Who Am I

My name is not significant, though it is noted in a cerificate somewhere.
I don't really know where to start. I guess what I can do is tell you all
I know from the beginning...

I work a moderate, low-level seniority job in a cubicle farm on the
east side of the Welland Canal. When I say cubicle farm I mean just
that; a building with no real identity so far as the outer appearance,
which really just looks like any other building in a metropolitan.
The town I live in has an extremely high unemployment rate which
is mostly due to slovenly sloppy ass clowns who infect the streets
and beat the shit out of anything moving for kicks. I live in alot of
fear.

I fear death, I fear life, I fear losing my job but that's kind of
ironic since any monkey could do what I do and I hate the
administration because they're all 'prissy hi!-hi!' and I can't
stand that phony shit. They prowl around the office in business
monkey suits which are pretty damned ridiculous looking
but for some reason, it gives them a sense of power. That's right.
A piece of clothing gives these prowlers a sense of power. It's
all horseshit because they keep the low-levels (like me) drowned
in farcical make-believe rabbit-hole world where they drill
into us that advancement is possible, given the right set of
'values, attitudes and job-related output'. I kid you not.
That's their code of ethics, word for word. And I put up with it.
Why? I guess because I know that with the wrong combination of
tact to a supervisor or results to a reviewer that I am only one
step away from being one of those street jockeys wearing
dirty nascar gear and smoking 3 packs a day. Sometimes when
I walk home, I see visions, images. I see the street dirt hiding
in the alleys, ever ready to strike, especially some poor weak
bastard like me, not because I'm different really, and not
because I'm better than they are, but because I have something
they want and are cursed not to have; a job.

SO let me tell YOU about this job I have. Ever heard of the
expression FAB? Fucked At Birth. That's me. I never received
the appropriate amount of education needed for a high-level
job. Nope. I'm a low-leveller. My expectations of myself in the
world of higher education were thwarted by a lung-busting
amount of epinephrine, caffeine and various dried leaf products.
My lungs are fucked. I hack all day because I talk all day.
I talk all day which causes me to hack all day. It's a vicious
circle. SO this job. The vicious circle job. The fucking 'Oh
I'm so amicably amorous about this job with so many a-words
that it anesthetizes my anus'. I'm a telemarketer. I talk on
the phone all day because the United States of America has
so many dumbass people with nothing better to do with their
time and inherited money that they order products. You see,
products=happiness. You need to remember this. Write it down.
Yeah so the U.S. of A has so much phonework outsourced and
farmed over here that it disgusts me when I really think about it.
See, they can afford to pay a low leveller like me $10 Canadian
per hour, because they don't give a fuck about Canadian currency.
All they really care about is the fact that Canadian currency is
cheaper than American currency. (i.e. $10 Canadian converts
to $8 American. Per hour. Mulitply that on a mass scale and
you've got downsizing in the worst way, which is kinda ironic
because since the American economy sucks so bad, it's
actually creating jobs for Canadians?? Weird shit.)

TRAINING:

Enough banter. I'm in a room. A room with windows that
have long since been covered with drab blinds because the
only view those windows show are of hellish concrete that
goes in every direction. We have this 'I'm a giddy sorority
girl' trainer who thinks she's teaching us 'cool' lessons. She
is 23, overly eccentric and energetic, completely unattractive
in every way, wearing an Old Navy shirt with a blue palm
tree on it because it's dress-down day for her but not for us
low levellers. Nope. It's our first day - Orientation day!
And it's all bullshit. No matter how hard this flip-flop
wearing, slightly overweight loud party girl drives the
ethics into us, it's goin in one ear and out the asshole.

Picture this.
There are 20 of us in training, and believe me, I use the
term 'us' loosely. Some of these cretans are unreal.
On the far left of the training tables, we have Ember.
Ember is a victimized obviously anorexic blonde who is
semi-attractive except for the fact that she can never
shut the fuck for 5 seconds. Loud trainer girl can't even
get 10 words in without Ember either interrupting, protruding
a point or displaying her vast knowledge of call centre
terminology. She's a victim. She talks out loud so that
everyone can hear her problems and somehow be
compelled to feel sorry for her long list of people who have
apparently 'fucked her over'. Sorry Ember. Your giant
horse teeth scare me and the tattoo of your own name
on your upper right shoulder make me wonder what
planet you're from. Ember has exceptional interpersonal
skills and knows the ins and outs of manipulation. She
will probably be the best salesperson in my class.

Then, to the left of Ember, moving down the line, we have
Vance. Vance is a 60+ golf-shirt wearing, mister know-it-all
in every field from the employment standards act to the
monetary business in the Corporate sector. He really, really
likes to show everyone just how much he knows at any given
time and has vast amounts of call centre experience and
often likes to take over the role of the trainer, without
any semblance of tact or awareness. Vance drives me nuts
and looks IDENTICAL to Wilford Brimley. The apexes of
his cheeks turn almost purple whenever he gets 'heated'
about an issue. This happens at least every 20 minutes
in any given day. Vance has poor interpersonal skills and
is apparently a 'part owner' of a golf course. Fuckin
bullshit. He needs to find a new career selling oatmeal
because whenever he talks, that's all I hear; "Warm your
bones with some good old Quaker Oats, folks."
Wilford Brimley, or Vance or whatever you want to be
called, you better stay the fuck out of my way because it's
only the first day and already I want to feed you to the
fishes.

I digress. There are too many people to list, but might I end
with one last lady who fits about 20% of the class perfectly.
Her name is Pat. Just like the name would indicate, Pat,
ladies and gentlemen, can only be described in one word;
kook. Pat is 40+ and whenever SHE talks, all I hear is the
sound of a cuckoo clock. It almost makes you smile. Now,
let me get something straight here. Pat is not a kook in the
sense of Kevin Corrigan's description of a girl he liked in
Living In Oblivion as 'kinda kooky'. No, no. I'm not even sure
if she has reproductive glands inside of her. I think that her
insides are probably gumdrops, lollipops and balloon
animals. Pat has a lisp, enjoys gardening in her spare time
and when asked what kind of phrase she would use over
the phone to sell a certain kind of product, she chose the
phrase 'Oooh-La-La'. She was serious. I'm not kidding.

These are the people I'm expected to work with, folks.
And I sit here, and write this shit on this paper and I think
'whats the point?' but then I think, I guess I can at least
stick around to see what kind of comedy surfaces from
all of these cartoons.

Hit the grind.
Run the race.
Find the cheese.
End the maze.
Make the green.
Buy the stuff.
Eat the shit.

And so for none, I am. Faceless and nameless.