GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #956: A GARBAGE JOB INTERVIEW

 One of the unfortunate things about not writing GF for a period of time is that during my writing vacation a young man snuck up on the CEO of United Healthcare and shot him dead. Considering how often I talk about how most CEOs are the lowest form of life on the planet, I'm sure you were clamoring to know my feelings on the subject. I was chomping at the bit to possibly write a Goodnight, Fuckers: Special Report.

#FreeLuigi. 'Nuff said.

I'm sure I'll get more into it at a future date, but it made me think about the time I tried to get a job with United Healthcare. It turned out to be the worst job interview I've ever been involved with. So yeah, fuck them and their executives. Not just for that, obviously, but you know what I mean. Funny thing: one of their executives led the interview. I had to check the dead guy's face to see if it was him. It was not.

A few years ago I was desperate for a job. I applied for just about everything. There was a confidential listing on Indeed. It was a customer service position. The pay was really good. Ordinarily when that happens, I have my doubts, but the confidentiality of the listing made me wonder if maybe they were telling the truth.

I applied and got an immediate email back saying they wanted to interview me. It wasn't the blink of an eye, but not very much longer than that. Something in the back of my head said to forget it, but I plunged ahead. Got in my suit. Headed out to the address. When I arrived I saw the office belonged to United Healthcare. All things considered, they really needed customer service help. Maybe that was why they were paying so much.

I talked to the receptionist, who signed me in and told me to wait in the conference room. The one where a bunch of other people are sitting? Yes, that one.

Red flag. If you've been invited to a job interview, and it turns out to be a *group* interview, you should leave immediately. I was desperate and a little curious, so I took a seat with the rest of the applicants. They were dressed nicely, but I was the only suit in the room. No one else seemed to be feeling dread. They were all rather cheerful. But my hopes were pretty low at that point. I started writing a story in my notebook--which I swiped from a previous job, as it looked like leather (it's not) and was very professional--hoping no one would want to drag me into one of their cheerful conversations. I looked busy. I'm good at that.

The executive comes in, and I suddenly know what this is before he even opens his fucking mouth. I have been lured in with a customer service position, but the trap is that it's a sales position. Hence the high salary ($1000 biweekly! If you're good at selling stuff, and that is TBD). Also, this guy is here to pump us up like Leonardo DiCaprio in The Wolf of Wall Street. Oh my God, is this a fucking boiler room? I make a silent bet with myself. Before this presentation is done, he will say something along the lines of, "Did you see that Mercedes out there? One of my reps just bought it. Only been working here for two years."

He goes into his spiel, and it sucks just as bad as I thought it would. He's going on and on about how much money we'll be making at his company, and if we sell a client, every time they spend money with the company, we would get a piece. Your pay can only go up! The sky is the limit! No commission caps!

He pointed out the window. "Did you see that Mercedes out there? Parked out front? That belongs to a *new hire* who has only been here half a year."

Ah fuck.

I wondered if I should just tell this guy to go fuck himself in front of all these potential employees. It would feel good. It might even save a few of these people from wasting their time at a bullshit job. But I stayed quiet. A lot of them looked desperate, and their eyes kept getting bigger and bigger the more this asshole talked about the Mercedes. They needed the money. I kept my silence.

Finally the presentation ended, and he handed out fucking job applications for us to fill out. Dude, I already gave you my fucking resume. I'm *not* going to write the whole thing out for you on this fill-in-the-blank sheet. (And it was only one sheet long. Apparently I should have had only two jobs before this one. Higher education seemed unnecessary, but they left a line for it just in case.)

At that point I gathered my things, put on my coat and got the fuck out of there. The executive was hanging out at the reception desk talking, and he looked up when I walked out of the conference room like he expected me to ask questions.

I said, "No thanks. I've worked enough shitty sales jobs."

He looked flabbergasted. He might have said "uh," but I walked past him and left. Once in the parking lot, I looked for the Mercedes. There wasn't one.

I can only think that the dead CEO was this guy's boss.

I get it. Some people watch movies like The Wolf of Wall Street or Glengarry Glen Ross or Boiler Room, and they want to do that job. Sex in the office and fearmongering your possible customers sounds like a lot of fun. But if you think about the reality, you don't want to work at those places. If you're ever in a situation like the one I was in, get as far away from it as possible. You don't need the money that bad. There won't be much of it, anyway.

And yes, I did honor the bet. I removed a dollar from my wallet, as it was just a token wager, and I put it right back in. I seem like an okay guy, sometimes.

I do, no matter how painful, pay off any bets I lose. I don't bet often, only when I'm dead certain of something, so betting against me is usually a losing proposition. But I did lose a painful bet at my previous job. I was working with a guy I'd worked with at the job before that one (telecom is an intensely incestuous business). We sat in the same pod at the time, his desk next to mine. There was an intern that summer who kept finding excuses to hang out at my friend's desk. She was very flirty with him, much to his horror. He was in his fifties at the time, and she couldn't buy a legal drink of alcohol. He wanted nothing to do with her, but he used to be a very good salesman (he might still be, but I hope he's retired by now), so it was against his nature to tell her off.

The summer ended, and she came by to say she was going back home. She added, "I'll see you next summer!"

As soon as she was gone he said, "That's not happening."

I smiled. "Oh? She's smitten with you. How do you plan to avoid her?"

I forget what he said next, but it was something along the lines of, "Not happening, dude."

I pressed on. He said, "I'll bet you a bottle of whiskey that it doesn't happen."

We worked it out so that if I won, he'd get me a bottle of Wild Turkey 101. If he won, I'd get him a bottle of Jack. If you've been around me a long time, you'll know that I despise Jack Daniel's. I'd go into it, but I've done it a thousand and one times. I'm sure I've written extensively of the reason in GF somewhere. So if I lost, it would be exceptionally painful for me.

I was dead certain that she would be back, and there was no way he was going to escape her clutches. My mistake was assuming that my friend was just as much of a loser as me, possibly worse because he thought he could get away from someone who bordered on being a stalker.

Near the end of the year (I think? I drank a lot back then, so I'm fuzzy on that as well as most of my thirties) he announced that he was moving on to a better job, that he'd put in his two weeks' notice. I felt the icy stab of betrayal in my back. That son of a bitch had to have known this was going to happen.

He claimed that he was just looking back then, but I have this nagging feeling in the back of my neck that he's lying to me, that he knew he was getting out of this place. He knew for a fact I would lose when he made the bet.

Fast forward to his last day. He's getting ready to pack up his things and leave. It's now the last half-hour, and he comes by my desk. We had these shelves at the end of our desks, about chest high, so he perched both arms on top of that, shaking his head down at me.

"I never figured you for a welsher, Bruni," he said.

And that stung even worse than his betrayal. But I'd played it like I was welshing, just to see his reaction, so I have no one to blame but myself.

"How dare you?" I said. I reached into the giant drawer that was on the other side of my desk. I revealed the fifth of Jack and held it just outside of his reach. "I shouldn't give this to you. I think you cheated."

He gave his explanation, as stated above. I sighed and let him have it.

He grinned, and in that moment I knew for sure he'd played me. Goddammit, that hurt. The guy at the liquor store knew of my JD psychosis and looked askance upon me. "Just ring it up," I said.

And now my friend had that bottle. No matter how painful, it must be done.  And . . .

At least he shared the bottle with us. It was Friday near 5, so we could drink in the office if we wanted to. And we did. That bottle was empty by the time we left.

Looking back now, that's actually a pleasant memory, all treachery aside. I lost track of him when I went crazy in 2020. I wonder what he's up to these days. I hope she found him, that rat bastard.

I miss him.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #226: WHEN TRUMP LOSES . . .

. . . and he will, I assure you. The first time I was aware of the political system was during the '88 election. That was the one and only time I've ever been wrong. My family was pro-Dukakis, so I figured I had to be, too. My grandfather is 100% Greek, and I suspect, in hindsight, that was the reason. I fully believed Dukakis would wipe the walls with Bush I. Whoops. In gambling that's known as betting your heart. Don't ever do that.


Every election since then I have considered everything very carefully. I was right about Bill Clinton twice. I was right about Bush II twice. I was right about Obama twice. And I'm going to be right about Hillary Clinton this year. I can't stand anyone on the ballot (except for maybe me, #VoteBruniDanger2016), but Clinton is the best qualified. She's a fucking sleazy politician. She knows so many underhanded techniques that no one else would be able to run this country. Hopefully Bill Clinton's slimy tendencies have rubbed off on her, and she'll do what no other president in recent memory has done: balance the fucking budget.


But Trump? I worry about the li'l fella. What's he going to do when he's proven to be a loser yet again. (Remember, this isn't his first presidential bid.) Well, anyone remember what Samuel Johnson said about patriotism? It's the last refuge of scoundrels. But patriotism is going to fail Trump yet again. Where do you go from rock bottom?


Correction: that is not rock bottom. There's something else he can become. Don't forget that Jordan Belfort, the infamous Wolf of Wall Street, has a career today despite the horrendous financial crimes he committed. How does he have a career? Simple: he went into public speaking.


I think Trump might have a future in that, but I don't mean just any ol' public speaking gig. I'm thinking he could do a PUA type thing. For those unfamiliar with this, PUA stands for Pick Up Artist. These are the scumbags who try to teach men how to worm into the pants of women. They're the ones who try to teach you the right way to say things like, "Nice pants. Think I can get in them?" Or, "I'm glad I brought my library card, because I'm checking you out." Etc.


Trump's first seminar could be titled HOW TO GRAB 'EM BY THE PUSSY AND GET AWAY WITH IT. Or maybe HOW TO BECOME SO FAMOUS YOU CAN KISS BEAUTIFUL WOMEN BEFORE YOU EVEN SAY HI. But it doesn't have to be limited to that. Maybe we can fit in a few like HOW TO MAKE EVERYONE THINK YOU'RE BETTER THAN THEM. Or perhaps HOW TO NOT PAY TAXES FOR DECADES ON END. Or best yet, HOW TO MAKE EVERYONE THINK YOU HAVE MORE MONEY THAN YOU DO. Money's a tricky thing. Everyone depends so much on money that doesn't exist that George Carlin is right: without bullshit this country would fall apart.


(My favorite philosophy professor in college hated the word "potential." He demonstrated by holding out his empty hand. He said, "Right now I'm holding a potential sandwich." Every one of us who has a credit card is holding potential money. It doesn't really exist until you pay it off. *If* you pay it off. But that's *my* problem for now, I guess.)


When I was in high school I learned a very important lesson. We had an election in government class. It was me versus a thief versus a sex fiend. I decided I was going to run an honest campaign, and guess what? I came in last. That very important lesson I learned? You have to be a lowlife in order to win in American politics.


But more importantly you have to be a lowlife who knows how politics works. Trump is a so-called businessman and a self-professed outsider (which is a contradiction, by the way). Clinton, on the other hand, is a lifetime politician. She's slimy and a liar and etc. But she has experience, and that's why she's going to win. I'm all right with that, I guess. If anyone was going to win I'd rather it went to the underdog, Sanders. But that's never going to happen because he insists on being, well, honest.


So yeah. Trump, if you need help finding a job after this failed attempt at seizing the White House, give me a call. You've just got to sell me this pen first.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #58: CHANGES

I swear to fuck, I can't figure out what's going on with my body right now. I've been testing and double-checking results, and I'm in a bit of a quandary.


OK, it would seem that when I behave myself, I've been getting super-low blood sugar readings. Ordinarily, that would be good considering my 'Beetus. However, my readings are so low they're fucking everything else up.


When I act like an animal--these days, not way-back-when--my readings are a bit high, but they're acceptable. I'm getting mixed messages here.


After adding everything up, I can only assume I have two choices. Everything else sucks, because if I behave myself AND take my meds, I find myself in a hateful position where I want to vegetate instead of do anything useful. Here are my choices.


Keep up my meds but add some sugar to my lunch (maybe a can of soda). This will keep me from going into a diabetic coma while still obeying my doctor, more or less.


Or . . . I can disobey my doctor and cut one of my meds out while sticking to the plan I have now. This is fiscally irresponsible, since I just bought a three-month supply of my meds, and I'm still waiting for my doctor to get back to me in regards to my most recent blood test.


I think I'm going with the latter, at least for now. I'm tired of being angry all the time. Also, I can't fall asleep at my job. I certainly can't fall asleep while driving home from work every day. And I definitely can't bring myself to waste $40 worth of meds. I think I'm just going to add a bit of sugar to my diet. Hopefully, I'll be able to control myself so I don't need to get my feet chopped off. (Although if I had to lose my feet, it might be cool to lose them as a special effect for THE EXPENDABLES 4, if they're planning on that happening. Chuck Norris is in that series now, right? Bill Hicks wouldn't cringe too much.)


I couldn't write tonight because of my diabetic incident. I couldn't exercise, either. I loaded down on sugar until I reached the point where I was hopped up and bouncing off the walls. Except now I have to go to bed, so I administered a bit of booze to take the edge off. I feel like I'm living a lonely, isolated version of THE WOLF OF WALL STREET right now, a version that involves no money at all. How awful is that?


New blood sugar experiments begin tomorrow. I'll report the results then, if my mindless whoring of my work doesn't get in the way. Fuck.

EVERYONE'S GOT ONE #25: IN DEFENSE OF THE WOLF OF WALL STREET

[WARNING: This piece contains spoilers. If you don’t know how things turned out in real life for Jordan Belfort, and you want to be surprised by the ending of the movie, you should not read this until you’ve seen THE WOLF OF WALL STREET. And I highly recommend seeing it. It’s one of my top 10 favorite movies of all time.]

Director Martin Scorsese is being criticized heavily for his biopic of convicted fraudster Jordan Belfort. There are two reasons, but I want to deal with one of them right away, because it’s easy to dismiss it, and I want it out of the way.

A screenwriter, a member of the Academy, told Scorsese, “Shame on you—disgusting.” This is after watching just about three hours worth of sex and drugs excess. And to be sure, there are plenty of excessive things that happen in this movie, from dwarf-tossing to orgies on planes. Hell, you name it, it happens. There’s even a scene in which Leonardo DiCaprio, who plays Belfort, has a dominatrix take a burning candle from out of his ass and use it to drip painfully hot wax all over his back. There’s another scene in which Belfort has to ban sex in the office bathrooms—not permanently, but during working hours—because it became such a problem.

I’m not here to talk about whether or not all of these things happened in real life. I believe they did, because I don’t think highly of the human race, and I know exactly how hedonistic they will be if given the chance. However, this is a very faithful adaptation of Belfort’s book of the same title. (I should mention I haven’t read it myself—I intend to, of course—but I did some research and gathered from several independent sources that the movie is pretty much verbatim.) There is the question of whether or not Belfort is to be believed, of course. Keep in mind, he IS a con man. But the key to this is, if you’re accusing Scorsese of being “disgusting” because he faithfully adapted a supposedly true story, then you’re accusing reality of being disgusting. Sure enough, it is, but you can’t blame an artist for holding up a mirror to society. The truth hurts, but only if you don’t recognize it as the truth. This argument against TWOWS is meaningless. Although I really enjoyed Scorsese’s response to this incident: “I don’t know if [the movie] will be to everyone’s taste—I don’t think it will. It’s not made for 14-year-olds.” And that’s a whole other problem that I’m not going to go into. Suffice it to say, I’m glad a director has the balls to say that not all movies should be palatable to one particular demographic in order for it to be mainstream.

Moving on, the other argument against TWOWS is a bit harder to battle because it brings up a lot of uneasy questions, motivations and interpretations. Put simply, Scorsese has been accused of glorifying Belfort’s excessive life. This is a fair thing to say. It sure looks like fun when Belfort and his friends are doing coke on a hooker’s tits. Wouldn’t it be a blast to throw a Velcroed dwarf at a bullseye? And wouldn’t it be great if you could fuck a chick in front of all of your coworkers? Fuck MAD MEN. They only drank at work. Think of all the pills you could pop in this office. Even I will admit to being a little bit thrilled by the events of this movie. I love money as much as the next guy, mostly because I love books, and money allows me to get more of them. We all know that doing this shit is crazy, and we’re able to keep ourselves in check. But if you tell me that you watched this movie and never once felt a little excited, then I’m going to call you a liar. Add in a bunch of torture and some actual penetration, and we could have a modern day CALIGULA.

But my statement has been pretty general, so far. There is one person in particular who made this criticism, and she deserves some attention here. Her name is Christina McDowell, and she’s the daughter of Tom Prousalis, who was involved with Belfort’s crimes. Yes, Prousalis did time for it. And yes, McDowell confesses to benefiting from her father’s involvement. She said in her open letter to Scorsese and Belfort: “I drove a white Range Rover in high school, snorted half of Colombia, and got any guy I ever wanted because my father would take them flying in his King Air.” When she found out why she was able to do all of this shit, she saw the ugly truth, and it disgusted her. To see Belfort’s life “glorified” is an insult to her, and she’s pissed off that Belfort’s “business opportunities will surely multiply thanks to this film.”

She’s right about that last part. Belfort reportedly received a million dollars for the film rights. I don’t know if he has a piece of the profits, but if he does, he’s got a nice nut coming along since the film made $9.2 million on opening day alone. (I saw it at a matinee showing three days after opening day, and the theater was fucking packed. I’ll be very interested to see the numbers when this is all done.)

But we’ll get back to that in a moment. Take a look at what is “glorified” in this movie. Personally, I believe most of the shit Scorsese is getting is ridiculous. Granted, much of what he depicts is illegal, but I don’t have a moral opposition to most of the things Belfort did. Doing coke off a hooker is fine with me. Popping a ridiculous amount of pills is OK. Maybe public sex is pushing it a little, but for the most part, I think all drugs—every single fucking one of them—should be legal. Prostitution should be legal. I go with the old George Carlin quote: “Selling’s legal. Fucking’s legal. Why isn’t selling fucking legal?!” Is doing drugs and fucking hookers self-destructive? Yes. But that is every person’s choice, just so long as you’re not hurting anyone else. I’m pissed off that suicide is a felony in some states, by the way. If you want to end your life, you should be able to do so. I personally would not choose to throw my life away with heroin, for example. But my liver’s probably fucked to hell because of all the drinking I’ve done. Belfort does say one thing in the movie that I agree with: that sobriety is an incredibly boring thing. But to each their own.

My moral problem with Belfort is how he ripped off so many gullible investors. He fucked so many people out of their life savings, which should be a high crime, especially in a country as capitalist as ours. And it’s not like he put that money to good use. There’s a scene in the film where he snorts a few lines of coke with a rolled up $100 bill. When he’s done, he crumples the money up and throws it away . . . in a trash can full of crumpled $100 bills. In another scene, he starts dropping large bills, which he calls Fun Coupons, off of his boat at a couple of FBI agents walking away.

His disdain and disregard for the people he suckered is overwhelming. It is very clear that he doesn’t care about anyone else but himself. He even rats out his friends in order to get a lighter prison sentence.

People can argue against the sex and drugs all they want, but I believe that every person who complained about this movie was hurt by the con man aspect, rather than the hedonist. Belfort doesn’t even care about his audience. In a couple of instances, when he was explaining what exactly he did to make all of his millions, he stops in the middle of it and says that we wouldn’t understand what he was saying. He insults an FBI agent, maybe the only honest character in the film, to his face. There is a scene late in the movie where one of Belfort’s partners receives a subpoena and he responds by pissing on it and shouting FUCK AMERICA!

So it’s pretty easy to see why a lot of people are recoiling from this movie. However, in the heat of the moment, it’s easy to forget that just because a director is depicting something doesn’t mean he condones it. For example, do you think Scorsese was saying that all those mob guys in GOODFELLAS were heroes?

This leads us to why the fuck Scorsese would make this movie. What point is he trying to get across? It can’t be to glorify Belfort’s life. Do you seriously believe Belfort was a happy guy? Sure, when he was doped to the gills, he was having a good time. But keep in mind, this is a guy who beat his wife and tried kidnap his scared-shitless daughter. When he crashed his car instead of getting away, as he’s watching his terrified family fleeing from him while he’s blinking blood out of his eyes, do you think he’s having a good time? Or how about when he took too many vintage Quaaludes and wound up a quivering pile of protoplasm at the country club? When he crawled and rolled to his car, do you think he was having a good time? Do you think he had a good time when he crashed his car SEVERAL TIMES on the way home? (It should be mentioned that in the movie, he didn’t hurt anyone on this drive. It’s the same in the book. However, in real life, Belfort did hit someone on his way home, and she wound up in the hospital.)

No, that’s not very glorious. At least this guy went to prison in the end, right?

Well.

About that.

In a just world, he would have gone to prison for 20 years. (I think it should be more, but that’s what the legal system says.) Instead, he got a reduced sentence for turning on all of his friends. He was sentenced to four years, of which he only did less than two.

Well, at least he did time, right? Prison is a terrible place, full of violence and rape. A pretty boy like Belfort—and unlike with most Hollywood stories, Belfort actually is attractive in real life—couldn’t last long in an environment like that. Um. [clears throat] You know why they call it Club Fed, right? He spent those two years living the life, playing tennis with other white collar criminals. His time in prison was an absolute breeze.

Gaze into the eyes of a motherfucker.

He was also sentenced to paying back $110.4 million to those he swindled. He actually swindled them for $200 million, but hey, $110.4 million is nothing to sneeze at, especially since he’s been banned from trading by the SEC. It’s something, right? Except (and this is not in the movie) he’s only paid $11.6 million back. He was supposed to pay it back when he got out of prison, and he’s been out since 2006.

We know he’s got money coming in. In addition to the money from the movie rights, he also got a hefty chunk of change for the book it’s based on and its sequel, CATCHING THE WOLF OF WALL STREET. Not only that, but somehow—SOMEHOW!—he’s making a living as a motivational speaker. This guy essentially got away with everything, and he’s telling the world to go fuck itself.

You don’t get more hate-able than that, not without rape and/or murder being involved.

Why would Scorsese make a movie about someone like that? Generally, a protagonist should be reasonably likeable. An audience has to connect with that person in order to get them to sit through three hours of film. Could his motivation really be to glorify this man who proudly calls himself the Wolf of Wall Street?

Here’s where the interpretation comes in. Your mileage may vary, but it is my humble opinion that Scorsese WANTS YOU ALL TO BE ANGRY. Any reasonable human being would be furious with a guy like Belfort getting away with everything. Scorsese isn’t glorifying anything. He’s showing you how our system has failed, and Belfort is just one example. Think of all the scumbag Wall Street czars and how easily they get out of everything. Sure, their names are cursed, but there are no real repercussions for these people.

We need to change this. We need to put the fucking leeches on these scumbags. Give them real prison sentences, and make them do their time in general population.

But that will never change, will it? Rich motherfuckers will always buy their way out of anything, because everyone wants a payday. Not even I am immune. No one’s ever tried to bribe me, and I’d like to think I’d say no to one, but one never really knows what one will do when in the company of fabulous wealth.

Yes, this movie has financially benefited Jordan Belfort. Just like all of his other ventures, of course. Even though he’s listed as worth -$100 million, he’s clearly enjoying the high life from his books and his speaking engagements. But what THE WOLF OF WALL STREET really is, is a big ol’ loogie in Belfort’s face. Too bad he’s the kind of guy who would lick that loogie up, swallow it and laugh in our faces.

Will this film change anything? No. For those of you who haven’t been paying attention, Obama isn’t the president. The Bushes were never presidents. Neither were Clinton, Reagan, Carter, Ford, Nixon and so on. No, since we won our independence (and even before, to be frank; anyone remember the West India Co.?), we’ve been ordered around by President Money, and that should piss everyone off.

But it doesn’t, and it never will.

[I wanted to talk about one more thing, the unsung hero of this film: Kyle Chandler, who plays Agent Patrick Denham, the guy who eventually arrests Belfort. Chandler plays Denham as an honest man without having him be a nice guy. That takes a lot of balls. This is best illustrated in what I think is one of the greatest scenes in cinematic history. When Belfort and Denham meet on Belfort’s yacht, and they have what seems, on the surface, to be an amiable conversation. DiCaprio and Chandler are so fucking good in this scene. What these two characters are really doing is pissing all over each other. Eventually, things go sour, and the scene ends with a lot of anger and thrown lobsters. But in that sweet spot before Belfort tries to bribe Denham . . . amazing.

And at the very end of the movie, when Denham is on his daily commute home, riding the scummy subway . . . wow. I can’t tell you how much I loved this movie. It’s a shame that people are trying to shit-talk Scorsese. They should really be talking award nominations.]

[One final note: I think I deserve some credit for going this whole article without making a hacky wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing joke. I did a lot of research to write this thing, and just about everyone else pulled that shit. Also, I’m one of the few people who didn’t nitpick the Wall Street thing. So Belfort didn’t operate from Wall Street. So fucking what? You know what the title means. Silly motherfuckers. You’re welcome.]