Hey, Skippy.
Sir.
Dude.
We need to talk about something.
In the Lounge on Skins’s island, your fellow primitive, the truck-driving Tobin S. primitive, writes about being “type-casting;†where one’s in a job where they do so outstandingly well, they find themselves imprisoned permanently into that job, “too valuable†to promote or move on.
How this pertains to you, Skips, I’ll get to at the end of it.
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When young and ambitious, I was hired by the state department of health, as an accountant. You know, one of these people good with numbers, and a professional-level job, for which the hard-pressed taxpayers of Nebraska paid me a good salary.
I had an older brother, like you Skips, a big Democrat and liberal, high in the state governmental bureaucracy, who thought I had it “made,†especially for a deaf person. He figured all franksolich had to do was sit down and behave, conform, and I’d be set for life.
Much to his shock and dismay, Skips, after three and a half years on that job, I gave my one month’s notice and left, once again plunging into the uncertain and unsecure real world.
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I will admit, Skips, it was my own fault, because I’m a nice guy.
I was hired as an accountant, with an accountant-sized salary.
One day, somebody big needed an emergency—and important—typing job done. As I wasn’t doing anything in particular, I spoke up, saying, “Oh, I can type…..and at 111 words a minute, at times.â€
So I did him the favor, and churned out the job.
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Don’t worry, Skips; I’ll get to how this pertains to you, at the end.
Buzz got around in the agency that franksolich was remarkably skilled at typing—and my God, so fast and accurate, too—and so I found myself constantly beset by bigwigs who needed this “urgent†thing or that “urgent†thing, typed, and fast and aesthetically.
I, who’d been hired as an accountant, with an accountant-sized paycheck, soon found myself doing nothing but typing, typing, typing, typing, typing, typing, typing.
It burns out the brain, all this repetitive work, Skips.
And so I quit.
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As an aside to all this—but very important, Skips—was that while I was chained to a desk-and-typewriter, other employees of the agency, peers of mine in age, background, and education—but hearing people—were chained to no desks, instead free to roam, free to come and go as they pleased.
Including taxpayer-paid excursions to “meetings†and “conferences†in resorts such as Las Vegas, Montreal, Chicago, San Francisco, Phoenix, Hawaii (it makes one wonder; aren’t there conferences held in Fargo or Little Rock or Newark or Wheeling?).
These peers of mine, in age, education, and background, were having the times of their lives, and on the taxpayers’ dimes too.
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Okay, the point’s coming up shortly, Skips.
I was never sure what it was, Skips, but I suspect the people who’d hired me—a Democrat state agency under a Democrat director under a Democrat governor—thought they were doing franksolich some sort of magnanimous favor; “he’s deaf, and we’re at least giving him a job, for which he needs to be grateful.
“But to give him
more responsibility,
more decision-making opportunities?.....ah no, he’s
deaf, so’s pretty stupid; we don’t dare risk giving him anything more than this.â€
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You’re cavorting in Hawaii this week, Skips, and probably strip-tease-hopping, looking at women as only objects for a man’s ego gratification…..having flown over first-class, staying in a fancy hotel, dining in five-star restaurants, having all this fun on the taxpayers’ dime.
Do you ever stop to think, Skips, about all those menials and drudges, those faceless people, who’re actually doing all the work back at the office, while you’re out sporting and playing?
I’ll bet you don’t even send them a ****ing postcard, Skips.
