Job Fairs and Prank Applications

*I've done it before, but this time it is especially blatant: this column was written while I was still in college. Two-and-a-half years later, I'm discouraged by how little has changed in my attitude toward the job market, but grateful the personal zest I put into "Job Fairs and Prank Applications" still resonates today. I haven't made the advancements in responsibility that I'm after, but at least I still identify with myself.

Throughout my lengthy college tenure, I've exerted much energy fending off the malaise presented by entering the work force. Truth be known, if I had another semester left to stubbornly procrastinate, there's no way in hell I'd ever attend a job fair. The very phrasing, “job fair,” is an oxymoron. A JOB typically connotes repetitive labor driven less by passion than the pressing desire not to sleep inside an abandoned fireworks stand. A FAIR, on the other hand, hearkens to mind delightful spit-experiments on the Gravitron, scrumptious caramel apples, and a performance from the deceptively-spry Cheap Trick on the main stage. The words “job” and “fair” are paired together about as fittingly as “diarrhea” and “jamboree.” (Interestingly enough, “Diarrhea Jamboree” was the name of my first garage band. I operated the smoke machine and harmonized into a Fudgesicle I pretended was a microphone).

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t completely abhor the transition from college to career. It’s just that most jobs favor the practical mind as opposed to the type of mind that stays up until dawn trying to think of amusing song titles for a Freddy Krueger-themed rock opera. (True.) I mean to say that telegraph repairmen have an easier time finding employment than comedy writers do.

And don’t let this job-bashing lead you to believe I’m a hippie that yearns for capitalist exile on a commune. I’ll admit there are some allures to the collectivist lifestyle, but when I garnish my salads with Bacon-Bits, I would prefer not to be dowsed with a bucket of fake blood. In addition to that, communes feature a high-percentage of Phish fans. My desire to avoid an area densely populated by this inferior breed of humanity overshadows my misgivings about working a trade I have little enthusiasm for. In a roundabout way, my distaste for pompous soloists with lyrics like a Weird Al tune minus the punch line motivated me to attend a recent job fair.

Don’t expect a carnival atmosphere when you attend a job fair. While I navigated the aisles in a state of aloofness, I mused about how great it would be if the recruiters wore silly hats and screamed at passersbys with the cadence of an auctioneer. As I walked past the Cumulus broadcast booth, a mustachioed man in an American flag vest would yammer in my direction, “Hey there, Slim, you look desperate for employment. Well, today’s your lucky day, fellow. If you can topple this pyramid of empty milk bottles with THIS ping-pong ball, I’ll hire you on the spot. It’s the chance of a lifetime, junior, and it only costs five blue tickets!”

But alas, my imagination proved too lofty. There was nary a pyramid of empty milk bottles to be seen, and the only bearded lady there tended the Kwik Trip booth. Yes, a Kwik Trip booth was set up at the job fair, presumably for applicants that want to look dapper and confident before landing a job that requires them to scrape off encrusted nacho cheese inside a microwave.

I did stumble across a booth that really interested me. Located far away from the other booths, it attracted me like the one girl at a bar that shuns the dance floor while that retarded “Skeet, Skeet” blares. But when I asked the man behind the counter about the employment opportunities his business had to offer a vigorous go-getter such as myself, he just frowned and replied, “Sir, you’re holding up the line. Just tell me what kind of soda you want.”

Even the concession stand had high standards I couldn’t meet. I stomped out of the Kolf Center disgruntled and hopeless. Job fairs had become the latest annoyance in my experience with the work force, continuing a wretched tradition that includes applications.

Filling out job applications is both tedious and dreadful--like using a credit card to color-coordinate a puddle of vomit. Applications are nosy buggers that burrow into your skull and demand concise answers to meaningless questions. “What is the address of the high school you attended? Oh, you don’t remember? Well, then you don’t deserve to vacuum dead lake flies in the district manager’s pool house for minimum wage! No, the privilege of sucking-up dead lake flies with a deafening Shop-Vac will go to a DIFFERENT desperate schmuck--one that actually remember the address of his old high school.”

I endured a stint of unemployment this past summer (fuck you, Exclusive Company), and after two weeks of dead-end applications, I began to feel worthless and desperate. It’s my understanding that vengeance is more appealing than both worthlessness and desperation, and for that reason I resorted to filling out “Prank Applications.”

Prank Applications flout the restrictive stuffiness of the job hunt with a healthy dose of dark comedy. On a recent Prank Application, I was asked to provide three references. I listed the following notorious characters: abusive husband Ike Turner, lackluster comedian Carlos Mencia, and everyone’s favorite taboo punch line Osama bin Laden. I even provided an exhalant quote from each.

Ike Turner praised, “I’ve beaten a lot of women in my day, but you can’t BEAT Nick Olig’s work ethic!”

Carlos Mencia screamed, “Take it from ME: Nick is really funny. P.S.: dee-dee-dee!”

Osama bin Laden raved, “I thought I hated ALL Americans, but after expert worker Nick Olig cleaned out and reorganized my basement clutter, I can name at least one capitalist monster I would not wish a Jihad against!”

If I’m not going to get hired, I want to do it with morbid style.

In the employment history section, applicants are asked to cite the reasons why they left their former jobs. Typical answers include: “Insufficient pay” or “Didn’t receive enough hours.” Such responses, while legitimate, will fail to sabotage your chances of securing employment.

Here are some of my farcical former vocations and my reasons for leaving.

Police officer: Terminated for repeatedly enforcing a law that does not exist. Much to chagrin, it is in fact legal to be cross-eyed in a school zone.

Prime Minister of Trinidad and Tobago: That post was far too exhausting; I had to quit. Never mind Trinidad, governing Tobago alone was becoming way too much to handle.

Pro Wrestling Referee: Fired by the promoters for ignoring the villain’s manager while he tried to distract me from outside the ring. What did I do wrong?! I tell you, that quasi-sport is teeming with corruption!

Medical Surgeon: Given the pink slip for accepting a dare that I couldn’t make an aortal incision ten seconds after inhaling a balloon filled with nitrous oxide.

Ricky Martin Impersonator: Fired when my singing telegram agency discovered my terrible secret: I’m the actual Ricky Martin.

Antics such as Prank Applications aren’t likely to land you a job, but on the plus side, they WILL provide you with a childish satisfaction you should have outgrown by now. And dammit, that’s good enough for me.