life is short (like this writing)

OK.

Let’s get this out of the way right off the bat. On the first play from scrimmage. At the tip off. Or whatever stupid fucking sports cliché you want to use, that I didn’t.

I’m unemployed. And it’s my fault.

Yeah, that’s not too shocking of a thing for many.

But for me, it was the first time I’ve been fired since I was 18 years old and playing Laser Tag in the warehouse of my job at Toys ‘R Us.

Now, I’m 41 years old and should know better.

So, I’m sitting at home, applying for jobs at Target, the adidas outlet store and whatever temp agency a friend recommends.

All of that has led to exactly one email reply. From Target. Saying I am not going to be considered for a job as a red polo-shirt and khakis zombie. Yeah, that attitude probably came out in my online questionnaire for the job. A quiz that featured such questions as “Do you think most people steal?” and “Do you think most politicians lie?” The answer to both queries, of course, is yes. And I answered that way. But there wasn’t a selection for “everyone except Target CEOs and managers.”

Why o’ why am I in the predicament? I doubt you care, but here’s why:

I got into an argument with a co-worker about whether or not Cleveland Browns fans in a sports bar are douchebags or not.

Well, actually, we all know that groups of fans gathered at a bar to watch a football game are douchebags. That’s a given.

The crux of the argument was around what to do when you know said group will be at the bar. I said “Go to another bar. Or just stew in it like a baby with shit.”

The other person believed he only had two days off a week , Sunday and Monday, and that meant everyone needed to be quiet in a bar and not watch football while he was there.

It escalated into a typical pussy office fight. We yelled at each other. We got in each other’s faces. Spit came out. One push came. It ended. We talked 5 minutes later, shook hands, and it was over.

Except for the manager.

Note to all cubicle inhabitants: Don’t give the bitchy supervisor who has no power over you, but despises you for being able to voice an opinion every now and then, any ammunition to get rid of you. They will pounce.

I was fired.

I don’t dispute it.

I did something stupid. And I paid the cost.

It’s funny to look back on it now.

I needed to quit. Months ago. But didn’t. Same excuses I’ve been making for over a decade now about why I don’t do things. I need the money. I have bills. I can’t leave until I find a new job. Well, that’s pansy-assed bullshit.

Quit your job if you hate it.

If the bill collector comes to your door. Give him a sock. It’ll be all you have.

And go be happy.

I’ll end on another cliché, which I learn to be truer and truer (can something be true, and then truer?):

“Life is too damn short. Don’t waste it.”