jet, black

                 jet,  black
    ex                                                    (ozymandian
      plosions                                               weapons
almost    inaudible                                       project)
     in  the    sky  so fa
                        faraway
                        aurora is its
        name       they   say : glowing

  belly  like  a  fire-drake it
                   skips  the  round
                                    pond
            of   the    atmosphere, pops
      in    when  you  least
                            ex
      pect   it  and
             screaming in to the thin air, 

    releases  death
                     upon   thee: be
          ware, for  our  kings
                             are  mighty .




2012.

42 Months

When I turned 30, something strange happened. Call it a quarter life crisis, or maybe a crisis of faith, or maybe even the call of the road less travelled. Whatever name it went by, the result was the same. I gave up a steady, safe and easy job that I had been doing for nearly 8 years in order to take some time out and find myself. I know that may sound slightly pretentious and simple in its terms of life goals, but after turning 30 I realised that my youth was pretty much over and I had become a proper grown up man that I honestly didn’t much care for. Everything in my life was safe and predictable. I needed a change; I needed to do something stupid and impulsive.

So I handed in my resignation and happily told everyone I knew that I was doing the whole “drop in, drop out” thing for a while. The world is full of self-important people who have to do something, but in my opinion the art of doing nothing is the most glorious and fulfilling accomplishment a man can ever hope to achieve. There is nothing quite like the glorious sense of contentment and satisfaction you feel after spending a whole day just sitting, reading and listening to music. In this world we are taught to be go, go, go, to feel the Earth’s spin and to make every second count. But some people are so desperate to watch every second tick by that they forget to do anything with them. Always they make plans; 5 year career trajectory, 10 year family planning, 25 year mortgage, 50 year retirement plan. But what of today? What of this precious second we are all living in right now? Have you enjoyed it? Have you used it wisely or have you used it just as a stepping stone towards a future that will bare as much relation to the image in your head as the present does in those hokey 50’s sci-fi movies.

I don’t expect everyone to appreciate the sense of having done something worthwhile without actually having really done or achieved anything, but those 42 months were a gift to myself from the past, present and future. Without them I would not have discovered a whole new side to myself, a side of new challenges and new friends. In these 42 months I have connected with special individuals that I would never have come into contact with otherwise and that in itself was worth more than any promotion or payrise.

I have made firm friendships and connections with people from all over the world, from free flowing married artists in Illinois; to Scottish visionaries who have allowed me to be read all over the world; I have even danced with the voice of the doomed, somehow living to tell the tale of sushi knifes and duct tape. I even fought the good fight for peace and justice against bigoted idiots who are happy to support terrorism as long as it comes with a green tint and friendly accent. All of these people will stay with me in one way or another. They have helped make me a newer and better person. But after three and a half years I am ready to start again with a new outlook and belief thanks to my tranquil storm of creativity and knowledge.

Not many people will ever have the opportunity to do what I have done. The modern way of living just doesn’t allow people to drop out for a couple of years anymore. Just the cost of putting enough gas in your car to do the essentials requires you to have at least a part-time job. In an ideal world I would pass this gift on, somehow able to allow a young artist the time and means to discover a whole new world within himself.

But with every “drop in, drop out”, there must inevitably come a “drop out, drop in”. A time when the harsh realities of life must at long last be addressed. So here I sit, a few years older, a few years wiser, doing pretty much the same job I was doing before. From outward appearances you would struggle to see what exactly I had changed in those 42 months? I wish I could actually show you what I had done, but everything that I have achieved has been of a personal and internal nature. All I can offer is this short story for you to read along with the faint hope that it will make you smile in appreciation.

I see the world with new eyes, eyes that are now open to new possibilities and adventures. For 42 months I slipped the straightjacket of conformity and society and did whatever the hell I wanted.

If you ever get the chance to do the same….. I highly recommend it.

The Capitalist Shuffle

racing down the aisles
shuffling feet in line
it's mine!
the register cranks
the clink of despair
ragged envy
distinctive trades
shuffling lives
markets collapse
banks fail
free at last
from the capitalist shuffle

-Robin Sneed, From These Pages I Do Rise

getting clean on pharmaceuticals

    i kn ock   back   diamond s


  and wait for them to
            unfect me
   I drop  a few
  and watch  them  roll
  across  the table  : orange  ,white
  yellow  blue
    I  take  back
         my mind
from the sky  for  a few hours
and  bring  it  here ,  jewelled,   to you
it  is  a  dead   bird  , staring ,  car
buncled  and  no  new  ideas
                      curling  and/or trilling
 from   its  wicked  hook
                            of  a  beak  greasy
feathers ,  poached blank eyes
  and  a  smell
           maybe  fleas


   i knock    back   diamonds
and  sink  them  with  a  clear  cool  fool's  brew
                 of  water






©Peter A. Greene 2012

Paintball

It was the summer of 2009. We were two friends who had grown up together, almost as brothers. My first recollection I have of Gavin was when we got into a fight over a yellow Tonker-Truck in kindergarten at 3 years old. I won that fight, but it was just the first of many. Our constant need for competition and to challenge each other would be a running theme for the next 30 years. Whether it is athletic achievement or academic achievement, our need to pit our wits, ability and even our very lives against each other has never ceased. In the years we have known each other we have literary come to blows, sworn that our friendship was at an end and issued fatwahs over such trivial subjects as video games, drinking sessions, women and pretty much every sporting event that can be played by able bodied Welsh men. During this time I have suffered alcohol poisoning, almost drowned on my own vomit and nearly broke my back in an attempt to keep up with my much physically larger friend on our wild day trips. But his challenges to me have not gone without incident either. He has fallen through a ceiling, lost jobs due to Muppet porn I sent him via email and has even suffered compound fractures resulting in my highly cynical and brutal football challenge; where after being barged off the ball by his sharp, savage elbows, I proceeded to chase after him and sweep his legs from behind, sending him crumpling onto the hard concrete where he would stay until the ambulance arrived.

People have often remarked that if they didn’t know we were friends, they could easily mistake us for mortal enemies. But then they just don’t get it. We don’t compete and try to beat each other due to a deep sated hatred; we do it because it’s just really, really funny making the other person look like a loser while you look like a rock star. I have no interest in destroying the man, any more than he truly wishes to destroy me; we both just really want the upper hand and the ensuring bragging rights. Sometimes it does get out of hand of course, but for the most part it is just a really intense rivalry that will probably continue for as long as we are friends. Truth be told, it is probably the main reason why we have been friends for so long. Most friends are just random people you hang out with and talk to now and again, but Gavin…. Well, he’s the one person I can hang out with, talk to now and again, but also, and I cannot stress this point enough, also try to destroy. It keeps us on our toes, keeps us sharp and ready for the next round.

When Gavin announced that he was making his way to the alter before me, I felt a slight twinge of envy as he had beaten me in this one particular competition. But despite my loss I went through the motions of congratulations and platitudes. I would achieve something of a counter victory though as he, as is tradition with such events chose me to be best man at his wedding. My joy with this news was tempered somewhat by the knowledge that he had originally wanted me to be “co-best man” along with a friend from Scotland. Sadly his so called “friend” couldn’t make it down to Wales for the nuptials, so all the responsibilities and traditions of best man fell solely on my shoulders.

You don't have enough hair to be a best man. Prick.

Deciding that my victory of becoming sole best man was too much to bare without some sort of retaliation, Gavin decided that if I were going to be sole best man, then I would pay for it dearly. His first master stroke was telling me that I would have to cross-dress for the special occasion. Well played Sir…. Despite being about as Scottish as a vegetarian diet and sensible alcohol consumption, Gavin decided that he would have a Highland themed wedding and I (as best man) would have to match his kilted attire. “Fine” I thought. I have great legs, I can pull this off. But then the son of a bitch executed his coupe-de-grace. Generously offering to buy me the correct kilt pattern for his wedding, I was somewhat pleasantly surprised and humbled that he had loosened his purse strings long enough to consider my needs. My feelings of good will did not last for long. Though he still maintains his innocence to this day, for some reason he bought me a kilt that I would have struggle to fit in when I was a lithe, slim 16 year old with a 28inch waist, let alone a somewhat out of shape 32 year old I had slowly morphed into.

“I honestly thought that was your waist size.” He lied.

No matter. I would not let him win this one. Over the next 2 months I cultivated a serious case of anorexia, managing to shed an impressive 25lbs. It was hard work and honestly, there are periods of several days where all I can remember is a hazy darkness and semi lucid visions of a pizza chasing me down a street. But I fitted in that damn skirt and looked bloody fabulous.

But before the wedding. Before the vows were said. Before I offered to take him to the airport in order to fly to Brazil, I would have one final chance for revenge. Deciding that this would be one of my last opportunities before he became a married man (and as such pretty much dead to the outside world), I would arrange a stag party that would be give this eating disorder causing git the send-off he truly deserved.

When you are the age we are, you grow up watching shows and movies such as The A-Team, Terminator and Robocop. These purveyors of ultra-violence lead to our almost primal fascination of guns and shooting things. Sadly as shooting at each other with real guns is somewhat frowned upon and now limited to the few human hunting reserves of Africa, I decided that we should participate in the next best thing.

PAINTBALL!!!

Deciding to keep the stag-do small, the party consisted of just myself, Gavin and our mutual friend Ryan. 

The last photo taken of 3 old frinds before the horrors of war changed us forever.

I had made but one critical error in my otherwise stellar preparations for the trip as I had fallen into the trap of “Stag Party 101” and made up special hats for everyone with their names on. This in itself was fine, but the point I didn’t really pick up on was that it might not have been the best idea to order bright red baseball caps when trying to conceal oneself in green foliage. To say these special hats made us stick out somewhat was something of an understatement.

Having to decide between wearing the hats and making ourselves more visible, or having no protection on our heads and taking direct hits to the scalp, we decided to wear them and hope that the limited protection they offered would be worth the added visibility. This was a mistake of such epic proportions; it could very well qualify for its own blog entry.

We began the games in good spirits. We played on the same team, the brotherhood of war and combat strengthening our bond. Things started well and our cunning, experience and ruthlessness make short work of the enemy. But it was to be something of a false dawn. We had taken early victories and sustained no injuries or hits. This was to be our undoing. Thinking ourselves above our enemy, we got cocky.

As the games progressed, so did their difficulty. Our enemy were positioned waiting in their heavily fortified base as we stealthily and carefully advanced on their command position with the intention of capturing their stronghold. Everything went fine for the first few minutes, then we realised that there might be a problem.

All of the previous games had been out in the open. Being seen wasn’t really an issue if you had cover, but this new game was different. The fortified base was surrounded by thick ferns and bushes, with our objective being to advance through the foliage and take them by surprise. However there was just one small issue.

The sight of bright red hats bobbing through the undergrowth must have come as a pleasant surprise to our enemy, but one which they gratefully accepted and then proceeded to shoot the living shit out of. 

There is a reason “Paintball” has the word “Pain” in it. Using our hats as target practice, the enemy proceeded to crack our skulls open with unnerving and worrying accuracy. 200mph balls of luminous death cracked into my skull as I ducked for cover and tried not to worry if the red stuff dripping down my face was blood or paint. 

I fell to the floor behind cover and howled in pain, fuelled by anguish and torment. Ryan was already lost. A casualty of war forever to be remembered and celebrated on this day every year hence. 

He laid there, motionless and slug like. It was his only defence

Myself and Gavin quickly ducked down as our cover received a pebble dashing of death.

We were outnumbered, outgunned and now low on ammo. Figuring out that they could sell 5 times more paintballs if they only counted torso hits as “kill shots”, taking repeated hits to the brain counted for nothing at this particular paintballing complex. Though when I say they counted for nothing, I of course mean that in the sense of the rules of the game and not the worrying buzzing sound coming from my now one working ear. The pain felt white hot and pierced my skull, penetrating every nerve and synapse in my brain. But for all intents and purposes I was still in the game, as was Gavin. 

I should have probably raised a white flag at this point

There was only one thing left to do. I looked at my brother in arms and told him that if we were going to go out, we were going to go out like men! I devised a plan that would recall the finest of last ditch, heroic assaults. Executing the Young Guns 2: Blaze of Glory tactic, we would go all out in, well a blaze of glory. One final push, one final insane attack.

He would take the right flank, I would take the left. We shook hands and said our farewells as we prepared for one final stand agains the forces of evil (blue team). 

And save me a throne in Valhalla!

The words of the Bon Jovi classic reverberated in my shattered and broken skull. We leapt from our cover and charged the enemy. 

Arghhhhhhhhhhh.....

??

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....

????

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....

What the fu.....

ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

The spirit and memory of a thousand action movies overtook me as I flew towards them using, what felt like at the time, my own personal Matrix bullet time effect. My first shot was one in a million. I somehow managed to explode off the affixed paintball container from the first sentry’s gun, sending his paintballs falling to the floor.

How???

A total look of shock and amazement was etched on his face as he viewed this approaching assassin of death flying towards him. This original look of shock however was nothing compared with the one that replaced it when my next bullet slammed into his forehead, spraying out paint, blood and brain chunks and sending him flying backwards and out of the game. 

DIE YOU F%*&$@G IMPERIAL DOG!!

I continued my amazing advance and took out another two enemy soldiers. 

I could not believe my luck and skill as I headed towards the enemy stronghold in order to begin the final attack with Gavin and execute our pincer manoeuvre, allowing us to take this base and kill those bastards.

I charged deep into enemy territory, fearless and without mercy. My recklessness and valour may have been out of place given my location, odds and bleeding ears, but I knew that with my best friend by my side we would have a damn good chance of coming out of this alive.

Yes, my best friend.

My best friend at my side.

At my side…..

It had suddenly dawned on me that since leaving the cover we had both been using, Gavin had vanished. I looked back and saw his head peak up over a wooden slat as he gave me a little wave.

I was undone! My friend and fellow soldier had left me to die behind enemy lines. The unmistakable whack of paintball bullets began to slam into my spine and neck. More enemy fire found contact with my soft, damaged flesh as I was riddled with water soluble death. It was all over for me in this game. I fell to the ground and did my best Platoon death scene as I embraced my contemptible fate. 

Willem Dafoeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

But there was yet another game to go, one final conflict to fight. This time it would be different. I swore as I fell to the ground in the last game, as I watched Gavin, safely hidden behind his fortress of shame as he laughed at my demise, that I would have my revenge on those who had left me to die.

The final game of the day was to be a little different to the others. It would start out normally enough, team verses team, but after 5 minutes it would descend into an all-out death match where it was every man for himself.

They say war changes a man. Once you have participated in and committed acts of such savagery and hate, you are never able to unsee what has been seen. It stays with you. 

The horror. The horror.....

Every time you close your eyes, every time you go to the hardware store and see pots of paints, the flashback hit you. From that day on an innocent tin of emulsion was like a naked, murdered Vietnamese body to me. My experience in the last match had given me a worrying thousand yard stare (that could have either been severe emotional trauma or a worrying eye condition that had been brought on by repeated blunt trauma) and a lust for blood that could only be achieved through crushing your enemies, to see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women.

The game started in a pretty standard normal way, teams attacked, teams defended. I made sure I kept myself close to Gavin, but not too close. 

Soon my friend. Soon....

I let the war go on around me. I conserved my ammo and maintained position waiting for my chance to seek the high court of battlefield justice. I stayed close to Gavin, just close enough so I could see the fear in the traitors eyes when the time came.

After five minutes a marshal blew a whistle and announced that it was now a free for all and all rules were off. 

Gavin, upon hearing this decided it would be funny to take a pop shot at me. His effort missed, but he had now given me all the excuse I needed to utterly destroy him. 

Oh no you di'int

He had no idea what I was planning and unbeknown to him he had made a crucial error in his defensive positioning. During the first five minutes of the game, his position and covering made him well defended against forward attack, but not attack from the rear. It probably never occurred to him that someone would attack him from behind or indeed that that person would be his best man and life-long friend, and that man would bring the 4 horsemen of the apocalypse with him.

After his first pot shot at me, he giggled and gave me a look that said “What do you expect? I’m trying to shoot you, you would do the same if you could.” Then it suddenly dawned on him that I could and that I would be doing just that. He suddenly realised just how exposed and vulnerable he now was to my wrath. A sudden dawning and realisation crept across his face as I raised my gun towards him. 

 

For the briefest of moments our eyes locked in a second that told the story of a life time. He could see there was no soul within me now. It had been lost on the battlefield where he left me to die. I was no longer the guy who he had grown up with and had known for over 30 years. I was now death incarnate and I was riding a horse of justice and revenge. There was nowhere for him to go. He was still under attack from forward positions and was on the edge of the game arena. He looked to his right and saw the fence some 15 foot away that signalled the boundary, if he could reach the fence he would be out of the game and I would no longer be able to extract my revenge. 

I had no intention of giving him this opportunity however. Even before he could raise himself from his seated position and advance towards to the fence like a punch drunk boxer desperately trying to save himself till the bell, my bullets started flying towards him. He took the first few hits well, but winced and arched in pain. Managing to crawl onto his hands and knees he started his slow advanced towards the fence. 

Still taking shots from forward positions, he foolishly decided to lie on his back in a desperate attempt to return fire on me. This was a tragic mistake that would stay with him for the rest of his life. He was now unable to get up and make a run for it as my bullets kept him pinned down on the ground.

I advanced further upon him. My trigger finger a blur of fury. Taking careful aim from all of 3 foot away, I made every precious shot count.

*no caption needed*

Ignoring the bullets whizzing around my head I unleashed the full extent of my hatred. From just a few feet away I unloaded over 200 bullets into him. He started to scream, the full realisation of what was happening suddenly dawning on him as he desperately tried to crawl further towards the rope, his progress hindered by the fact that his body was now just a pulp of blood, bone and paint. He attempted to raise his own gun in some feeble attempt of defence, maybe more in reflex than attack, but as soon as his fingers were exposed, I took aim on them and turned them into what looked like overcooked sausages that had burst open in the middle.

Now racked with tortuous pain, he continued to crawl on his back towards the rope as I bared my teeth and cursed at him in 4 different languages in order to ensure that his soon to be daparted spirit would never find peace. Turning onto his front he wiggled and flopped like a drunken bull seal on a beach as he continued his pitifully slow advance towards the rope. 

The rest of the group had stopped playing at this point. They just stood in stunned silence at the horrors being committed in front of them. A small child, not old enough to understand the complexities and brutal nature of man quietly wept; falling to his knees as he looked to the sky in questioning of an unloving God that would allow such a thing to happen.

All attempts to conceal his pain and anguish had long since left his crippled body. All Gavin could hope for now was the sweet release of death. But it would not come. I made sure of that. I wanted his pain to last a life time.

He screamed at me to stop. 

“STOP!!!!”

“FOR THE LOVE OF JESUS, STOP!!!”

He somehow managed to drag his bloody mess of a carcass to the boundry fence as a marshal came to his aid. The marshal looked at me with a mix of awe and disgust. 

The Marshall would later tell us that he had been in the actual army for 20 years and had served in many real life bloody wars when in service, but this was the most brutal, terrifying and shameless war crime he had ever seen committed.

He later erect a plaque to the “Massacre of Heatherton Sports Complex”. He would leave a single rose upon that site, on that day, every year, for the rest of his life.

Gavin didn’t really talk to me on the way home for some reason. Maybe he was in shock, or maybe he took a bullet to the larynx. 

So i'm still best man right?

All I know is you NEVER leave a man behind, you never make him cross dress in a skinny kilt and you never mess with me when it comes to mother fucking paintball!

If you do…. I will make you pay.

blitz is dumb

skywrapping fallen eat shit
braided long tooth greet me upside down
to bad that show was lame
i had yellow angry bees swimming in leaves
and blue t shirts is common
i disrupt class
know and then they die to say get out
fin

The Interview

Having worked tirelessly to get back in the “normal” workforce recently, it came as something of a pleasant surprise when I was asked to attend for an interview. That in itself isn’t so surprising, what was surprising is that this job was top of my wish list and to get the opportunity to interview for it was a great…. opportunity.

I prepared myself the best I could for the big day. I went out and bought a whole new outfit. I suited up to the nines so sharply I resembled a younger, Welshier Don Draper.

It's like looking in a mirror!!

All that was left to do was present myself and rock their socks off with my witty, intelligent and concise interview technique, which basically involved me stealing Don Draper’s entire persona.

Yes, I like Mad Men.

I entered the interview room to be confronted by four middle aged women with bad haircuts, cheap clothes and skin that was the wrong side of ripe. 

Enter our lair!

This was the kind of scenario that ol’ Don lived for. Within seconds he would have had them eating out of his hand and asking him to be their boss. I intended to follow the same path. If Don Draper had taught me anything, it was this: "You want some respect? Go out there and get it for yourself."

However, there was just one tiny flaw in my otherwise flawless plan.

As I was introduced to the cast of the Bitches of Eastwick, I felt a slight unease and realisation running through my mind. People generally look for traits in others which they possess in themselves. It’s a fundamental rule of human nature. I may have many enviable character traits, but being able to relate those to four forty something former house wives with a maxed out Primark store card was a big ask. Short of starting the conversation by asking them if they had watched some angry working class soap or a brain numbing realty TV show last night, I was already on the back foot.

No matter. As soon as the interview questions start, I would give them little option other than to consider me the front runner for this position.

Then shit got serious.

Question 1:

"Quantify using your strategic analysis review experience, how you correlate the subject matter of the primary criteria within the confines of the agreed employment description, emphasising the essentially required person specifications relating to previous performance and subdivision parameters."

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu"

What?

My mind raced. Wait, was that question even in English??

No, can’t have been? I only caught about a third of the words she actually said. To be honest, I think she was using an Elvish dialect I was not totally familiar with.

My mouth opened and vague, jumbled words spilled out.

If pie charts had had anything to do with the question I have no idea, but she seemed to pick up interest and wrote something down when I said the phrase “core management liaising skills”. However she seemed less interested when I talked about “like..patient confidentiality stuff, you know?”

I have no idea what my answer sounded like to them, but to them this is probably the kind of answer I gave and how I looked giving it:

Deciding to tag team me into submission, the questioning moved on to the next battle-axe in a blouse.

I could feel the blood rushing around my head. Had it started to drip out of my nose yet? I couldn’t be sure. I reached for the plastic cup of water that had been set in front of me and took a nervous sip. I resisted the temptation to throw it over them to see if they would melt. But my guess is yes, yes they would.

Surely the first question was just a tester. A kind of “no win situation” or “Kobayashi Maru” if you will, that would show them how a person reacts under duress and extreme pressure. I was wrong.

Questions 2:

"In response relating to the objective status of information queried, you are presented with misleading or nonmisleading recognition measure assessed information. If you are required to ascertain the validity of said information in a time structured manner complying with the employer’s code of conduct, do you feel this is systemic of a client testimony compromise or due, in part, to the previously mentioned queried information disassociation parallel?"

I started to sob a little at this point.

The question was longer and more confusing than the first. I quickly scanned my memory for key words and cues that could help. I sat there with my mouth open staring at the ceiling. I had to say something.

A long and exasperated sound seeped from my larynx. I wasn’t totally sure, but I think I might have been having a serious stroke at this point.

I started rambling again. A half remembered reference to “conduct” lingered in my brain as I checked off meaningless phrases and platitudes relating to this subject. I rubbed my now numb face in the hope of sparking some semblance of life into my answers, but all that came were stories of “client interaction” and “petty cash…reimbursement.. bus tickets..photocopy chart, list, prescription doctor”.

They witches cackled and sneered as they wrote down notes on their little forms. Their writing too small, far away and upsidedowny for me to read. But I knew what they were writing. I KNEW!

“HAHAHA. Can’t believe this guy is actually trying to answer these questions! He’s not even a 47 year old woman! Why would we hire him?”

Almost unbeknown to me I had stopped talking and they had moved onto the third woman and her question. By the time I had I had stopped talking and she had started, she was already half way through her question but I decided that I would at least try to get one question reasonably understood and give a decent answer.

Question 3:

"How do you feel, empirically speaking of course, you can respond to a work scenario that is conceptually heterogeneous in appearance, but displays homogeneity characteristics upon further effective and target led investigation."

I sat there and thought about it….. 

For what was a VERY long time

I had nothing.

Literally NOTHING!

Not a single word of her question made any sense and I had already used up every single reference to my skills and experiences that might otherwise allow me to tread water for a few minutes.

As Don Draper would have said: 

“I'm glad that this is an environment where you feel free to fail.”

I stroked my hair and started rocking back and forth in my seat. 

They all just looked at me for what seemed like an eternity. I now knew how those poor bastards in Dragons Den felt when they cracked under the pressure and couldn’t even remember what invention they were trying to sell.

I had no choice but to ask lady number 3 to repeat the question. She looked at me with an almost palpable level of disgust and contempt and then proceeded to repeat the question like she was trying to teach basic reading skills to a retarded 3 year old kid who grew up a middle child in a pack of wolves.

“HOW….. Do you.. That’s YOU!!! FEEL, EMPIRICALLY SPEAKING, of….………Course………

She gave me no hints or help as to what the hell she was talking about, but just repeated the question word for word in a much slower and patronising identical manner. 

This brief rest bite did give me a brief opportunity to leave my body and observe the car crash that was happening before my eyes. It was not a pretty sight in all fairness. Whoever that guy in the suit is sitting behind the desk should really wipe the dribble from his chin.

I feigned new and appreciated understanding of the question and gently nodded in some sort of realisation that the words she said now made sense.

I did not.

But the penny had not dropped. I was as lost as I had been at the start of the question, but at least now I had been given enough time to formulate some sort of answer. I figured anything had to be better than just sitting there like I had been struck down by a severe and sudden case of “locked in syndrome”.

Again I prattled on about “people skills” and may have even given a short speech on how.....

At this point, I was seconds was from reciting the lyrics to Shiny Happy People

More scribbles on their notes as I continued to give them a show of bewildered false conpentence not seen since they banned the circus from training Apes to ride Horses. 

Which is probably a good thing

The one thing I clung to during this time was the knowledge that my torture was almost over. I wondered if they used similar techniques on terrorists? They probably should. I was so confused and dumb struck that at this point that I would have happily run out of the interview room screaming about “Firm but supportive management styles” and “Database information review process” if my legs had worked. But this was the last question, so how bad could it be. It would be asked by what seemed to be the most friendly and senior interviewer. She even smiled at me and gave me a reassuring look.

Question 4:

 "Please give me your definition of avocation oriented success in which you can specify the techniques used in interdependence of conceptual targets in which you exceeded the agreed upon supposition of the work environment without having to rely on presumption of duty."

I started to shake. My breath came in short deep grunts, interspersed with the primal howl of a wounded animal. I rutted the floor with my shoe. Some sort of reply came from within. I had no idea what I even said, but I think I may have cursed her house in Klingon at one point.

Then it was over. 

I had worked on a funny joke regarding the “What are your weaknesses?” question, but they didn’t even have the good grace to give me the opportunity to use it. In case you’re wondering, it was something about being a “bit of a racist”. There was a whole setup and punch line thing that doesn’t make sense out of context. What you think you could do better? 

 

Needless to say I didn’t get the job. I have requested some feedback from the interview panel. A little bit in order to pick up some hints, but mainly to try and remember what the hell I actually said.

I’m quite annoyed and dismayed why people would want to turn an already tense and nervous situation into a full on mental torture session. We all have access to a thesaurus, but that’s no reason to take the piss. I really don’t know what they hoped they would get out of their petty and silly actions? Maybe the job had already been “promised” to someone else and this was their way of just stacking the deck, or maybe they were just jumped up, self-important fish wives who needed to try and make themselves look better than they actually were. Either way, their loss.  

Never mind. Plenty more interviews out there, meaning I get to do this all over again in the near future.

Joy….