In which I discover sexism and become feminist.

There's this job in The Promised Land. It would render my journalism degree worthless, but I'd accept it for no other reason than I'm desperate for a job, and also qualified. I can count to 12. Pack items into boxes and subsequently put them in the mail. And spell "cat."

I discovered the job through The Sister, so I thought it's possible I have a good chance through association. Turns out I also have breasts. Real, live, 34B breasts, perfectly stuffed into a Victoria's Secret bra that was likely too expensive, but I received it as a birthday gift so couldn't refuse. She worked at the store and got a discount. And, hi, it's racerback. It was a must.

Moving on.

So because I can tie my shoes, differentiate "eight" from "ate" and menstruate on a monthly basis, I have a GREAT chance for this job, which would likely lead to an immense pay cut and eventually welfare, food stamps, and children who I take out in public without socks on. Or shoes. But The Sister gave me a great reference. Other than handing over my extensive resume, she also assured, "She's a total hottie."

Turns out Hiring Guy, we'll call him P.J. because, well, that's his name (death to P.J.), who also happens to run the "store," has a knack for broads. Well, golly, I'm a perfect fit!

But wait... wait just a minute. Turns out I have something working against me. What? Is it that I can't evenly apply lipstick? Can't divide 4 by 2? Like, do I not have enough low-cut shirts? No, no, that's not it. Turns out I have to blame The Fiance for this one. That's right.

Apparently my marital (or not quite marital, yet) status renders me useless to P.J., whose first inquiry upon discovering a 24-year-old, female, probably over-qualified college graduate was interested in applying for the vacant, full-time position was, "Is she single?"

Uh, no. Sorry P.J. What does P.J. stand for, anyway? Pathetic Jackass? Pompous Jerk? Penis (is) Just (a little too small and curved to the left)?

However, I let the comment pass as The Sister relayed the information to me. Because, hi again, still TERRIBLY need a job. But now word on the street is I must fill out an application and bring it to the store this weekend to MEET darling Piss Jar. And he will apparently get straight to the point, he tells The Sister, because he's already interviewed three other girls, and since I'm 'taken,' I'm lowest on the priority list.


So now this is just fun.

I will GO to Prick Joint with my application, and I will wear my most tit-tastic outfit, and I will bat my fancy little eyelashes and punch him in the TINY PENIS so hard and with such force that my ENGAGEMENT RING will PUNCTURE A HOLE into his TESTICLES, and he will bleed forth from his MAN JEWELS for so long, his eyes will lose color and he'll pass out dead on the floor. And I will stomp on his face with my high heels.

Then I will giggle, throw a tampon on his face, and apologize for my unqualifications. And then I will go back to working a real job.