. I had been high-jacked into a pitch for a pyramid marketing scheme. You could almost hear my career run screaming out of the building.

"Billy," I broke into his presentation. "Do you think I could get some of that coffee and popcorn?"

Dirty Ert