The Chronicles of the Unemployed

As some of you may know, I was recently laid off from my job after working there for about a year and a half. Just to clear up any concern, I was not fired for comparing the brain of a mentally handicapped co-worker to that of a chimpanzee on this website, it had to do with acquisitions, mergers, and all that other white collar bullshit which has ruined so many other innocent lives.

My last day of work was Christmas Eve. I was informed that my last day of work would be Christmas Eve on December 16. If you happen to see me anytime soon, please don’t bother asking me how my Christmas was unless you are thinking about trying to turn facial contusions into a fashion statement. With no income at the moment, I’m in the process of pawning all of my presents. Unfortunately, no one seems to be interested in purchasing a set of ear muffs with NFL team logos on them, so it looks like I’ll be going on an involuntary Easy Mac diet over the next couple of weeks.

My father went through this same experience about three years ago when he got laid off from his job of 20 years. He’s been giving me a lot of advice as far as what I should be doing, and he even got me started on the path to recovery by sharing with me the link to the New Jersey Department of Labor and Workforce Development website. When you think about the landmark events in the relationship between a father and son, it’s moments like being taught how to shave, learning how to drive a stick shift, or being told about the birds and the bees that really stick out as the moments that create a strong bond between the two. A father sharing the unemployment benefits claims link with his son via email should not be one of those signature moments, but oddly enough it felt like one. It was almost like he was saying, “Now that you’ve been sodomized good and hard by corporate America, you can finally call yourself a man.” He also advised me that in today’s job market, if I hope to really make a good impression and separate myself from other candidates in an interview, I need to learn how to sell myself. I interpreted this guidance to mean that I essentially need to learn how to be a whore. I’m honestly not sure if my rectum can take much more punishment.

Being unemployed is great for about a week, but after that the boredom really starts to eat away at you. With all of this time on my hands, I figured it would be fun to give you some insight as to what someone with no job, no girlfriend, and no career ambition does in their daily life. Without further adieu, I present to you:
The Chronicles of the Unemployed

Day 1
This morning I woke up without a hang over for the first time in about a month. I took pride in this minor miracle and garnered enough motivation to get up early and look for a job. I started off by going to monster.com and figured now that I have a year of working experience under my belt, finding something that I was qualified for would be much easier than it was coming out of college. I was wrong of course. I only met the requirements for about three jobs in the area. My options were narrowed down to washing laboratory equipment, telemarketing, and doing a research project that involved injecting lab rats the gay gene. After about 5 minutes of searching, I felt like smashing my monitor, so I gave up and turned on the TV.

It had been awhile since I watched any television on a weekday, and I wasn’t sure what I should put on. I started flipping through the channels to find something, and when I came to 11, my glazed over eyes widened immediately as I found my old friend Maury (or as his African-American guests like to call him: “Murray”). Today’s episode was entitled “3 Angry Women…3 Babies…Is Harry the Father?” The storyline was unbelievably compelling. Three women named Tykeza, Monisha, and Ti’Eshia claimed that a man named Harry was the father of their three respective children: Omri (pronounced Omir), Jamaiyah, and Ta’Marion. Harry has fathered five previous children with five other different women, but has apparently gone out of his way to deny siring any of these three children.

Maury spoke to the women first about their predicaments before bringing Harry to the stage. They collectively described Harry as a raggedy, deadbeat lowlife that they used to be in love with. Maury asked the three women if they were 100% positive that Harry was the father of their children. They each declared that they were in fact 1000% positive that Harry was the father of their children. Ti’Eshia eloquently added that it was time for Harry to stop spreading his sperm all over the state of Florida, and that it was time for him to step up and start claiming all of his kids to-day.

After the opening arguments, Harry was brought out to resounding boos from the crowd and such taunts as, “Ay, Ay, Ay” and “Yeah dat’s right” from the women. Harry looks like a man that has donned an orange jumpsuit once or twice in his lifetime. He has dreadlocks, and wears them in a fashion that makes his head look like oil was just struck from it by a Loony Tunes character. He walked over to his chair, took it from its original location next to the still badgering women, moved it to the staircase by the entrance, and sat down.

Once the commotion was settled, Maury interrogated Harry as to why he did not believe to be the father of the three children. He contended that Tykeza and Monisha have both been around the block too many times, and told Maury that he could axe anyone about it. In response to Ti’Eshia he simply said, “Dat baby is bow-legged.” Maury and the women seemed perplexed by this argument, so he was asked to explain further. He lifted up his pant leg to reveal that he was not a bow-legged man, implying that it would be genetically impossible for his offspring to have curved legs.

Of course there was only one way to find out who was telling the truth: a paternity test. The crowd erupted as Maury walked over to the producer, grabbed the envelope containing the results, and held it over his head triumphantly. He sat back down in his chair with a diabolical smirk and dug into the envelope for the first result.

“When it comes to 3 year old Omri (once again, pronounced Omir), Harry… You ARE the father!”
Tykeza leaped in the air and howled at the top of her lungs. She ran over to Harry and began to flail her arms wildly in front of him, not unlike one of those Mallard Duck Whirlgigs during a hurricane. She screamed “I told you! I told you!” Then she sat back down and proclaimed, “Holla atcha girl.”
Next up was Monisha’s baby Jamaiyah. Maury’s smirk had now widened to a smile as he announced,
“When it comes to 1 and a half year old Jamaiyah, Harry... You ARE the father!”
Monisha’s celebration was more subdued and involved much less rage. She simply stood up and danced with her arms in the air while chanting, “Heeeeey! Heeeeey! Riiiiighht!”

By now I could tell Maury was on the brink of laughter.
“When it comes to 6 month old Ta’Marion, Harry... You ARE the father!”
Ti’Eshia stood up, pointed at Harry, and repeatedly inquired “What? What? What?” Tykeza even got back in on the action and asked him the same question.

Maury came over to Tykeza and asked her to sit down and curtail her excitement. The room went silent and Maury looked straight at the distraught baby-daddy and declared, “Harry, you don’t have 5 kids. You got 8.”

That was the most exciting 10 minutes of my day.