The ironic nose zit

For reasons unknown, I get a zit on my nose about every two to three years.  I have been unemployed for two years.

I have a job interview in three days.  There is now a huge red zit on my nose.

Figures...

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 #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

A word that sells, at least to me.

As of late, I have been attempting to "monetize" my little nook in the cyber world. Far too many hours have been spent on advertising companies and their gadgets, widgets and what not. During this cluster-bumble I've discovered one thing: I may be the only person that thinks "FUCK" is a word that sells.

The little, hell-spawn, MBA in Marketing creeps have a list of "hot" words that seem to drive people to spend money. The usual list toppers are "Free" and "Value." It would appear that six long years of college clouds the mind, "Fuck" is not on the list. It is, in fact, on the other list; words you can't use in advertising.

The website you are currently on has been dropped or denied advertising due to the extravagant use of the term in question. Have these idiots lost their minds?

Fuck is my favorite word, it sells me every time.

First of all, like most people, I really like to fuck. If a woman says to me "Excuse me sir, but would you like to fuck?" I am sold, immediately.

Nextly, I enjoy getting fucked up. I drink vast quantities of alcohol because I enjoy the sensation of getting lost in my own yard. The following is a very effective pitch, "Take some of this. It'll get you more fucked up than a football bat." Now, there are some very nasty things in this world that will fuck you up, many of them to be avoided. But, if anyone throws the football bat pitch at me; I'll, at least, hear the rest of the sales presentation.

Lastly, I just like to say the word. Noun, verb, adverb, adjective, pronoun, it is all parts of speech. Put that in a sentence diagram and smoke it. It just rolls of the tongue like no other. Its the word that really says what none other can. For example, the last time I quit a job. I explained that cutting my pay and benefits was: "The worst fucking idea I've ever heard. Fuck you, I quit. Mother Fucker."

Words that sell, MY ASS!

Dirty Ert

Can't Keep A Good Man Down, But....

The old saying is true. You can't keep a good man down. But you sure as hell can kick him while he is still there.

This whole blog-a-ma-jigger started because the economy ate my dream job. I was clicking like chicken and on my way to breaking one hundred grand a year for the first time in my life. Then all hell broke loose in the metals world, last September. It took only six weeks to fall from grace. Killer money was coming in every week. The owners would put a grand in my pocket on Friday; just to have a little "walking around money" for the weekend. Insurance, retirement and all manner of benefits were part of my pay. I was even issued a brand new Chevy 3/4 ton truck. The owners told me to put the fuel on the company card and just do whatever in the fuck I wanted to with the truck. By Christmas, I was unshaven, drunk and wearing sweat pants all day.

In the spring, an old friend talked me into starting this blog. He is a professional blogger and convinced me that I could break the doldrums by writing and make a little coin along the way. This has indeed broken the doldrums, but the coin is a different story.

It took, nearly, an act of congress to get a Google AdSense account opened. I made an entire $3.49 before Google jerked my ads. It seems they now have a policy against the word FUCK and its repeated use. I suppose it will take another act of congress to get my damn $3.49.

Trying to replace the bastards at AdSense has not gone any better. It seems old Dirty Ert uses FUCK too much, or talks about getting FUCKED or FUCKED UP too much. Or not enough eyeballs out in the nether space of the internet wander in here. Or some other kind of internet gibbereish speech that I do not understand comes into play.

So it seems that this blogging activity may not pay the mortgage or even the water bill. Well fuck it! I like doing this, I'll just pay the bills otherwise.

Just so y'all know. I went to at least 10 other sites with far more "mature" content than mine; plenty of Google ads.

In case anyone from Google reads this: Tell the rat bastards in Adsense I want my $3.49 or I am gonna whip somebody's ass. Oh yeah, FUCK YOU TOO.

Dirty Ert

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

Please reconsider not selecting me for the job

For months I suffered under one of the worst cases of unemployment that I have ever contracted. At the height of the worst recession in generations, I reached the fuck it point. It became crystal clear that my career was over.

I had a pile of those, "thank you for applying, but we are not hiring you" form letters. Inspired, I wrote my own form letter in response to their form letter.

Curiously, nobody has responded.....

Dirty Ert
4445 Beaver Ridge Road
Kingsport, TN 37660
February 23, 2009

Director of Human Resources
Sperry Univac
100 Sperry Drive
Bristol, VA 24201

Madame Director,

I am writing you to follow up on my submission of employment credentials.

Your form letter of February 15th was enlightening, if not terribly disappointing. It is my apologies that my qualifications do not currently meet your employment needs. It is a relief to know that my application will be "kept on file for further consideration."

Allow me to strike at the heart of the matter. I am fucked. I lost my dream job. There are no employment needs that fit my qualifications. Yesterday a bill collector threatened to stab me in the balls. I am going bankrupt and I think my wife is leaving me for a 20 year old college swimmer from Puerto Rico. Drastic times call for drastic measures. So here goes.

I know what "kept on file for further consideration" means. My résumé is currently in a landfill covered with coffee grinds; sandwiched between a soiled condom and knot of used paper towels.

But you need me, yes you do. I have qualifications that perfectly match an employment need you don't even know that you have.

You need to hire me as Auggie Boo-Boo Wormbelly, the Towmotor Driving Toad Boy.

First, I'll explain the name. Auggie was the name of a baby calf I raised on the family farm. I cared and loved him every day; right up until I sent him off to slaughter. It was an awful thing to do on my part. This is probably the reason why I am fucked now, Karma is a bitch. Boo-Boo is the name of another baby calf who suffered the same fate as Auggie. Wormbelly was also a cow I had as a teenager. One day, Wormbelly kicked my old man, right-square in the nuts. It was one of the funniest fucking things I have ever seen. THEN we sent Wormbelly to the slaughter. I guess you could say the ole girl had it a comin'.

Toad Boy, shit that just sounds funny. But, Ah! Towmotor (forklift) driving, this is your benefit.

Let me tell you about my forklift driving. I suck at it, bad. I drive a forklift like a 95 year old Jamaican man; slow and oblivious. As I drive, you will also wonder; is he stoned? But life is funny; I used to be a forklift operator safety training instructor. I have probably spent about 20 hours of my life driving a forklift. But I taught people who had driving a forklift 40 hours a week for 15 years; how to safely drive the thing.

At this point, you are probably asking yourself these questions. Why should I hire someone who sucks at driving a forklift, to drive a forklift? Why should I refer to him as Auggie Boo-Boo Wormbelly, the Towmotor Driving Toad Boy?

Every day I will show up to work in a costume.

I already have my first day's get-up picked out. Now keep in mind how I do my first day on the job. I work off Karma (even if it is a nasty bitch.) There is no need for me to start out in human resources. Quite frankly, it is bullshit and not where the action is. Tax forms and safety videos be damned. I can do those at home while I lounge in my dog hair bath robe.

On my first day, I am going to wear a three colored clown wig. For shoes, I have a lovely pair of snake skin hip boots. I also have a kilt; made from an old shower curtain (it still has the hanging hooks.) My shirt will be lime green and in bold letters say "Evan Williams for President." In case you did not know, Evan Williams is a brand of cheap Kentucky Bourbon (and it is bullshit.) Now for the outfit's piece de resistance, a polystyrene pig's nose. I particularly like this one because I occasionally breathe out of my nose. This pig's nose fits nicely over my nose and it has two holes that line up nicely with my own nostrils.

As I mentioned before, I am bypassing human resources. At 7:00 AM when first shift begins, I am going to walk straight in the employee entrance, like I have worked there for 10 years. I will mount the first forklift I see and immediately begin moving shit around. I am a quick learner and anticipate that I'll get the hang of things in my third or maybe fourth week on the job.

You should also know that I do not interact with coworkers, bosses, vendors, customers or visitors. People can certainly talk to me. But that is of limited use. I am probably thinking about intercourse or food or both, and not really listening. Best results are achieved if you leave me a message on an Etch-A-Sketch.

I can make an important and deep commitment to you. Should there be visitors in the plant during my shift; I will be a rock. I'll drive my Towmotor with my eyes locked forward. My face will be stoic. Your visitors will see the calm intensity behind that pig's nose.

As for the kind of forklift you will need to provide me. I prefer to operate a Lewis Shepard brand. I am aware that Lewis Shepard was bought out in 1972 and their products ceased to be that fall. But, you are a champ and I know there will be a shiny "new" Lewis Shepard waiting for me on my first day (which is next Wednesday.)

For future reference I have several T-Shirts picked out for work. Here is what is written on some of them:

Weed, The Other Green Vegetable
Middle Eastern Chicks, The Other White Meat
Bend Over, I'm Driving
Forklift Drivers Do It In The Racks
Hey Everybody, Lets Fart!
Two Nuns And A Duck
Tequila Makes My Asshole Hurt (Based on my 1994 trip to Mexico)
Rhinestone Hog Boy (I made this one right after I bought a Bedazzler.)

Now, it is time for the salary negations. I do not need money. I need chainsaws. We are talking barter here. Each Friday morning you are to leave a DIFFERENT chainsaw on my Lewis Shepard. I am on a quest, to start the world's only chainsaw museum on an Interstate 81 exit.

Each "payday" I will examine the "offering" of a chainsaw you leave for me. If the saw is acceptable, I will give a subtle acknowledgement. I will stand on one leg, raise my arms over my head and let loose my best hyena impression. If the chainsaw fails to make the grade; I will ram my forklift into the Coke machine. Then I will go home. When I come back on Monday, there had better be an acceptable saw on my Lewis Shepard, along with an apology on the Etch-A-Sketch. If not, I will muster a mighty turd, and leave it on the plant manager's car windshield.

I believe that you will find this both a fair and equitable deal.

Looking forward to my new career

Best wishes,

Auggie Boo-Boo Wormbelly, the Towmotor Driving Toad Boy

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