Sign up to EliteSkills

My old lady brought me the last of my booze
and told me that I needed to get a job.
I believe she was implying
that there are better things I could be doing with my time.
Rather than leaning on walls along the strip
with a cigarette dangling in my mouth like a stumblebum,
answering the dour expressions of the amateurs scowling by
wrapped in beach towels
while skulking for their herbal supplements inside their Bentleys,
I could earn my keep.
Rather than throwing bottles off balconies from within the kitschy, overpriced
hotels that I hole myself up in,
where I can always be found chain smoking and compulsively masturbating,
I could be working somewhere.
So I suddenly aspired to be a dishwasher
and naturally she asked me why.

Because I would only need a single personal reference
to confirm that I can indeed wash a dish
before I would be rolling up my sleeves up along side
mean, non-English speaking women
and hebetating hillbillies bantering like goats
over their fantasy football teams and best dart scores.
I don't want to cut my hair, wear a tie or work on Sundays.
I want as little responsibility as livingly possible,
and show up my first day in my unsavory street clothes
scratching myself with one hand
flicking butts into dirty dishwater with the other.

I don't want to live under the judgment
of some cologne-wearing, hangover-worsening
douche bag in marital endangerment,
dentigerously taking his whole life out on all the abstinence-pamphlet faces
he has toiling for him,
or get caught up in the clutch oven of all of their superfluous concerns.
As a proud malingering loafer who only shows as he pleases,
would rather answer to the troglodyte down the street
who squats behind a desk cracking his knuckles,
licking his lips
and staring at the elephantine thighs of his tray bearing hussies
tripping over tables and clucking like sodomized chickens.
I don't have one fucking thing to prove.
I just want enough booze money left over to tip my favorite strippers.

And the moment some petulant, undermining ass face
tells me that I don't have time to jot a note or take a piss,
I could potvaliantly shout "FUCK YOU IN THE FACE"
and leave behind an acrimonious footpath of spilled over pots and pans
and destroyed kitchen utensils
with a middle finger struck like a match
heroically raised high into the air.


“Right.” she said, eyes rolled. “Why not try the temp agency?”