Fri, 11 Oct 2002

In autumn, nineteen ninety-three,
My infamous work history
Begins; the first real job I held
(Not long after I was expelled)
Was selling stuffed bears door to door
For three days, after which I swore
I never, ever would degrade
Myself like that again. I made
A switch, and so preserved my pride,
To something much more dignified,
In summer, nineteen ninety-four:
My first job at a porno store.

We’ll skip ahead to ninety-five,
When I, to keep myself alive,
Took on a job with some allure:
A market research interviewer.
I called folks on the phone, harassed
Them during meals, and, talking fast,
Would query them till they confessed
Which brand of beer they thought was best –
Until I could no longer cope,
And quit, and scraped by selling dope.
(No, I’m just kidding.) Skip again
To several lean years later, when
An extras casting agency
That specialised in bad TV
Was hiring folks to stand around,
And move their lips, and make no sound,
In programs sure to entertain,
Like Futuresport, starring Dean Cain.

But that excitement wore off soon.
So I came back to Saskatoon,
Where, mired in mother’s basement pad
And out of cash again, I had
To put a crease into my slacks
And get a crappy job at Mac’s.
I wore a stylish uniform,
And kept the roller hot dogs warm,
And let the young punks run amuck,
And worried my career was stuck –
But no! A ray of hope appeared!
I shed the uniform and steered
My metaphorical canoe
For porno-clerk job number two.

But you know how well that job went.
Now here I sit, my savings spent,
My resumé not up to par,
Unlikely to get very far
Unless – unless! – I start anew –
Revise – rewrite – and mislead, too.
To get the jobs I really want,
Revise, I must! – not just my font,
But all of it – my history –
But that’s just like revising me.

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