Criteria for a great job

 I am fastly approaching two years of unemployment. I even have a headhunter, who specializes in the scrap industry looking for me. Its to the point; I would accept a job in a foreign country, The North.

When I first sent my headhunter my resume, he called me immediately. "This is a terrible resume."

"Its mostly because of my career." I wanted to say it, but I didn't.

I even offered to work for a scrap yard for FREE, just to gain a few resume bullets. Still got a NO. I can't even give it away. I must be the nastiest metal whore ever.

So I dusted off my 2004 edition of "What color is your parachute?" And started going through the section of determining what type of job I wanted to do. Here is my criteria for a great job.

•Being drunk or stoned would not greatly affect job performance.
•I refuse to be on call after I leave work. If you need me, call somebodyelse.
•I do not like working with people, particularly young people.
•I do not like working with computers
•I am completely terrified of snakes and refuse to work anywhere near them.
•I don't do confined spaces, rules out mining.
•Medical field a definite no, I have the nurturing skills of a buzzard.
•Fortune 500 bullshit drives me nuts, cannot deal with it. Rules out the world's largest employers.
•No government jobs, been there, done that. Hated it.
•I have a near pathological hatred and distrust of authority. Rules out police work.
•I will only work holidays if it a) is not difficult b) pays well c) greatly increases my chances of pussy. The same applies for weekends.
•Not a skilled trade that I don't already have. Which is almost none. I am too damn old to learn a trade.
•I will only work more than 40 hours a week if it pays really well. I prefer to work 20 to 30 hours per week.
•I like to take a lot of vacation to go hiking or have day long masturbation sessions.
•I enjoy working with my hands, even more if soft music is playing and my penis is available.

On the positive side of things, I ain't too picky about pay and benefits. I ain't had health insurance in years. Mankind went thousands of years with out insurance and did just fine.

My journey to the dark side is complete. I am an alcoholic, broke, jobless - hillbilly.

" Help me Obi Won Kenobi - The correct six lottery numbers are my only hope."

Lottery Winner, there is the job I want.

Fantasy Job #8: Bluegrass Rebel

Beset by unemployment and cursed with an over active imagination, I have started fantasizing about dream jobs.

Fantasy Job #8: Bluegrass Rebel

I want to be the radical outcast that takes bluegrass mainstream.

There is no musical talent in my body and I hate bluegrass. Not withstanding, I've got some good song titles and a dream in my heart. Theses songs are hard-core obscene and vulgar.

My first album, entitled "Songs I wrote while driving a great distance"

Track List

1. Shit Bitch (I love taking you anal)
2. Loving you is like ridin' a motor sickle with highly inconvenient handle bars
3. Did you fart? Or did your sister take her pants off?
4. You ain't doing nothing with it (The married Wednesday night song)
5. The race is on, lets do it dog like
6. Breeding Season
7. It ain't gonna lick itself
8. I'd rather wipe my ass with a belt sander
9. Don't just stand there, bring me a beer
10. Toothless women
11. Hillbillies do it in the hollow

Dirty Ert

Fantasy Job #7: An Abnormal, Paranormal Investigator

Beset by unemployment and cursed with an over active imagination, I have started fantasizing about dream jobs.

Fantasy Job #7: An Abnormal, Paranormal Investigator

Aliens, Bigfeet, Ghosts, UFOs, Haints, I don't give a fuck. I'll investigate them like a duck on a june bug.

I want to find complete dumb asses. You know, drugged up white trailer trash. Then I will investigate their claims of alien abduction or dogs with moose antlers.

Can't you see it now? I show up at their trailer with a camera crew. It takes me five minutes to plow through the trash on their front porch to get to their front door. Then me and my brave crew spend the night drinking beer and smoking weed with the white trash; waiting for Satan to emerge from the lawn mower shed.

Nothing in this will go well. This is some redneck couple we are dealing with here. After about eight beers, two shots and three hits from a joint; ole girl is going to take her top off. This will, of course, piss off ole boy. A small domestic disturbance will follow. The ghost of old Granny Witherspoon will be missed due to the argument over exposing tittes and who bought the last carton of cigarettes.

I am worried that ghosts may be real and have a libido like mine. Somebody or something is going to get fucked. It would never be my luck to encounter the ghost of the nineteen year old, hot, Camero-Bitch, nympho. Hell no! I'll have to fend off the homosexual advances of "Thad, The Undead Art Collector."

Finding aliens, now I would enjoy that. It is one of my life's goals to kick the ever-loving shit out of an alien bastard. No good can come from aliens on Earth. Little fuckers are always up to no good. My fondest wish is to send one back to Alpha Centauri, and have him report: "That Dirty Ert is a bad ass, alien beating, sumbitch."

Aliens are simply: little shit-grazers from another solar system or dimension. Either way, when I find the shit-asses, all hell is gonna break loose. I've got a tie iron with ET's fucking name on it. If the four way tie iron don't fuck him up, the bicycle chain will.

Dirty Ert, The Abnormal Paranormal Investigator

Fantasy Job #6: Fortune Teller

Beset by unemployment and cursed with an over active imagination, I have started fantasizing about dream jobs.

Fantasy Job #6: Fortune Teller

Y'all know anything about I Ching?

Here is how it goes. It came from ancient China - old Chiner is alright, the pre-commie era. Damn, I just can't stand a Red-Chinaman. Anyways, what you do is throw some old bones or dice or some shit. Then you look at the direction and pattern of how it all landed. Then you look the pattern up in the book. The book will then give you a statement that you have to interpret. For example:

"The dragon walks slowly across the green meadow, his left arm slightly lower than his right. While in the saffron bush the hedgehog grooms his leg hair."

This is, of course, allegory. You have got to decide what in your life is the dragon is and what the significance of the saffron bush is and so on and so forth.

What the fuck??

No wonder the Chinese invented gun powder, land mines and all kinds of shit; but the pasty faced faggy British made them bow down and kiss the King's royal ass.

So I Ching was the original "I" app, predating the I Pod by about 3,000 years and the I Phone by about 3,002 years.

This all got me to thinking. My career is not really "climbing the ladder" but bumble fucking over a series of step stools. Since I ain't got no job, there ain't none on the horizon and unemployment will run out in a while - I need a back up plan.

ERT'S BEER EMPORIUM AND FORTUNE TELLING.

This is how it will work. I am going to rent three things: an old run down building next to an exit off Interstate 81, a billboard on the northbound side and one on the southbound side. Truckers, tourist and locals will enter my establishment. They will purchase from me cheap, shitty, and slightly cooler that room temperature, beer. The customer drinks the beer as hard and fast as they can go. When they get sick, they vomit on to an open, yet smooth and clean, patch of cement. For an extra fee, The Amazing Ert will interpret their vomit.

Yes, can you not see it?? Neon lights, walls painted florescent green, black lights, bead curtains, incense and Frank Zappa playing in the background.

Oh! A funny hat. Damn it! I'll need a funny hat. You can't be a sooth sayer without a proper cap. I'll wear a lot of satin and silk garments, you know, like Hugh Heffner. A coon skin cap and a monogrammed satin bath robe - by god I've got it! People will come in and immediately be able to tell that: "That mother fucker knows what he is talking about, look at the hat!"

When customer's walk in they will be able to feel two things in the air: love, because the Great Ert loves all, but he loves those with valid credit cards more. Second that can be felt in the air, electrostatic air purification; the only sure way to keep the smell of vomit from the air.

Entrepreneur Magazine - kiss my ass. Put that in a five year plan and smoke it.

I'll even serve breath mints out of a bowl shaped like Darth Vader's head. Details people, it is all in the details.

Dirty Ert

Fantasy Job #5: Local Wrestler

Beset by unemployment and cursed with an over active imagination, I have started fantasizing about dream jobs.

Fantasy Job #5: Local Wrestler

I want to be a "Pro Wrestler"

My first performance is two weeks hence at the Unicoi County Smackdown. I perform (wrestle) as "Nalgene the Beastmaster." My costume consists of a blue, faux, animal skin tunic and a leather tank top emblazoned with the NASCAR number 67. I carry a cane with a skull atop of it, vaguely resembling a dragon's head. As for headwear, I intend to swap between an English constable's hat and a blue and gold fedora that says "LION TAMER" on it. My footwear looks just like the boots Gene Simmons was wearing on the cover of the Kiss "Destroyer" album. For my first show, I am matched against three boar goats in an all out cage match. To get the goats going, the promoter will attached sandpaper with a rubber band to their gonads and then pepper spray them in the nose. I get a $8 bonus if I can defeat all three in less than five minutes.

This show will be two Friday's from now, 8:00 PM at the Unicoi County National Guard Armory. It's just off the Beartown Road; turn after the fish hatchery but before the nuclear plant.

I am tentatively on the card for the Hancock County Snow Jamboree in early December. As of now, my opponent is to be two wet bobcats in the heat of mating season.

Technique people, its all technique.

But what of the promotion organization I intend to form, The Southern Mountain Wrestling and Fight Association? Our target audience is not, what you might say, hip people. Our shows will have stands filled with persons of poor dental hygiene, poor hygiene in general, an IQ only marginally higher than a sloth and a raging meth addiction.

There will NOT be anyone in the building who can successfully pod cast or read anything written by Tolstoy. Most of them are pretty sure that a PDA is a venereal disease. As for the internet, it is a Communist mind control plot, slowly replacing the old plot of fluoridated water.

These are people who do not trust banks, mostly because they have no money. The ones with a regular job have "checkings" accounts. The $4 entry fee to the show is almost an hour's wages for most of them. What we have here are people who still cannot handle the rules of driving through a four-way stop.

Should I promote this activity on the internet? A blog or internet link would be like giving your business card to a blind Russian whaling captain; a nice touch, but really not doing any one any good.

Nalgene The Beastmaster

Fantasy Job #3: Tennessee River Boat Captain

Beset by unemployment and cursed with an over active imagination, I have started fantasizing about dream jobs.

Fantasy Job #3: Tennessee River Boat Captain

"My name is Dirty Ert, Captain of the Muddy Beaver. My first mate, Shaef here, tells me you are looking for passage to the Louisville system."

"Yes, if it is a fast ship."

"You've never heard of the Muddy Beaver? She's the ship that made the beer run in less than 3 cigarettes!"

How cool would that be? A Tennessee River boat captain, just hanging around the Applebee's in Knoxville. Waiting for someone who needs to book passage and freight 1,500 tons of gravel to the Louisville system. And they'll need to get to Louisville without any Department of Mines and Minerals imperial-interference.

I gonna have a cool ass sidekick too. Schaef, the Albino Aardvark. Sheaf will terrify Southerners who are unaccustomed to the sight of an aardvark. Hell my cousins from Carter County would probably think an aardvark was an earthly vestige of Satan. If one of them got loose from a petting zoo, all hell would break loose in these hills.

"Margret, get my shotgun! They is a damn Satan nosing around my lawn mower shed. Hurry damn it, the son of a bitch is a headin' fo my new weedeater. Bring some birdshot woman, hurry."

I foresee that my river boating will go so well, that I'll need to hire a crew for a fleet of ships. Just like BJ McKay. Do remember that fucker? He started off trucking with just hisself and that nasty monkey. In the beginning it was just him versus Sheriff Lobo; then BJ hit it big. He hired a passel of hot chicks to drive trucks for him. I'll do the same thing, except on the water, and the aardvark. Of course instead of Lobo, I have to face the Gay Pirates of Tellico Lake.

Let me tell you something people, them gay pirates are bitches. They run around the lake in a pontoon boat called The Snatch. Most of their victims tend to be the elderly and people in row boats. They pick off the slow ones first. Once the pirates have taken a prisoner, the torture begins. The bitches just tell it like it is. For fifteen minutes you have to listen to a grown man bitch about how bad Paula Abdul's pants looked on Entertainment Television. All the while, another queer pilfers your cooler.

That where me, The Muddy Beaver, Shaef, a crew of titty chicks and 1,500 tons of gravel come in. There are good queer-fearing rednecks who deserve to enjoy the lake, without the dread of a gay cooler pilfering. Captain Ert is here to save the day.

Dirty Ert

Fantasy Job #3: Women's Sex Toy Repairman

Beset by unemployment and cursed with an over active imagination, I have started fantasizing about dream jobs.

Fantasy Job #3: Women's Sex Toy Repairman

For Pete's Sake! Web sites that sell these things give technical specifications. You can find out the total weight of the machine, stroke length and occasionally torque (in inch-pounds no less!)

With that many moving parts there will be breakdowns and I want to be there when it happens.

I'll have my own van; drive around like an ambulance waiting for some wore out old hag to call when her Fuckzilla has a viscosity breakdown. I'll show up, Johnny on the spot, fix it then ask the old bitch to test it before I leave. She'll beg for my cock, sure, but she can't have it. I need to make a living and her filthy cunt needs to seize up the main bearings in the damn thing. Cash, the old road whore will have to pay me in cash.

That is just one possible service call in my busy days as a Women's Sex Toy Repairman.

I am afraid that no young, hot assed, college volleyball player will have one of these. There are two reasons for this grade of woman not having a sex toy. One, she cannot afford it. Two, she is too young to understand what her "box" really does for her. Nasty little Indy bitch won't stop talking on her damn cell phone long enough to turn the fucking thing on any ways.

Yes! Can't you see it now?

"DIRTY ERT'S FUCKING MACHINE REPAIR, Licensed, Bonded and Insured - 24 hour emergency service. 'Call me, when it won't come on, and you can't get off'"

"She drove herself to madness, with a silver spoon" - The Eagles Witchy Woman

"Oh, thank god! Vibrator repair"
"No Mame, the police"
- Dragnet The Movie

Ert

P.S. Fuckzilla is not in my spell check dictionary. It suggested frowzily or Duckbill, whatever the hell that means.

P.P.S Cash you horny bitches - I only take cash!

Fantasy Job #2: Demolition Derby Announcer

Beset by unemployment and cursed with an over active imagination, I have started fantasizing about dream jobs.

Fantasy Job #2: Demolition Derby Announcer

If you have ever been to a demolition derby in the South, you know what I am talking about. Should you have failed to attend such a spectacle, add it to the list of things you must see before you die. Trust me; it's a shit-ton better than Paris.

For those uncultured in the sport, here is a quick introduction. Take a bunch of old cars on the brink of death. Then run them into each other. The winner is the last car able to move around of its own power.

The announcer has a real thick Southern/Hick (aka Redneck Gibberish) accent. An attribute I have covered. Personally, I think the secret to good public announcing work is hard liquor. As the first round of cars start their engines, I'd be on shot three. It would be a good night in the booth if I passed out just as the champion is crowned.

The personal lives of the competitors (including recent divorce) is something I've actually heard an announcer discuss. "Looks like Jimmy Douglas throwed an axle. Gotta be disappointin' fo' Jimmy. I knowed he was hoping for a good run today, he's a try'n to cheer hisself up after his ole lady stepped out last month."

Another sweet announcer move is giving instructions to the fire crew. Occasionally an old car catches a flame. Local volunteer fire departments are there to handle it. Oh! But, some announcers really get into it. This is an actual announcement I once heard. "Ays a far! Ays a far! Mon far boys, git in nar! Git Grigg out dar." Allow me to translate: "There is a fire! There is a fire! Come on, firemen, get in there. Get Gregg out of there." Ays, nar and dar are all Redneck Gibberish conjugations of there.

Perhaps my favorite job perk is the view of redneck tang. Country girls like to dress to the nines for any sport involving internal combustion engines. There is always one ole girl dressed like this: blue jeans (two sizes too small,) a black pair of fuck me pumps and a NASCAR t-shirt. The t-shirt is also way too small. Her cleavage is on display, for all to enjoy. She is constantly sucking on a cigarette.

Getting liquored up, talking Redneck Gibberish about cars mashing in the mud and scoping redneck tang. Try finding that one in Career Builder.

Dirty Ert

Fantasy Job #1: Dirty Ert's Tours

Beset by unemployment and cursed with an over active imagination, I have started fantasizing about dream jobs.

Fantasy Job #1: Dirty Ert's Southern Appalachian Tour Guide

See the Hillbilly South like never before! Come on down, I'll show you.....

I want to take you Yankees and other foreigners on an genuine trip through my home region. Before you leave, you'll experience the Hills like never before.

Be in the lobby of your hotel at 6:00 AM. I highly suggest you wear your drinking shoes. Clothes that you wouldn't mind getting filthy are best. Ladies should display cleavage and hats are optional.

My tour bus is like no other. It's a big ass, 70's U-Haul truck. The cargo interior has been completely refurbished. The floor, walls and ceiling are covered in green outdoor carpet. There are La-Z-Boy chairs and couches bolted to the floor. For your viewing pleasure, I've installed a sliding-glass patio door on each side. It is also equipped with a first aid kit: Goody's Headache Powders, Gatorade and Pepto Bismal. There is a complete bar and a chemical toilet.

As the tour bus peels out of the parking lot, we crack our first beer. Please keep in mind that this is a smoking tour. Throughout the day you should plan on eating a lot. We'll stop for a country breakfast. For lunch and dinner, a feast of BBQ will be had.

There are, of course, Civil War Battlefields, Historic Homes, Museums and all that crap. I'll briefly tell you about them as they whiz past the patio doors. But I want people to see the "other side" of Appalachia. And you need a good beer buzz to take it in.

Your first walking tour is an authentic crystal meth lab. I'll have a few rednecks explain how it is made and give a short lecture on the economics of it. If Skeeter is available; he can tell you all about a meth-dealer conviction and how not to have a stand off with the police. Skeeter was hemmed up in his trailer while the Sheriff was outside with a warrant. Using quick thinking, Skeeter looked for a hostage. Unfortunately the only available hostage, at the time, was a goat. Skeeter quickly discovered that the following phrase does not stop the Sheriff or his SWAT team. "Back off or I'll blow this goat's fucking head off!"

Next we will walk a real marijuana patch. A real-deal grower, with the guilty verdicts to prove it, will show you the art of "booby trapin'" I also have a man that gives a five minute informative lecture on "Confusing the DEA's Helicopters."

At this point in the tour, the sun is setting. Your intoxication should be reaching its peak. Then I shall take you on a romp of personal expression. Bridge and water tower painting. You will have the opportunity to paint the name of your most cherished loved one, on a municipal structure.

Should you pass out, you will get treated like one of us. I am going to paint "FART" on your forehead. Then I'll leave your drunk ass in the landscaping out front of your hotel.

The next morning, upon waking up, you will feel like a real hillbilly.

Dirty Ert