Tag Archives: job

Training Day.

5 Feb

Did you know that I work? I have a job. I have a job I go to in the daytime. It’s physically demanding, emotionally straining, and–I’m kidding. It’s really easy. I could cut both my legs off and still perform this job like its nobody’s business.

Bet five.

No matter how easy I may think this job is, though, there is still a certain level of formal training that’s required of me.

Before I begin, let me say this–I’ve had a lot of training days. These things usually revolve around terribly-produced VHS films from 1997, telling me about the joys of working for ____ and the exciting opportunities awaiting me at _____.

When I was training with Wal-Mart, I had a woman who told us that–no joke–we then had two birthdays: the day we were born, and then the day we were born into the Wal-Mart family. I would describe my reaction as “horrified disbelief.”

A little over a week ago, I went to a training session for my new job as a tutor for kids who aspire to attend college after graduating high school.

Slightly hung over and running on about three hours of sleep (My birthday was the day prior, and to celebrate, I helped a friend dig his/her/it-was-definitely-a-her car out of a muddy ditch at 4am. Happy birthday, Kyle.), I stumble into the training room. I am at least five to ten minutes late. I look like either a homeless person. Lacking time for proper cleaning after getting my friend’s car out of the ditch, there are still traces of mud and silt on my palms. On top of that, my shirt has a hole in it and my hair looks like this:

This...but like on my head.

I lumber quietly to my seat at the circular table as my boss begins speaking.

“Today, we’re going to really focus on what makes this program so special and how–”

I fall asleep, and my head hits the table with a deep thud, halting my boss in his tracks.

“Oh Jesus!” I yelp, jerking myself upright.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Irion?” Mr. Cook, my boss, asks.

Rubbing the spot of impact on my head, and little dazed, I respond. “Good. I’m good.”

Our first activity of the day is to go around in a circle and say one success and one failure from the year.

My friend Will speaks first. “Okay, for my success, I’d say helping a few of the students get all A’s, and for my failure, I’d say me not being tough enough on the kids.”

The group then turns to Lauren, the next in line. “My success is helping Taylor work through some hard math problems she had and my failure is…I guess whenever we couldn’t find an answer to Javier’s chemistry problem.”

Now, it’s my turn. “I would say, as far as success and failure go, that Ray Leeden is a success and Loren Stills is a failure.”

What follows is a silence so sudden it’s as if the room itself is gasping. Then a girl across the table actually does gasp, as if the girl across the table is gasping–because she is. She is gasping. [Editor’s Note: Are you even trying anymore?] There’s a gasp from the other side of the table.

I turn to Mort, who’s sitting next to me. It’s his turn now.

“It’s your turn, now,” I say. I wait a few seconds, then look around the table with a look of “What’s up with this guy?” plastered across my face. I then ask them, “What’s up with this guy?” jerking my thumb in Mort’s direction. Mort simply reaches up and, without saying a word, grabs my thumb and lowers my hand to the table.

“Mr. Irion,” Mr. Cook says in a slightly hushed tone. “We don’t talk about the students that way. They aren’t ‘successes’ or f–”

Mr. Cook goes on to explain how the kids shouldn’t by typified as “successes” or “failures,” because by doing so we run the risk of pigeon-holing them mentally–the result being that we don’t try as hard to push them, because to us, they already are what they are. At the end of his speech, I nod quietly, turn to Mort and tell him it’s his turn now. Mort just shakes his head “No,” and we move on.

Next, we outline our goals for the next few months. Here’s what I wrote:

A few hours in, I start to really grind. I’m constantly fighting the seductive temptation to sleep.

Go ahead, Kyle. Sleep is natural. Everyone needs it, Sleep calls.

Stop it, Sleep! Stop it! You know very well that I can’t go to sleep right now.

Oh? But I don’t. I see a jacket you could easily roll up into a ball and–

Are you serious? If you say “Sleep on the floor,” I’m going to wait until midnight tonight, then drink three Monsters and start chasing stray dogs until 6am. We’ll see how good you feel then.

No! No! Don’t! Can you imagine how tired you’d be after chasing all those dogs, though?

I…I suppose I’d be very tired.

Stray dogs are very fast.

Stray dogs are very fast. And they always know the best hiding spots.

They have to be fast–because the world doesn’t slow down for vagabonds.

No…no it…doesn’t… I fall forward and my head smacks the table again.

“Salt and pepper!” I yell and sit back up, holding my head. “Damn it.”

“Kyle, seriously,” Mr. Cook says.

“Bruise City!” I say, pointing to my forehead, which will soon be renamed Bruise City. I start to eye the coat that Sleep showed me. I then allow my vision to drift to a shady spot under a table on the far side of the room. “Mr. Cook, may I ask a question?”

“Go ahead,” he says, completely exasperated.

“Will there be a nap time today? Because I am very tired and I–”

“–Get out.” Mr. Cook interjects.

“Get out?”

“Get out. Get out of here.”

“Am I fired?”

“Get out.”

“Okay, so I’m not fired. I’m not fired, right?” I gather my things and begin to make my way to the door. Mr. Cook is standing at the head of the table with a clipboard holding our agenda for the day.

“Please leave, Mr. Irion.”

A little concerned now, “Okay, well, I’m just going to reach my arms out here–” I open my arms to hug Mr. Cook “–and I’m just going to let ’em fall where they fall, and if they land in a place that makes us best friends then that’s just fantastic–and we don’t fire best fr–”

“Oh my god, Kyle, get the hell out of here before I call campus security.”

“Okay, okay. I’m out.” I grab some pens off the table and turn to address everyone before I walk out. “These are my birthday presents, understand? These are my birthday presents from all of you since you didn’t get me anything else.” Will looks like he’s about to say something, but Mrs. Rodriguez holds her hand to him to gesture silence. “Goodbye, everyone,” I say. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to say your successes and failures today, Mort.”

Mort stares at me blankly then then puts a few pens in his right hip pocket.

I really hope I can make the football team.

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Job Interview IV: I Got This One!

7 Nov

I got another job interview. It was with the Fredricks Independent School District, tutoring a class of students who have aspirations to go to college, but lack the emotional or financial support. I’ll be supplying neither of these (kids are gross and dress poorly), but I will be showing the students where they can find them.

—Begin Narrative—

I really need to nail this interview. I need to nail it because I can only handle so much rejection before I start hanging around the lady’s areas of country clubs, desperately trying to find an older woman who’s interested in using a young buck for six to eight years of loveless sex before she dies, leaving me with her vast fortune and a family that loathes me.

I arrive at Fredricks High School and survey the building. I walk up the steps to the entryway. It’s locked.

A crackled voice from my right says, “Please state your name.”

For whatever reason, this reminds me of a castle wall. My mind is immediately thrust into the medieval ages.

“I am Kyle, son of Michael. I hail from the great land of Waxahachie, TX, with it’s lush greenery, and king and hospitable populous. I seek employment within your walls. Please, if you would only bless me with the honor of an audience with the Lady Rodriguez, head of ye olde Department of Human Resources.” There’s a slight pause as I bow to the intercom box. Then, a voice responds.

“I can’t hear you. You have to press the ‘Talk’ button.”

I shake my head and sigh, then press the ‘Talk’ button. “I’m Kyle Irion. I’m here for a job interview with Mrs. Rodriguez.”

“It’s unlocked,” the voice says.

There’s a click from the doorway. I open the door and walk into the front office. I sign in and the receptionist presents me with with an ID badge, a complimentary Fredricks High School pen and matching lanyard.

I’m directed to Mrs. Rodriguez’s room. It’s doorway runs perpendicular to a stairwell five yards across the hallway.

“Kyle?” She says as I open the door to her office.

“Mrs. Rodriguez,” I say. “How are you?”

“I’m well. And you?”

“Okay, I guess. I ran too much yesterday and now I think I have something like diaper rash between my butt cheeks,” I say. People at job interviews appreciate honesty.

“Oh,” Mrs. Rodriguez says, her eyes bouncing around her desk, then back to me. “Well, running is very good exercise.”

“I wasn’t exercising,” I say.

“You weren’t? Then why were you running?”

“I was running from something.”

“Running from what?” She asks.

“From bats.”

“Bats? There are no bats around here.”

“No like, baseball bats. I punched a lady at Wendy’s,” I say. Mrs. Rodriguez seems taken aback.

“What? Why?”

“She tried to McSteal my order” I say, winking. “So I McBeat the shit out of her.”

“I thought you were at a Wendy’s,” Mrs. Rodriguez said.

“I was.” Mrs. Rodriguez stares at me in silence for a few seconds.

“Not McDonald’s?”

“No. Not McDonald’s,” I say, slightly confused. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because you…” she pauses and cocks her head slightly. “Nevermind. Let’s move on.”

“Let’s.”

The interview goes smoothly. I only say the f-word one time, but I was repeating something somebody else was saying, so I think that makes it okay.

“Well, Kyle. I think it’s safe to say that the position is yours if you want it.”

“Does it pay money?”

“Of course it does. Why wouldn’t it?”

“To be honest, ma’am, the last job I had, at Wal-Mart, paid primarily in insults to my intelligence and constant assaults on my personal joy. It also paid in whatever rotten produce I could carry out in my apron.” She laughs softly. I stare her coldly in the face.

Mrs. Rodriguez clears her throat. “We pay cash here. Don’t worry. Thank you for meeting with me. I’ll call you sometime next week to let you know when to come in.”

“Hey, is it cool if I take next week off?”

“What? Why?”

“Trying to catch up on Dexter. You know how it is.” I smile and do a stabbing motion with my hand, then a pelvic thrust to seal the deal.

“I don’t think I do. I’ll see you next Wednesday at 8:15 am.”

“You sure?” I ask, pelvic thrusting one more time in case she missed the last one.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

I shrug my shoulders, light a fire cracker and throw it into the cafeteria. “See you then, I guess.”

I start my new job next week.

Love,

Kyle.

P.S. Yea, I had no idea that this was a letter, either, but it is. And like God, I work in mysterious ways. Or I don’t work at all. One of the two.

School Daze With Captain Cool

1 Oct

Today I went to my sister’s school and taught a few classes a brief lesson on creative writing.

All the students file into the room. All the chairs and desks have been pushed to the corners of the room, so all the kids just sit on the ground in front of me. It’s 8:30 am. I’m kind of hung over. My head is pounding and my stomach feels like there’s somebody throwing up in it.

“All right. Well, my name is Kyle Irion. You can call me Kyle, Mr. Irion, or Captain Cool. You can also call me Mr. Cool.”

One little boy says “Yes sir, Captain Cool.” This boy has gained my favor. In the event of a zombie outbreak, I will save him first.

“OK. Now. I’m going to teach you guys a lesson about writing, because one day, you’re going to need to learn to put your thoughts onto paper. When you get older there are things called ‘essays,’ which are pretty much long answers on tests. It’s important because even if you don’t really know 100% what you’re talking about, you can still seem like you do if you know how to write. One day, you may even go to college and major in writing essays. That’s what I did as an English major.

“There are a couple of really important things to remember when you’re writing a story. First, you need characters. You need people to do the things in your story. Some times, the people in your story will have sex.” I make an “o” shape with one hand and poke my pointer finger through it. I nod at a boy in the front. He looks scared. Why the fuck does he look like that? “Why the fuck do you look like that?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer. He just cries or some shit. I can’t remember. “Your characters may also kill each other. Your characters should be realistic and believable. For instance, if you were to put me in a story you might say ‘Kyle is thinking about killing this crying child in the front.’ –That’s believable. You’d be damn right. I want to push this kid into a river. But you know what? I don’t know where there are any rivers around here and I don’t want this kid in my car, so how do you explain this to your readers?” I look around, waiting for an answer. A little girl raises her hand.

“You tell them all that stuff?” She asks.

“Yes. that’s exactly right. That’s exactly right.” I hand her the crying kid’s wallet, which I had taken moments prior. She slowly reaches over and hands the child his wallet back.

“OK. We’re running short on time, so I think it’s time for you guys to get started writing. Here’s the prompt: you’re on your way to complete a quest. Your goal is in sight. Then, as if out of nowhere, an obstacle presents itself–and the only person that can help you is your neighbor. So pick someone around you to help you succeed. Give your story a title and write ‘The End’ at the end. If you have enough time after you finish, you can draw the art for the cover.” These instructions seem pretty clear. “Any questions?” I survey the children. An Asian boy in the back raises his hand. “Hit me with it,” I say.

“Well, can we be on a mountain?”

“Yes. You can be anywhere you want. Anybody else?” A little girl in a purple shirt raises her hand. “Yes ma’am?”

“Can we have swords?”

“You can have whatever you want and be wherever you want. It’s all up to you.” A portly Hispanic boy raises his hand. “What’s up?”

“Well, does it have to be today?”

“It can be with anyone, anywhere, and anywhen.” This is not a word. “You could make your story set in 1998 or 3008.”

“So 2000 is OK?”

I sigh deeply. “No. Don’t set your story in the year 2000. Don’t do that. If you do that, you fail. You will be the only student in the room who gets their story graded and you will fail.” The class lets out an “Ah” of understanding and hurriedly gets to work.

——

When they get done they all read their stories aloud. Here’s what I gathered from the stories I heard. All children’s stories follow four simple rules:

  1. Everybody has powers.
  2. Everything can talk.
  3. Ninjas, monsters, and other characters can appear out of anywhere by simply writing “And then ____ showed up.”
  4. No character ever questions anything, no matter how bizarre or nonsensical.

——

Here are some of my favorite (real) moments from the children’s stories:

Dylon could shoot doo doo out of his hands.

Then Kerry got eaten and I was disappointed.

The British soldiers were chasing me, trying to take the crystal cheese.

The Booger monster was attacking. I went to the kitchen and got some tissues and some scissors.

I was building a mountain of candy and then I found out that I didn’t have any chocolate bricks.

Me, Cameron, Ashley, and David were walking to school. Then a ninja jumped out. Everybody died except me.

Kids are badass.

Preparing For My Job Interview

22 Aug

Last week, I received a phone call from an unknown number. I half expected it to be another one of those Spanish-language sweep stakes things telling me that I had (working from a rough translation) either won a free trip or that one of my goats had gone missing. I was wrong.

“Hola. Bienvenidos.” I say. I’m not sure what the second word means.

“Robert Irion?” A woman’s voice comes from the other end of the line. I sit up in my recliner, startling my cat and spilling chili all over my crotch.

“Uh, y-yes,” I say, fumbling for words while getting Frito pie out of my loins. “He is this. No–this is he, I mean. How can I help you?”

“This is Hannah from Sally White & Associates. We received a resume from you in reference to our proof reader position.” By now, I’ve used the cat to clean up most of the chili. Cats are like rags that meow at you. “I’d like to schedule an interview with you for this upcoming Thursday,” she says. I think this girl wants to bang me.

“Sounds great. What time?” I ask.

“We have a slot at nine o’ clock.”

“Nine? Like at night?”

“In the morning.” This girl is starting to sound like a real bitch.

“OK, well–” She could sense the hesitation in my voice and quickly suggested another possible time slot, two o’ clock that same afternoon. “Very well, then.” I said.

“OK, Robert. I’ll be sending you a confirmation e-mail shortly.”

“Hey. While you’re there, why don’t you send me a pic?”

“Excuse me?”

“See you Thursday!” I hang up.

I needed to buy new clothes. I went to the local boutique in Waxahachie: JC Penney. I knew exactly what I needed because I had recently watched a documentary called The Office. Really fascinating– like the ER of the business world. It showed me that the good guys always wear dark, skinny ties and make out with the secretary. The bad guys wear short-sleeve collared shirts and part their hair in the middle. I want to be a good guy. I want to make out with the secretary. I bought a pair of charcoal, slightly pin-striped slacks, loafers, a black skinny tie, some dress socks, and a black belt (I have like ten of these at home, but they’re the kind you get for kicking ass, and wouldn’t fit in my belt loops. ). I’m going to look stellar.

I try all these things on the night before and attempt to get a job from my father–just to see if I had gotten my money’s worth.

“Hello, sir.” I hold my hand out. My father, sitting in a recliner in our living room, reading by lamp light, looks up to me.

“Robert?” That’s what my dad calls me. Robert is short for “Colossus.” It’s also long for “Bob,” “Rob,” “Bert,” or “Obe.”

“Father. I’d like a job. I feel I’m more than qualified.”

“Yea? What makes you qualified?” He takes off his reading glasses and turns to me. “Yesterday, I called the house from work and you said you were watching your fish, trying to see if you could tell which one loved you more.”

“Dad, that’s science. That’s science work.” My father lets out a single, mocking laugh and puts his glasses back on.

“Son, the only thing you’re qualified to do is act as a constant reminder of the Porsche I could have bought with the money I wasted on your education.”

“So, I got the job?” My dad looks up at me, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He shakes his head and returns to his book.

“Yea, son. You got the job. God in heaven, you got the job.”

Liveblogging a Day in My Graduate Life.

9 Jul

I’ve decided to take a brief break from the one episode long “Kyle Helps” series to talk a little bit about something that’s really close to me– myself.

Graduate life is much different from student or work life. You’re in a bizarre state of limbo, turning in resumés and applications, following up with not-always-receptive employers, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. They say “Kyle, why don’t you wear the shirt withOUT the Cheetos stains?” or “Kyle, people can smell you,” or “Kyle, are you purposely putting Cheetos dust on that shirt? It looks like you’ve written your name there.” They just do not get it. I want to give everybody a peek into my life– a peek into what it’s like to be a graduate.

8:30 am

I wake up and stretch. I then look into the mirror across my room and, smiling wryly, say “Just kidding,” to my reflection and go back to sleep for four more hours.

12:37 pm

Lord, it’s already past noon? A normal person might look at this time and think “God, I’ve wasted so much of the day,” but not me. No, not me.  I say to myself that I had breakfast, I just simply forgot what I ate. This is how I lie to myself. This is how I survive.

1:45 pm

Laying out by the pool. I’m reading some Stephen King. I get scared and have to go inside.

3:00 pm

Spend roughly six minutes trying to clean a speck of dirt off my computer screen. It turns out to be a comma. The cats saw me do that. I’m so fucking embarrassed.

Harsh, unceasing, judgement.

Cold, unyielding, judgment.

4:03 pm

OPRAH! OMG! I sit down in front of the T.V. with my “Oprah Snacks”: a jar of peanut butter, a sleeve of crackers, and a liter of Diet Coke. I’m comfy, alert, and ready for a good cry. I’m going to eat all of this food. Today, the show is about food. I’m so EXCITED. This really will help me lose those pesky pounds!

4:27 pm

Dr. Oz or whatever just said that Diet Coke is bad for you. He’s a fucking idiot and so is Oprah.

4:29 pm

I’m so sorry, Oprah. I didn’t mean that. I really didn’t. You’re brilliant. You’re the queen of daytime television. Dr. Oz isn’t, though. He’s a fucking idiot with a stupid haircut that wears scrubs on national television.

5:30 pm

I go to the kitchen to do some chores. I clean the counters (push the cats off the counters), mop up the floor (slide a cat around with a broom), and load the dishwasher (I put a cat in the dishwasher.).  After I finish those chores, I decide to re-organize the pantry according to my own personal likes and dislikes. I push all the “icky” stuff to the back of the shelf and pull what I like to the front. Now all you can see when you open the cabinet is a bag of croutons and a DVD of Wedding Crashers (That’s not food, I just love that movie.)

6:38 pm

I lean back in my chair and crack my fingers, adoring my newly completed blog, which is resting quietly on my screen. I wrote about pooping in a movie theater. Poetry. Poo-etry.

7:00 pm

I put on a pair of leather pants and walk around despondent, drug-addled, and bloated. From 7 to 8 I usually do my best Jim Morrison impression for everyone. Nobody at my house likes this. I just tell them (from atop the kitchen table) that they’re all slaves and that art can’t be chained down. I then throw up the crackers from earlier and fall down. I decide that I’ve pretty much ruined the evening for everybody already and that it’s probably best that I just don’t get up for a little bit.

12:38 am

My father comes into the living room and tells me it’s probably a good time for me to go to bed. He mops where I was laying. I spend six or seven minutes in quiet self-loathing before I remember that I installed the Sims on my laptop last week. I spend the next two hours trying to create a kind of breeding program in my Sim neighborhood. It has yet to yield the perfect Sim. Don’t worry, though. I have plenty of time to perfect it. I have all the time in the world.

That’s my day. Later, girls and boys.

Job Search 2009, Pt. II

30 May

OK, so where were we? Oh yea, those punk kids had just stolen my resumé. Punks.

I stood in the court house lawn, stunned. My moneys were nowhere to be found. My yacht was somewhere out there on the great sea, being steered by another man (Editor’s note: OR woman. Kyle prefers not to endorse gender role stereotypes, such as the idea as man as the ultimate sailor/driver.), just a normal man like me, but DEFINITELY not a woman. Women can’t drive things (Editor’s note: God damn it, Kyle.).

I’m truly broken. I’m like that song that the guy from Seether and the girl from Evanescence did for that one movie.

I wander about the square for hours.

I have removed my sports coat, rolled it up and used it as a pillow.

I sleep for 8 hours. When I wake up and see the time and realize that I can’t even control my own sleep cycle, I just feel worse. What am I going to do? I missed Tuesday. I love Tuesdays. At around 8:30 PM, Talia comes to pick me up. Somebody saw me while he was getting ice cream with his girlfriend and thought it’d “cramp his style” to pick up his drunk, half-naked, urine-stained friend while he was on a date so he called someone else. Whatever. I don’t care.

I do care.

I do.

On the way home, there is a palpable discomfort. I assume it’s from the inescapable “pee pee smell” coming from my pants-region.

“Kyle, you smell like pee.” She says. There’s a brief pause as she searches for her next words. “Please tell me that’s your pee.”

Sigh. “I’d like to think so, but there were so many children around me…there’s no real way to tell.”

She looks at me with a look of simultaneous sympathy and disgust. To make her more comfortable, I try to give her a candy bar I got from a vagrant. She seems to soften. She loves candy.

“I love candy.” She says.

Told you.

The rest of the ride is pleasant if not cripplingly uncomfortable.

“I ate some leaves today.” I tell her

“…”

“Today, I chased this squirrel for an hour trying to find all his hiding spots. Turns out he didn’t have any. Dumb squirrel. All his stuff is out in the open. That’s just not safe, you know?”

“Yes.” She sighs. “That does sound unsafe.”

“I know. So I buried my credit cards.”

“You did what?!”

Talia drops me off and I walk inside. Derek is waiting for me.

<cue music>

“Hey, Derek.” I say, meekly.

“I’m late for work.” He says and brushes past me.

“Listen, I’m sorry I’ve been out blogging all the time, chasing my fame, I just–”

“Not now, Kyle.”

“No, listen. I’m the one who was supposed to take care of everything. I’m the one who was supposed to make everything…OK for everybody.” I pause. “It just didn’t work out like that. And I left. I left you. You never did anything wrong, you know. I have to try to…forget about you. Heh, I used to try to pretend that…you didn’t exist, but I can’t. You’re my Derek… you’re my Der… you’re my little Derek. And now,” I take a deep breath, “I’m an old broken down piece of meat, and I’m alone…and I deserve to be all alone… I just don’t want you to hate me.” I breath out. “OK?”

“Yea, OK, but I really need to go to work.” He seemed elated. “I’M MAKING THE GUAC TODAY!” Here I notice a small line of saliva coming from Derek’s mouth to his chin, then onto his shirt.

“Good Christ,” I say. Then I leave for another 6 months.

Job Search 2009, Pt. 1

27 May

Where are all my moneys? Where is my yacht? My lion? My purple robe and matching helicopter?

I look out my window and see none of these things. *I turn from the window, clutching myself and shivering as an icy chill runs up my spine.*

Here is my account of my job search.

The Monday after graduation, I get up extra early. Today’s the day I get all my money bills in. “Yipee!” I say to myself when I get out of bed, awakening all six(one) of my partners (really good friend).

“What are you yelling about?” Talia asks. She’s still sleepy from a big day of helping me print out head shots for the upcoming autograph sessions.

“Today is the day. Today.” I stand up and take a deep breath. Stringed instruments play lightly over the moment. I look out onto the sun-kissed parking lot. There is a man peeing on a car. I quickly close the shades and turn to her. “Today is the day I make you and I rich with money dollars.”

Talia has fallen back asleep. Tired from all the excitement, it seems.

I put on my lucky red boxer briefs. Why are they lucky? Well, these are the boxer briefs I was wearing when this happened. I then put on my humble, logic-based blue boxer briefs to even everything out.

**Currently listening to: Kings of Leon!** Sorry, due to my contractual obligations with MTV, I have to do that every paragraph or so.

After I put on my underwears, it’s time for my outerwears. I put on a blue dress shirt, green sweater vest, gold and blue tie, and a blue sports coat. I’m looking fly. I’m looking sweet. I’m looking fweet (I have a degree in English. I can make up words. It’s the law.). I look a lot like this:

...Ah... A little less drunk.
…Ah… A little less drunk.
Ok, now a little more formal.
Ok, now a little more formal.
Good GOD! Way, WAY wrong direction!
Good GOD! Way, WAY wrong direction. More formal, less peyote.

Perfect. Thats what Im talkin about.
Perfect. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.

After I’m dressed, I pick my diploma up from my desk. I breath out.

“Ok, Kyle. Let’s go make some magic happen. Make some magic happen. MAGIC!” I then leave my apartment.

I go down to my car and drive to the nearest metropolitan area. Everybody seems to be so happy for me. The homeless man I usually give change doesn’t tell me I’m a “Dead man” when I hand him a quarter, a lady cuts me off, but then slams her brakes on to say she’s sorry.

I reach downtown Denton full of delightful exhilaration. Stepping out onto the grass in front of the courthouse, there is a real feeling of life.

I then hold out my diploma with left hand. My right I extend, palm up, ready to receive all my dollar money or a handshake from my new employer. It takes 17 minutes for a bird to poop on my outstretched hand and a gang of children to steal my diploma. I’m filled with disappointment.

Next Week on BLOG

“No, no, no. At our ceremony you told us we had ‘Bright, shining futures’ ahead of us. WHERE THE HELL IS MY FUTURE?!” Kyle screams at UNT President Gretchen Bataille.

“Carl–” She starts.

“Kyle.”

“Yes, Kyle–you’re asking the wrong question. The question is not ‘Where’ is your future. The question is when.”

They exchange emotionless glances and he walk out of the room.

“Kyle, you used my tooth brush for WHAT?!” Talia screams.

“You obviously don’t get political humor then. Here let me show you again–”

“KYLE STOP OH GOD!”

*Cuts to Wesley, standing in an empty parking lot, wearing only a loincloth. He is covered in a golden liquid.

“WHERE AM I AND WHY AM I COVERED IN HONEY?!”

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