Tag: Humor

I was re-watching the famous sitcom Friends the other day, the episode wherein Phoebe attempts to teach Joey French to beef up his resume. 

Not only did he not speak French at all, he did not have any sense of what the French language sounded like. 

Je m’appelle to him was the same as blu-dee-blaa. 

Given how pathetic he was at it, it was not surprising that the casting agent saw right through the deficiency leading to Joey failing the audition.

Funny as the episode was, I had an eerie, unsettling feeling after watching it, which was immediately replaced by curiosity.

How many resumes out there would be padded like Joey’s? What proportion?

Some fascinating survey results came up as part of my internet search. Reference check companies found that almost 78% of the candidates applying for jobs had either lied in their application process or wouldn’t mind lying on their resume to land a job.

There was quite a spectrum to the lies, too – misrepresenting education, GPA, test scores, level of expertise in a language or a technology, and omitting a particular employer, to name a few.

It’s not easy for my little brain to process abstract concepts, so I made it personal. I assumed the role of such a candidate. I state I know french, but in reality, I am a level zero. 

For convenience, let’s assume the same proficiency level as Joey. Let’s assume, seeing my French experience; I get shortlisted for an interview/audition – which is in two days. 

It doesn’t take Einstein to figure out that it’s near impossible for me at this stage even to pretend that the situation can be salvaged – unless salvation means coming clean at the interview that I don’t actually have that skill.

Interviewer: Hi, I am a bla bla bla bla bla….

Me (wholly distracted, thinking): Oh my god! She is gonna ask me about my French language proficiency.

Interviewer: Tell me about yourself.

Me (thinking, I should come clean! Come clean you idiot, now now now): Hi, I am me. I am sorry, I don’t know any French. Sorry, I missed the question; what was your question again?

That is worse than a dream of being naked in front of a fully packed Wembley stadium. 

R.E.S.P.E.C.T for Joey! He had the balls to spit lies and then follow through with them. Although, his ignorance might have beefed up his courage there. Who knows!? 

In all that random searching and reading, I came across this quote by Stanley J Randall – a Canadian businessman turned politician:

“The closest to perfection a person ever comes is when he fills out a job application form.​”

Even the employer ought to know that noone is perfect.

There are some days that days and nights merge into one. Although most such days fall on the weekends, some fall on weekdays, the incredibly tiring ones. Ones where the phones would not stop ringing, the client wouldn’t stop complaining, your friends would all bail on you, all your assignments would be due, and the coffee machine has called it quits. You get the gist, right?

Although there is quite a bit wrong with days like that, they have a major silver lining. Sleep, with its arms, stretched out, waits to engulf you in its warm embrace.

You are floating in the dream world, weightless, before your head hits the pillow.

In the dream, your conscience is as clear as it can get. By a significant stroke of luck, you have run into billions- can afford a lavish lifestyle – holiday homes in all your dream destinations, all the shopping you had ever wanted to do. You eat at the best restaurants and have a date with some celebrity every evening. To top it all off, you are getting everything right on Jeopardy. The night just couldn’t get any better.

All your subconscious mind is playing for you is good dreams, a cluster of bliss as if to make up for the horrible day you had. Awww!

You are excited about the next episode of this incredibly awesome life you are living. This one, you hope, is bringing you the Prince Charming, your Knight in shining armor. What better way to sign off, than ride into the sunset with the love of your life for a Happily ever after?

It’s precisely the moment when some @#$%@# roommate draws the curtain in your shared room in the college dorm. 

And then there was light.

I love John Pinette and his brand of comedy- nice, simple, and elegant. It doesn’t hurt that so much of it revolves around food, which I am naturally drawn to, like a moth to a flame.

One comedy sketch of his is just the best – Get out of the line! Highly recommend watching it if you haven’t.

In bashing (in a very endearing style) the slow waiters, baristas, and budget customers, he mentions jumping behind the counters to work the fries just so the queues would move faster. 

“I have been the employee of the month twice, and I don’t even work there,” John Pinette says in his classic, playful manner while the audience guffaws. 

Now, I have been in one of those slow queues, way more than I would like, and every time I take a chance on the neighboring line that seemed to move faster up until the second I jumped to it, it freezes. 

Murphy’s law isn’t a theory, folks. It’s about as real as it gets. For people who don’t know what the Murphy Law is, here it goes:

“Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.”

Try any grocery store. Any store in a decent-sized town. 

Mr. Murphy was born to impress.

The image of a customer jumping on to stand behind the counter to serve is too funny AND complex for my little brain to process. A person such as that must really have a fire lit under their behind to be switching their role over from customer to employee. 

Not to mention a streak of control freakishness, some degree of samaritanship, and maybe a little altruism.

A minute ago, they had the easier job – hearing everyone list down everything wrong with the world – society, aging, control freak families, the age of robots, and long queues. A solid camaraderie that will last them a total of 10 minutes and 30 seconds, equalling the time of the wait till their turn. 10.5 minutes of free therapy right there. 

You get your groceries, and the relief from the mini go at the catharsis. Unlike the waiter at the nearby restaurant, they can’t pee in your soup. 

No blowback whatsoever.

And then assuming that there is a world where it’s a real option to jump behind the counter and work the fries, I wonder how many of those complaining activists from back in the queue would have it in them to do that? 

Even if they had the option, would they like to? 

Arleen Lorrance once said – 

“Be the change you want to see happen.”

I have major flaws, including but not limited to switching queues over and over despite uncountable demonstrations of the truth of Murphy’s law. 

But I don’t think you will ever see me complain, nor would you ever see me jump behind the counter and work the fries. I can’t seem to pick a side. 

So naturally, I turn to Henry Powell Spring’s sagacious advice:

The hottest places in hell are reserved for those, who, in a period of moral crisis, maintain their neutrality.

Now that the oil is hot might as well work the fries.

Now and then, I visit a friend or a family member who chooses NOT TO have a knocker on their door, a bell I could ring, or even a security system that showed them my face on their home camera. 

Nope, they won’t have any of it. 

They like and respect the good old knock. I knock at the door and pray they don’t have adolescent kids playing loud heavy metal music at full volume, tailored to drown those knocks out. 

Sometimes, luck is in my favor, and I do get in. Other times, I stand outside their door and call them on their mobile, announcing my royal arrival in a befitting non-royal tone.

My imagination has also taken me to a world where doors exist, but knocks don’t. So you… enter. 

“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” comes to mind. 

Well, I don’t want that done unto me. Ancient Athenians must have valued their privacy too, I suppose, for otherwise, they wouldn’t have come up with such an ingenious way to transform the world of respectful arrival announcements.

I assure you, I am not trying to be fussy here. I have tried. Tried and failed (might I add, miserably) – at the subtle art of whistling, snapping fingers, and knocking. 

What I haven’t done as bad at was identifying the root cause; almost all of them have to do with expert use of fingers, or some part of it, to some degree. 

So it must be my fingers. 

A kid in kindergarten would probably do a snap-finger routine much better than I do. 

Whistling has always evaded me AND haunted me. For some reason, I am surrounded by expert whistlers, taunting me every opportunity they get. 

Knocking should come more naturally than those two, you say? Well, not to me. And I have microfractures to show them.

I have tried many styles of knocking: palm facing the door, palm facing me, fingers bent, fingers straight, but none of them generate enough sound to get the attention even of the person standing next to me, let alone the person who’s in.

It’s as if my fingers are layered with some additional silencer skin. 

But there is one good thing about me; I am lazy. So, naturally, I am good at finding shortcuts. 

I now have a variety of ways to do the knocking – and the means I use depend on my mood at the time, on a scale of complete frustration to fulsome zen. 

The means to get the resident’s attention would range from a scream outside the door, “Hey, it’s me, open up, where the hell are you!?” to “ using the key ring to rhythmically tap on the door to a song I like, followed by a complement of some heavy bass fist bangs. I have noticed that the latter approach, i.e., the fulsome zen works better for me.

I am yet to find someone who suffers the same way I do. Misery loves company. It’s unbearable to think I am the only one with this condition. I wish to find at least one person like me one day. 

It’s going to be a thing of history when that happens. 

Guess what the first thing I would do when I find out where their humble abode is?

Knock knock.

 “When the waitress asked if I wanted my pizza cut into four or eight slices, I said, ‘Four. I don’t think I can eat eight.” – Yogi Berra

Pizza, they rightly say, is a slice of heaven. And I have been known to indulge when it comes to that. And I think I have figured out why that is.

Pizza is everywhere. Everywhere I go and think of going, pizza is waiting for an opportunity to pounce on me. If I did not know any better, I would say it is stalking me. But I think I know better.

Like everyone else, the gift of staying confined for the pandemic came bearing ‘gifts’ – of online orders and expedited food delivery.

And also twenty pounds of unwanted weight.

All that pizza weight is starting to show everywhere. The pile of clothes that no longer fit is a shameful reminder that ‘I let myself go’.

A quick scan of bank statements revealed that a shopping spree for replacing clothes is not on the cards. I would have to go for the second best, albeit the dreaded option.

A gym.

I enrolled for a gym membership, hoping to God I become a regular there.

Why prayers?

Because I know I will probably make it there for two days, once in the excitement of the first day and the second to renew the membership.

Although the company of health nuts is invigorating initially, it goes downhill pretty quickly. This is considering how soon I usually realize my ignorance in sustaining the conversation and, after some point, even understanding it.

While the former makes me look disinterested, the latter makes me look completely dumb. Neither of these is ideal, considering the end game.

I summoned all my willpower and directed it to become a regular gym attendant. I can do it, I tell myself. I am so pumped that I even play Eye of the Tiger on my earphones while walking to the gym. 

I use all the excellent self-improvement tips that I have learned over the years and create a plan with four major guiding principles : 

1) Start small.

2) Take it one step at a time.

3) Avoid distractions.

4) Reward yourself.

It worked out well for the first week. I managed to spend at least 30 minutes in the gym every day for the week. I avoided guilt and consciousness by choosing a time when barely anyone would be there.

Frankly, it irks me to see people who can keep running on the treadmill for hours without breaking a sweat. I don’t want Jason Bournes or James Bonds training in my gym. They are bad for my self-esteem. I hate them, mostly because I manage to be breathless on the treadmill in less than three minutes.

With this non-existent level of fitness that I began with, I am in awe of myself, completing the first week. I found that especially impressive, given that the shortest route to the gym has a pizza shop.

Okay, I made good on the first three guiding principles; now it’s time for the reward.

It’s day 8, a cheat day, and I can eat whatever I want today.

Any guess on what my cheat meal is going to be?