Wednesday, March 21, 2007
The Scullery Maid by Giuseppe Maria Crespi
Annie @ Discarded Lies asks the following question: "Is a British accent all you need to succeed in America?" Well, in the words of Twin Number 2, "Hell to the Yeah!"
I know this how? Not because I am British, by no means. I know this because I pretended to be British in order to get a job, a job I got by lying about everything else through my crooked British-looking teeth, too.
I wasn't always a good liar, since I only lied in order to get out of trouble and pin the blame on my brother. I wasn't very good at it, and I always felt a tinge of remorse....especially if my dad's belt came off and did some harsh asswhoopage. I hope you can forgive me for those times, dear brother. I know I have already gotten over it.
Anyway, back to "How I Became a Fab Success by Lying While Using a British Accent, and How you can, too!"
I was unemployed and apparently, unemployable...at least in the town of Berwick, Pennsylvania.
Although I had worked in the news business for many years, no newspaper wanted to hire me. (They usually hire from within the paper.)
And my abilities as a librarian got me nowhere with the local librarian, who, though desperately needing another librarian, didn't want to pay what I'd made in Lancaster as a newspaper librarian.
So I looked beyond my ken, and applied at restaurants, where no one wanted to hire me because they were always concerned that once a position opened up at the library, I would quit and go there to work.
The grocery stores gave me the same reasons.
Desperate, I decided that the only way to get a job was to lie about my credentials. So I made my mind up to lie.
Number One Rule about Lying to get a job: Lie about everything. I mean EVERYTHING! Make sure that the people you create as references are people you have known a long time, and give fake phone numbers, but make sure it's really long distance, like from England or France, or Morocco, if you want to make sure they won't ever call....and make sure your references are dead, too. I prefer dead references who have died in hideous manners. Suicides aren't necessarily a good idea, but make sure you add in the margins: "Investigators say the explosion was an accident."
Oh, and make sure that the job experience you make up is in relation to the job you are looking for. Which means, if you are applying for a lawyer job or a brain surgeon job...make sure you give yourself lots and lots of brain surgeon or lawyer experience. That way, the prospective boss will really be impressed. And always say that you learn new things quickly.
At this point, I wanted to close the deal, because the personnel director was clearly impressed with me and when she called me in for the interview, I thought to myself, while still out in the lobby waiting, "how do I make sure I get this job, and not these other skanks who are probably better trained than me?"
Answer: English Accent. Boo-Yeah!
As the future boss was looking over my creds and shaking her head with awe at the fact that I had been so well-traveled, she asked me some pointless thing about my childhood...and then, POP, out it came, the Britishest accent you ever did hear!
Well, needless to say, she was REALLY interested in getting me started right away.
She took me to where I would be working, and introduced me to my new work mates, who were duly impressed with me, because of my Acme™ British Accent, including the German lady, who said, "Oh, I Lufffffff Enklant! I used to liffff in Enklant Zvanzik Yearsss! Vayre Vere you born in Enklant?"
Damn, I hadn't thought about that question. Because my birth certificate says Kansas City, MO, and well, I was going to say that I was accidentally born there, yet British all the way, in spite of my mother's botching it. But I didn't say that, because that would have actually sounded plausible. So I said the following:
"Well, I was born in a rather small and insignificant town, you probably never heard of." (Think dammit. THINK!!!! Something. ANYTHING. MAKE. IT. UP!")
So I did, remembering that English towns are often combinations of ridiculous-sounding words and syllables, like Primbole on Sackwhuthers....and thus I created the small village of Twatsworth. You know, Twatsworth? It straddles the river Bumsuckle?
And that is where I became from: Twatsworth-Upon-Bumsuckle.
Fräulein's blank stare didn't bode well, but luckily, the rest of the staff members were American, so they believed me.
(FYI: I decided, when I went home from work, that Twatsworth-Upon-Bumsuckle was given this name after Henry the VIII came looking for a good wench with whom he could sire a manchild, and seeing only a few cows and inbred farmers around, he proclaimed that there was nary a twatsworth to be had in this Godforsaken land, and that's how our town came into being...just in case it ever came up.)
So now I had a point of origin. As I began my on the job training, I vowed to tell one new outrageous lie after another, every day of the week. I was going to be the best damn dishwasher they EVER had.
Tomorrow: CHAPTER 2 In which I was married to an African Prince (NSFW alert)
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
I never ceased to be amazed by the numbers of really good writers there are on the internet. Blogging has exposed me to far better, more vibrant writing than any recently published book. The numbers of superb and thoughtful blogs is beyond my ability to count, and for me, these writers have done more to get me to think about news than the blatherskytes on television...or the radio.
Even Rush quotes from the blogs. In fact, he is one of the only guys on radio or television doing so. Thanks for the encouragement, Rushbo. Surprisingly, (or not) I quit watching news on television a long time ago. Not even FOX gets my trust. I tried to watch the other day, and all I can think is, "What shallow, vapid people. Why am I wasting my time watching them?"
To be sure, sites like MySpace are just vanity posts for vacuous teenagers with a whole lotta nuttin' to say, but writing that makes an impact on the world is out there.
Allow me to highlight one site today:
Here is a sample of Vanderleun's writing, and if your appetite is whetted sufficiently, go and read the whole site. Slowly, digesting everything a sentence at a time.
Four years in. An inch of time. Four years in and the foolish and credulous among us yearn to get out. Their feelings require it. The power of their Holy Gospel of "Imagine" compels them. Their overflowing pools of compassion for the enslavers of women, the killers of homosexuals, the beheaders of reporters, and the incinerators of men and women working quietly at their desks, rise and flood their minds until their eyes flow with crocodile tears while their mouths emit slogans made of cardboard. They believe the world is run on wishes and that they will always have three more.
Like savages shambling about some campfire where all there is to eat are a few singed tubers, they paint their faces with the tatterdemalion symbols of a summer long sent down to riot with the worms. They clasp hands and sing songs whose lyrics are ash. "We shall... over... come." Overcome what, overcome who? Overcome their nation? Is that their dream? It is the lifelong dream of those that lead them that much is certain.
Four years in and we see these old rotting rituals trotted out in the streets like some pagan procession of idols and shibboleths, like some furred and feathered fetish shaken against the sky by hunkering witch-doctors, to hold back the dark, to frighten off the evil spirits and graven images that trouble the sleep of the dreamers...
Read the whole thing. I wish I could say it as well.
Also posted at My Pet Jawa...which has an excellent photo of the Anti-Gravitas Peace Rally.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Once upon a time, there was a teeny tiny church in a teeny tiny town in the teeny, tiny country of England...which called itself Great Britain, in order to compensate for its smallness.
But, I digress.
In the teeny, tiny church in the teeny tiny town was a teeny tiny music festival, where the people gathered to watch the children put on a musical play,
called "The Three Little Pigs".
Well, in the same little town, in the same little country were new-comers, called Muslims, but in order for the people not to be upset, they were repackaged as "Asians" by the press and the government. And of course, this euphemism put people completely at ease.
Well, the Muslims HATED pigs, due to their religious edicts, so the people of the teeny tiny town, wishing not to offend their new neighbours, decided to retitle the play, "The 3 Little Pugs", until someone pointed out to the frightened play director, that Muslims also find dogs to be as filthy as pigs.
So they sought to placate their new friends by substituting different animals, all to no avail.
The Muslims found everything to be upset about. After the title of the play was deemed too offensive, they found that the mixing of boy children with girl children terribly offensive. So the play director sent the girls packing.
Well, that was not enough, because the Muslims found music to be an evil that Allah hates, so the play director cut the musical numbers, thinking that surely the Muslims would find everything satisfactory at last, but no, they were still offended.
"We have done everything to please you in this matter, and still you are offended! What more can we possibly do?" asked the exasperated play director.
"YOU offend us, filthy infidel! Nothing would make a Muslim happier than if you would simply die!"
Seeing that he at last had found the one thing that would make the Muslim truly happier than anything else in the world, the play director went home and swallowed poison and died, setting the example for all sensitive multi-culturalists everywhere in Europe, which is now called Eurabia.
Update: Damn the sanity which prevails. The Muslims, timid creatures that they are, protest that they aren't after all offended by pigs and their stories. No. Never. So the play is on, and the slow, preemptive surrender continues.
NOT QUITE THE END