[Editor: A reader submitted this interesting piece on the modern workplace, which offers some insight into why young men may not be all that ambitious these days.]

By HGW

I have a Job Interview. I’m wearing a suit. Dressed ‘accordingly’. Why though? Why the suit? Why do we have to dress the same? Is it to show willing to conform? The absence of existentialism? It must be a test to identify the requisite character flaw; “He wore the suit, therefore he can be easily and swiftly indoctrinated”. And what the fuck is a tie? Just some massive, swinging phallic symbol dangling from my neck. No balls. Very appropriate. It symbolizes my mental castration and evolution into the modern day eunuch; I believe what they tell me, I’m no threat to the establishment, no threat to power. I assume it once served a purpose, the tie. Like the general election or the penny-farthing. But you don’t see people commuting on a penny-farthing out of a sense of tradition. I’m going to make a stand; no more tie. Right after this interview.

I’m on time. Being punctual is my first lie. I’m always late. Always. The second lie is the smile I greet the interviewer with. It’s nothing like my real one. It’s my camera smile. The one in all of my photos. The one people will think was my smile when I’m dead and buried. I’m not the only duplicitous one; The interviewers greet me with multiple camera smiles. The eyes give it away; they’re empty, cold. This whole thing is just a charade. A play. Maybe this time I can mix it up, give honest answers to the interview questions:

Do you have your resume? Of course I do, I spent six months on the bastard. I’ve got a folder full.

What do you know about the company? What I googled last night. The only information I gleaned was “the company exists to make profit”. That’s it.

What do you think you’ll bring to this company? Probably what most people bring. As little as possible. Everybody will be so busy covering up how little they do themselves that my ineptitude and laziness will go unnoticed like the death of an enemy civilian.

What are your strengths? I have incredible stamina for reading sport analyses online. I can hunt down anyone I see in day to day life on social media. And bench press. I do it a lot.

What are your weaknesses? I’m lazy, yet judge myself as better and smarter than other people. All people come to think of it. So I’m arrogant and delusional. I also have a soft spot for bread and butter. Mostly the butter part.

Tell me how you handled a difficult situation? I punched a guy in the face.

Why was there a gap in your employment? Because I didn’t have a job. I actually have a lot more gaps but I extended my other employment to cover it. One of those jobs isn’t even real. The contact details you have are my friend’s, he’s going to pretend he’s the CEO and tell you what a sterling worker I am.

Where do you see yourself in 10 years? I can tell you something, I didn’t see myself in this shithole 10 years ago.

Would you work holidays and weekends? Go fuck yourself.

I’ll answer them that way. Next time. This time I regurgitate the same answers they always hear. The ‘right’ answers. The ‘best’ answers. They listen and nod. Then they tell me I look uninterested. You have the qualifications but you look uninterested. You fit the bill but you look uninterested. Your answers were great but you sound uninterested. I am uninterested. It’s a job. It’s uninteresting. I need the job so I should probably try harder, hide my true feelings, work on my poker face. Yet that’s a face of uninterest. Maybe I should work on my pocket rockets face. The silent joy, the eagerness to proceed, the constant excited foot tapping. I couldn’t keep that up. I’d become uninterested. They know this because they feel it too, deep down. Deep down behind that smug, conceited, subservient exterior. They just don’t realize it. They’d be happy for me to fake interest, fake curiosity, fake enthusiasm because they know the facts: I’m at the mercy of the employer; They’ll own me; I’ll be their property; I have no option but to obey them; I need the money.

I’m essentially applying for the position of “slave”. These interviewers, these middle management muppets, they’re the equivalent of the Uncle Tom, working hard to please their oppressive masters. The Commerce Uncle Tom. Or C.Un.T. for short. They’ll decide whether I get to be a low level slave to the people who actually run our “free” countries. The people who decide stuff. Own stuff. The people who tell us we need these things. These things we buy. The things we’re basically brainwashed into doing so. To get these things you need to work. Worse; buy it on credit and they have you. They own you. You need to work for this guy to pay the same guy back for the thing the guy convinced you to buy. You’re fucked. You’re a modern day slave eunuch. Still, things could be worse.

They tell me I’ll be informed of their decision shortly. “Good luck” they say. “Good riddance” they mean. I sit at home and convince myself all of my eggs are in this basket. This basket marked “slave eunuch”. I’m praying that they’ll allow me to give away the majority of my time during my best years to make them more money. My fingers and toes are crossed. Please let me have the job, Mister, please let me make you money, please, Mister, please.

Those Corporate Motherfuckers.