The Poptart Manifesto Page 3

  I looked up just in time to see an elderly woman trying to get to the train doors. With one last heroic...err...step she made it! Well OK, she almost made it. She managed to make it to the doors just as they were closing. Upon seeing that they weren't stopping and that jamming her fragile limbs into them would probably render her a few arms short of a pair, she pulled back at the last second and stuck her umbrella into the doorway to halt its closure. It’s at this point that I would love to tell you that, using the umbrella as leverage, she gave one last Herculean effort and triumphantly forced the doors to part. But she didn’t.

  Unfortunately for her, the doors closed anyway. Worse for her, they closed on her umbrella, trapping it in the door’s rubber seal. She tried to pull it out, but her nigh-indomitable will was no match for the hungry maw of the R train. It was then that I stepped in. Visions of medals and media attention for being a helpful Samaritan dancing in front of my eyes, I decided to act. I leapt to her aide, much as I picture Batman doing...maybe. I grabbed a hold of the part of the umbrella sticking through my side of the door and started to push it out. Such was my heroism that I could imagine the three-hundred Spartans of Thermopylae putting forth no less effort in their doomed war against the Persians. What!? Don’t look at me that way! It’s my story and I’ll tell it like I want to...err how it happened.

  Anyway, the old lady, seeing this and perhaps being in awe of my power (or maybe just being old and forgetting where she was) took her hands off the umbrella rather then pull from her end. Maybe she figured that the combination of our strength would be too awesome and we might snap her precious prize. Unfortunately, before either of us could come to an understanding on the finer points of umbrella rescue, the train began to move.

  This jerked her back to reality. She began to run alongside as I still valiantly attempted to free her umbrella. But alas I was too late. The train entered the tunnel, the umbrella still sticking halfway out the door. So great was my grief at the tragedy that had just transpired, that I broke the unbreakable rule of the subway; I made eye contact with the other passengers. Two were bold enough to return my stare. One was an attractive blonde. Our eyes locked and the instant chemistry between us told me all of the wicked thoughts that were going through her mind. I knew that, had we been alone, she would have beckoned me over and...err, sorry about that. I always get sidetracked on that daydream. Oh yeah, the other person was a not-nearly-as-attractive man in a business suit. Yay for him. Anyway, they looked at me, and I at them, and we all kind of gave each other a puzzled shrug of understanding.

  Since the next two subway stops were on the other side of the train, the umbrella remained where it was. It stayed there, strong and true, much like Excalibur waiting for a mighty king to finally free it. I would be that king! I finally made my move as we pulled into the 42nd Street station. I grasped the umbrella and gave a titanic heave that would have made the mighty Thor himself proud! What’s that? OK fine, the doors at that stop open on the same side the umbrella was stuck in, but at least I caught it before it fell.

  The unlikely prisoner freed of its bonds; I stood there holding the prize. Door prize, you say? Please! Do not belittle my tale with puns. Besides don’t you think I’ve thought of that one already? Jeez! Give me a little credit here.

  Where was I? Oh yes! I turned towards my traveling companions and once again dared them to make eye contact with me. Perhaps sensing a conqueror in their midst, this time they all vigorously made a point in averting their eyes. Sure, I guess they might have also thought I was some sort of subway psycho just waiting to get his hands on an umbrella to set him off on an insane killing spree, but I like to think the former.

  Unwilling to be ignored any longer, I then spoke to my fellow road...or train...warriors. In a loud and commanding voice I thus queried, “So, does anyone want an umbrella?”

  None answered my question, perhaps thinking I meant to fight them to the death for it (or maybe try to sell it to them). The only person with the courage to speak back was my blonde goddess. Somehow I knew it would be her. Our souls were doubtlessly forever entwined by that moment. She stood up as the train pulled into another station. She looked me square in the eye and said, “Merry Christmas!” before leaving me to wonder when fate would next bring us together. For surely it will...one day...maybe.

  So thus receiving her blessing, I accepted that I had now been charged with the guardianship of this umbrella, which by the way is in a whole hell of lot better shape than my old one. Still, ever since that day, on dark stormy nights I find a weight settling on my heart. There are so many unanswered questions from this ordeal. What ever became of the umbrella's old mistress? Did she wander out into the misty weather and, not having her faithful umbrella, catch pneumonia? Did she wander up to the street, get jumped by an angry gang and, not having her trusty umbrella to defend herself with, get beaten to a pulp? Perhaps her job as the guardian of the umbrella was finished and she simply faded away. Or maybe, and this is the one that keeps me up the longest at night, she found the nearest metro cop to report this to and, even now, they’re plotting some elaborate sting operation to take me down.

  It’s questions like these that also lead me to wonder what kind of life my umbrella led before coming under my protection. Did its previous owner cherish it like the prize it is and give it a peaceful life. Did she use it for the purposes of good or evil? Perhaps she was merely the last in a long line of owners of this magical umbrella, and one day I too will lose it to the hands of fate. Did she...OK fine, she probably tossed it in the back of some closet when she wasn’t using it. Does it really matter?

  All I know is that I am now its chosen one.

  I don’t question the whys or the hows of it.

  All I know is that it is.

  Well that and also the fact that I don’t have to spend any cash on a new umbrella anytime soon. That’s kinda cool too I suppose.

  The Throwaway Interview

  In a bad economy, a job seeker can’t turn their head without getting smacked in the face by yet another recruiting expert giving them a list of what not to say on an interview. Some of them are craptastically simple.

  I should wear a suit on the interview? Really? Damn, there goes my dream of working in flip flops.

  I shouldn’t trash my former boss? C’mon, what’s the fun in life if I can’t tell my potential new boss how my previous employer almost single-handedly ran the company into the ground and that I hope they won’t prove to be nearly as incompetent?

  If you need to be told most of these things then maybe working with other human beings, at least ones of reasonable intelligence, isn’t for you. But hey, I hear they’re always looking for volunteers for isolation experiments in Antarctica. That being said, let’s face facts, we’ve all said stupid things on interviews. Sometimes we’re in the middle of a story that’s a true testament to our worker-drone greatness and then, BAM, out of nowhere something stupid flies out of our mouth. Right there we know it’s all over, the ship is going down and no amount of bailing is going to save us from a watery grave. You could be giving the soliloquy of a lifetime about how you single-handedly found the cure for cancer, when out pops a teeny little comment about how your coworkers were a bunch of boobs who couldn’t cure the sniffles with a box of tissues, and suddenly it’s finished. You can cure a disease, but you can’t cure that interview.

  There’s also a flip side of the job search coin, though: the throwaway interview. We’ve all gotten them. Sometimes it’s the greasiness of the recruiter that immediately turns you off. Sometimes it’s a commute that they just couldn’t pay enough you to tolerate. Sometimes everything looks fine, but then you arrive at the office and immediately decide that you simply hate everyone in the building and wish a horrific death upon them all. Either way you look at it, there’s two parts of the equation: 1) you will go on the interview because it never hurts to practice, and 2) you have no intention of accepting a job offer even if it entails a private jet and lunchtime blowjobs from
the harem of thousand-dollar prostitutes the firm keeps on retainer (just for the record, if you do happen to turn down this offer, shoot me their address so I can drop them a resume).

  The problem with the above is that there’s always a chance that the stars will align for you. You’ll be on you’re A-game that day, or maybe the hiring manager will be too stupid to notice the look of contempt on your face for the three hours he’s busy grilling you. In short, there’s always that chance you’ll ace the interview for a job you absolutely will not take. Now you have to go through the hassle of breaking the news to them. That means being a dick after they’ve called you up to say how the entire office is weeping tears of joy at the prospect of you joining them.

  Your mistake was simple. Like the aftermath of a bad blind date where, despite your best efforts, you find yourself waking up the next morning next to what you assume to be a particularly ugly specimen of the Sasquatch species, you let it get too far. You should have ended things when you had the chance. Even better, you should have manipulated the situation so that they ended things for you and thus ensured everyone left happy. Not a quick thinker? Poor at coming up with guaranteed interview enders on the spot? Well you’re in luck, my friend...

  Here are my top things you can say to have that interview ended immediately. In fact, some of them should even get you a nice escort from the premises by some friendly (and burly) security guards.

  “Hey, baby...(insert anything here, seriously ANYTHING)

  “Do you allow telecommuting, because I work best when I’m nude?”

  Interviewer: “So what are your strengths?”

  You: “Well for starters, I’m well aware that I'm just too damn good looking.”

  You: “I was looking through your website and I found this interesting article you wrote about Oprah.”

  Interviewer: “Oh really? What did you think?”

  You: “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of that money-grubbing whore to last me a lifetime”

  “I was born to be a salesman. Shit! When I was a kid I once sold a box of my granddad’s swastikas to this old Jew who lived down the block.”

  HR: “I’m going to take you in now to meet your prospective manager, Ms. XXXX”

  You: “Whoa, you never said I’d be working for a chick! Oh well, as long as she keeps her mouth shut we’ll get along just fine.”

  “Yes I have a lot of experience managing budgets. Never once have I had an employer discover my many discrepancies.”

  Interviewer: “So why are you leaving your current position?”

  Me: “My boss is too much of an asshole. Just between you and me, that fucker needs to get laid.”

  “I just received an offer from your competitor. In addition to salary and bonus they told me that every third Friday of the month is wet t-shirt day. What are you going to do to match that?”

  “In my culture we consider women to be property.”

  There you have it. You should now be experiencing a nice friendly escort to the front door. Just one word of caution: if you’re being given a nice friendly escort to the back door, then that probably means you’ve gone too far and they are now planning on just outright killing you and removing your stain from the human populace. If that happens, oopsie! Sorry about that. What can I say? Some people just have no sense of humor. On the flip side, if they *still* want to hire you after all of that, then I’d say take the damn job already. Even if you absolutely hate the place, the commute, and the people; if they’re still smiling after one of these, then I can at least guarantee you one thing: you’ve found a place to work that you will in all likelihood never ever be bored at.

  Wedding Belle

  Hey, buddy, mind if I sit down? Thanks. What are you drinking? Let me get you another.

  WHOA! Wait a second. Sit down. I’m not trying to pick you up. Seriously!

  I’m just looking for a friendly ear. Yeah I know what it sounds like, but I’m in short supply of friendly ears right now and I’d prefer it if it’s an ear that doesn’t know anyone I do. It’s easier that way.

  Yeah it might take a few. If you feel like sitting, then I guess I feel like buying.

  OK, you all set now? You just go an order up another if this starts getting a little long winded. Sometimes when I get started, it takes a while. No! What you’re drinking is fine. That other one is fifteen bucks a bottle. Fucking imports! It’s not like I’m about to confess a murder here. For that price I’d rather just look like a weirdo and talk to myself.

  OK, now where was I? Yeah I know I haven’t gotten started yet. Thanks for the insight. Are you going to listen or provide color commentary?

  Let me just start by saying, I hate fucking weddings! Huh, what’s that? No, I’m not married. If I have any sense, I’ll stay that way. Anyway, I’m not talking about my wedding here, just weddings in general.

  I guess part of my problem is that there have been an awful lot lately. This past weekend was the third one in the last five weeks. Even worse, I’ve been in the party of each and every one. Kind of makes you wonder how I can afford to buy you a drink. Yeah, well let’s just say that I won’t be sitting down to prime rib dinners for a while.

  So this last one I got lucky and wasn’t asked to be the best man, just one of the lowly groomsmen. Still, it’s not like that’s a walk in the park either. Personally I think I've filled my wedding quota for this lifetime. If another friend gets hitched anytime soon, I think I’ll just fake my death. Lots less stress doing that if you ask me.

  Let me just mention that I don’t own a car. Where would I fucking park it in this city? Am I right? Anyhow, so last weekend got started with a quick train ride to lovely Perth Amboy for the pre-wedding rehearsal followed by dinner with all the participants. Yes, Perth Amboy, garden spot of central Jersey. When I got there, I met up with my buddy Ben and his new wife, Betty. And by new, I mean she’s practically still under warranty. Just last month, I helped them walk down the aisle as their best man. I can’t complain too much about that one. They had an open bar and this babe mixing the drinks had an ass that wouldn’t stop. Damn, I had so many shots of Goldschlager that night that the next morning I was shitting ingots. Oh sorry. You’re right, probably too much information.

  Anyway, Ben was in this particular wedding party too. Seems my small circle of friends all decided to get married at around the same time. Why? I don’t know. If I had to guess, I’d say they all figured that the rest of us had too much money in the bank. Or maybe it’s like that whole thing where women get up to pee together. Maybe guys do it with getting married to keep each other from wising up and running the hell away before it’s too late.

  So we get to the church and meet up with the happy couple, Jake and his fiancée, Sarah. Sarah’s a real piece of work. I think she’s had Jake’s balls in her purse since their first date. The sad truth is that Jakes knows it too. Rumor has it that, before he proposed, he tried to get a few of his coworkers to talk him out of it. Sadly, he wasn’t quite bold enough to make his pathetic cry for help to his buddies. If he had, we probably would have driven his ass to Atlantic City for the weekend and gotten him some high-priced tail to straighten his shit out. But that didn’t happen, and apparently they didn’t try hard enough. So there we all were.

  The funny thing here is that Sarah’s the reason I was showing up to this function all alone. I have a girlfriend and she was free this past weekend too. However, silly me, a few months back I had suggested a bunch of us get together for a weekend. Jake, Ben, and I, at one point, decided to hang out and leave the ladies to themselves. Big mistake there. An hour or so with Sarah was all it took so that there I was stepping off of a train, bound for her wedding by myself. My girl told me, in no uncertain terms, that she would rather sit home alone with nothing but her cat for company then have to even look at “that smug bitch”.

  But you know what? At that moment I wasn’t really even missing my girlfriend. You know why? When Sarah and Jake introduced us to the rest of the wed
ding party, I got to meet the chick I was going to be paired up with. Her name was Belle. She was a cute brunette with big green eyes and a pair of tits that seemed like they wanted nothing better to do then pop out of her shirt and say hi. Amazingly enough, being Sarah’s friend apparently didn’t rub off on her. She was a real sweetheart. Let’s just say, I wasn’t exactly feeling too bad about our upcoming slow dance at the reception, especially now that my girlfriend’s eyes wouldn’t be burning a hole in the back of my skull the whole time. But we’ll get back to her later.

  Before we could do more then say hi to each other, the priest in charge of the ceremony came barreling in. I haven’t been much in the way of organized religion since I was a kid. Priests like this guy are the reason. No, I wasn’t an altar boy! I just don’t like the attitude. Apparently some take the whole man of god thing as a license to act like a holier-than-thou asshole to everyone.

  This guy was one of those. He immediately tried to take charge and by that I mean he started yelling at us all, giving instructions for where to stand and what to do. He let us all run through it exactly once, which you know was going to spell chaos for the next day. But rather then let us ask a few questions and make sure we knew what we’re doing; he instead decided to ask if anyone wanted to make confession. Since I imagine most of us would have confessed to wanting to kick his ass, nobody raised a hand. With that, he just kicked us out. House of God, but only open during regular business hours I suppose.

  Afterwards, I managed to snag a ride to the restaurant with Jake. Along the way, I asked him what the deal is with Monsignor Attitude Problem. According to him, this guy is basically the love child of the priest from The Exorcist and Elmer Fudd. We didn’t get a chance to see it, but supposedly this guy's office wall is filled with all sorts of hunting trophies. Part of the reason he was so short with us back there is that he was retiring the day after the wedding and apparently can’t wait to get back to the hunting blind. I guess that whole “we’re all God’s creatures” thing the Catholics have only applies to ones they don’t want to shoot.