Uni Students are usually written off as surviving on mi goreng, thai lunch specials and happy hour beer. Now this is not the case for everyone, as with any other predjudice, but those who do live up to the expected have good reason. Mainly to due to the fact that youth allowance is being guzzled up by unemployed, half arsed students who live comfortably in the home and clutches of a parent. To avoid falling below the poverty line (or moving to Punchbowl) we often agree to jobs that induce grevious physical pain or loss of both intelligence and/or self respect. These jobs may allow us to experience some of the greater pleasures in life, such as sliced bread and unprocessed cheese, yet render our lifes completely void of joy. Ironically, the job in which I was unwillingly employed saw me advocating and spreading joy. The joy, no less, of Christmas. I'd like to proclaim right here, I am no such 'grinch'. I enjoy Christmas as much as I enjoy food, wine and gifts (and guiltly, leafing through the christmas edition of assorted house magazines.) Yet, I must admit there is some sort of resistance in the brain against enjoying Christmas carols. Especially in November. I also believe, that sitting in the trunk of some 'magical' (read: peverted) tree and chatting to children, whom you are spying on through a video camera is both morally wrong and grossly degrading. In essence, this job was crushing the dreams of small, burberry clad wankers and their babycinos all over Sydney. How was I doing this? By scaring the fucking shite out of them by pretending to be a tree. A tree named David, which is an interesting way to introduce children to the concept of transgenders, no? Also, by replying to their letters to Santa right before their very eyes, yawning in the face of elves, overcharging for sweets... The worst part is, I was doing all this for a mere $16 an hour! Outrageous! Lets not overlook the fact that I was spoiling Christmas for myself. I never, ever, needed to hear Santa use the freaking facilities whilst I was blowing up helium balloons, unaware he had crept in purely to burn my ears with the sound of his piss. Honestly. I don't know whats worse, the fact that I was paid to blow up helium balloons in a mens bathroom, or the glee my discomfort brough to those bastards faces.
My point? I quit this job. Today. So its back to six dollar lunch specials and blogging. Which I am way more than stoked with. So I beg of you, when offered a Christmas themed job just think of the talking tree, shake your head and cry - "No means no David. No means no."
googleimages
No comments:
Post a Comment