The job you know

Turned down for another job again, didn't even get to the interview stage.


I ponder this while at the dreaded shoe store.

My hand absently falls to the front of my pants, discovering there the wide gap of an unzipped zipper.


It's because I'm not a professional person, isn't it?


These pants are held closed by a tiny safety pin, having lost their button long ago.


Before I had a belt, I wore a cord around my waist, tied in the front.

What's wrong with me?
Why did I think that was cool?



I'm watching Jeffrey problem solve: 

He keeps turning to look at me.

There is panic in his face.


"Go around," I tell him.


"I know dat," he answers, but he doesn't move.


The rows of tall lady boots topple over like Domino's under Martin's heavy hands.


It always bothered me that in the manual for Super Mario Bros., they use the term "Domino effect" to describe what happens when Mario kicks a Koopa shell into other enemies, and then, in parentheses, say "Ask your parents."


Why?
What is so secret, so taboo, about the Domino effect that it is safeguarded knowledge left to parents to impart?


Why can't I find a job?


Each year that passes, I get older and fatter; the chance of getting hired gets slimmer.


He's a risk to our health insurance.
He doesn't fit into our standard issue office chairs.
His fly was open through the whole interview.
Lets start with a pros and cons list: Was there anything about him that didn't shout "moron"?