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The Ghoulish Guidance Archive
Dear Ghoulfriend,
Over the course of the last few days, I have received news from the personnel office at work about two positions for which I applied. The first position was canceled - none of the applicants were selected. Unfortunately, I did not score sufficiently high marks on the application questions to merit further consideration for the other position. I thought I was well qualified for these positions but the selection process is so rigid. Oh, Ghoulfriend - please give me some advice on how to move up ladder of success.
-Worried at Work
Dear Worried,
This is why I'm so blissfully happy to be self-employed, or rather, UN-employed. Living death does have its advantages. Unless you were born with a silver ladder-of-success in your mouth, your chances of moving up within a corporate structure are nil. My advice to you is this: get yourself fired and collect unemployment for a while. This will give you a chance to start your own business. Stop working for the corporate parasites that suck the very life out of you, only to cast you aside thirty years down the line, a dried-up husk of your former self, wearing a Fossil watch knock-off with a banal inscription. Perhaps you could open a hardware store in a small town in the Midwest. I'm thinking Iowa. There are lots of farms there and farmers need hardware. Farmers also have daughters, so you could get married and have a family, presuming you're in the market for that sort of thing. Once you have a family AND a hardware store, there will be no stopping you. You can enlist the services of your eighteen strapping, corn-fed sons to build a hardware empire. Soon, you will out-buy and out-sell Home Depot, Lowes and Wal-Mart COMBINED and world domination will be at hand. You will begin out-sourcing jobs to India and Malaysia and your remaining, overworked, underpaid employees will despise you, but you won't notice because you'll be too busy chasing the sixteen year old waitress at the Country Club. Your wife will leave you for a moody but talented young painter and your kids will be shooting heroin at your estate in the south of France. Your oldest son - your pride and joy - will die in a tragic, drunken boating accident and his last words will be "hardware sucks". You will discover that the life-preserver to which he desperately clung in his last moments was made in China using substandard materials and child labor in a factory subsidised by your corporation. After his funeral, you will deliberately swallow rat poison - kept as a souvenir from your first, tiny store in Iowa - and suffer a painful, lingering death, choking on your own blood. Hope that helps!
Love,
Ghoulfriend
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