Post Number Fourteen

“Gettin’ Down to Work”

For many moons now I’ve been in the habit of setting my clock, my watch and my sun-dial in such a way that they all run slow by ten minutes exactly. This is my version of Daylight Savings Time– for I am “saving”– “daylight” (see the connection?) for myself by giving said self those extra minutes to do as I friggin’ well please.

And yet there’s another reason for me having my time-pieces running ten minutes behind “the norm”. You might even call it the main reason– and it’s this: I like– nay, LOVE– to be turning up for all my appointments fashionably late. Because it’s good for my image to never be on-time, but always off-time, so that (for example) a prospective employer at– oh, I dunno, a job interview? maybe?– might say: “WOW. There’s a young turk who’s right up-to-the-minute on all the latest fashions: including lateness.”

So I kept all the above at the front of my lobes as I boned up for my first-ever job interview a couple days ago. (NOTE: When I say “boned up”, I don’t mean the prospect of a job interview got me so excited I actually cracked a fat. I was chuffed, sure– but not physically chuffed. What I meant was “boned”– “up” in the studying sense.) (Of course, when I say “in the studying sense”, I don’t actually mean {in any sense} that I actually did any {quote} “studying”, per se. It was a job interview. Studying for one o’ those makes no sense at all. Especially when– as a student– I’ve got much more important things to avoid studying.)

Anyway, I thought I’d go about this whole “getting interviewed” caper the right way. So I leapt out of bed (having set my alarm sun-dial for ten minutes after I should’ve gotten up {thereby making sure that– if we take into account DOOLIGAN SAVINGS TIME [as I’m now calling it]– I would be rocking up to the interview a vogue-ish twenty minutes late}) and in so doing (i.e. “leaping out of bed”) I would be placing myself at the cutting edge of the Fashion World, sure to impress the boss lady (whose name is a {fairly vogue-ish} “Daphne”) with how fit I was (and am) to work with young people– especially those young-uns down at the Kiddy Kare Funhouse child care centre, where the job was (and is) located.

You won’t be surprised when you learn that I got the job. Yep. Nailed it. Painfully simple. More importantly, though, when she told me what the pay was, I could see that my measly student allowance would only be “enhanced” by (and I’m quoting my own angry response here) “SLAVE LABOUR WAGES”. Then I started (loudly) spraying the words: “MILITANT UNION ACTION” around the place, at which point the boss lady told me I could (in her word) “quit” if I so chose.


I’d only been employed there three fucking minutes and already I was being forced into Voluntary Redundancy! Well, I can assure you, Duncan Dooligan (AKA me) is no quitter. Oh, no. Duncan Dooligan would rather stick it out and GET FIRED like a real man!  If it ever comes to that, of course. In the meantime, I still needed the extra pittance of cash for Caring Enough to get up in the morning (dammit), so I bit my tongue and played it cool– for now. But under the bubbling surface of my coolness (and my sore tongue) was the knowledge that me and The System would not be “getting on” any time soon. And when I cast my keen eye around the grounds of the Kiddy Kare Funhouse I could see why. It was clear that this establishment was keeping the Youth of Today (ages 0-4) brainwashed by brightness with a dollop of joy– and those were not things that my own defiantly filthy brain could EVER be washed by!

Even worse, when I looked beyond the primary colours of the non-moving swings and the horizontal slides in that boo-boo-sensitive playground, I saw one thing that would make any man’s head go giddy: BARS. I don’t mean  Whiskey Bars (although me and the kids could’a both used a shot o’ Scotch right then). I mean the sorts of bars they have on fencing. It was the relationship of said bars with said fencing (both blending seamlessly into each other) that led me to draw the Obvious Conclusion. With crayons. And I should point out that my drawing of the Obvious Conclusion was much more convincing than the one Little Bobby Kerbashian drew. His drawing of the Obvious Conclusion looked more like a tree. And– as I firmly told him– “not a very good one, at that”.

To be fair (to myself) though, my version was more of a mind map, tracing out in lurid shades of orange and green (because Bobby Kerbashian hogged all the purple crayons) (oh, and when I say “hogged”, I mean he literally ATE THEM, like a hog. He’s a weird boy, the Bobster. Most kids {myself included} would’a preferred eating the far more tasty-lookin’ red ones.) Where was I? Oh, right. My mind map outlined the fencing I mentioned earlier and (through my skillful rendering of sobbing, shivering Stick Figures) I showed how that same fence was not there to keep the sex predators out– it was there to keep the inmates (yes, you heard: INMATES!!) IN!! Mate!

Which means the proper name of the so-called “Kiddy Kare Funhouse” should (in fact) be the “Kiddy KONCENTRATION KAMP… Funhouse”. Furthermore, if the life-giving force known as D.D.T (i.e. me) was to do any good work here– any at all– then he and his half-pint-sized homies would have to get out into the real world and find that thing that all Freedom Fightin’ Folk know as “lebensraum”.

And so– having expertly summed up the nature of The Regime in the two hours and forty seven minutes that I worked there (excluding thirteen minutes for play-lunch)– I’ve decided to volunteer my services (without {extra} pay) to the cause(s) of both lebensraum UND freedom– by helping the youth of today (ages 0-4) to escape!!


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