Troll’s Hole

I have learned that some young people today think that they deserve a good paying job and respect no matter how lazy they are.

I must be getting old. I remember when you had to pay your dues to get ahead in life and you did not expect to have a secure future handed to you like a grabbing Big Gag Calorie Free Fast Meal at a fast food drive up window.

When in the hell did I fall out of the short buss? Did being a working person in America change in that much the last ten years? Did I miss the memo telling us that we all get a free pension, job security, good pay, and a comfortable life because we just happen to think we deserve it?

I had a man quit on me today because I did not respect him. (His wording, not mine.)

In my opinion there is not a lot to respect. He is whiny and complains about having to actually work for a living. He seems to have problems with showing up for forty hours a week. He thinks he can dictate what work he gets to do and when he should do it. He thinks it is acceptable for him to throw his trash on the floor and leave it because someone else should pick it up. He seems to think he is above working with people like us and deserves some nice, climate controlled office job.

He is correct on one thing; I do not respect him. He has failed to earn my respect in a simply glorious fashion.

In this declining economy I am surprised that people still act this way. When people with Masters Degrees are trying to get jobs picking up animal poop in a shelter one would think that having a good paying job would make a person more interested in actually keeping that job. *

I guess I am wrong.

I am constantly amazed at just how clueless some people are. They still think that the government is spying on us from space and that all you have to do get a good job is to tell someone that you deserve that job.

In the alternate space-time that gives birth to these asshats, no one takes applications for jobs because some person is meant for that job and fills it. All positions are filled all the time and all jobs are high paying and comfortable with bosses that like and respect everyone and there are no harsh words ever. Everyone gets the perfect job for them and everyone loves what they do from auto technician to zebra wrangler.

I like my space-time better. In my space-time you earn the respect of your peers and you work to improve yourself and your skills. In my space-time you prove to others that you are skilled and capable and leave the drama at home. In my space-time you earn what you get, not have it handed to you.

But that’s just me.

*(I was told about the Masters Degree people by someone that hires the people that pick up poop in an animal shelter. I did not make this one up.)

I am back in Sanctuary, hoping to wash some of the psychic stink of Santa Fe out of my mind.

The odds of success are not really good. There is something about that place that kind of sinks into your skin like the stench of rotting flesh. It just does not seem to come off after repeated scrubbings and a pass through the car wash. I can cover it up with perfume and scented soap, but that does not make it go away.

I am sure that the people that actually live there kinda like it, but there is no accounting for taste. I find a certain poetic justice in learning that the building we are building is on a graveyard of some kind. The native people in the area are not permitting any more digging, making landscaping an interesting proposal.

Santa Fe does seem to be more about the dead than youth. It is a place that is more interested in history than what its young people are doing at night. It is a city of artists, but their art is static and meant to be looked at while it just sits or hangs there. It always seemed to me that the best art is trying to raise responsible children. That art is always challenging the observer and changing every day.

Then they become ungrateful bastards and the real fun begins.