Michael Kimber is the author behind the blog, Colony-of-Losers.com where he discusses issues from job hunting to quarter life crisis, to mental illness. Check out his site here and our interview with Michael here.

“These knives are so sharp that they can cut through the back of a hammer,” I say, noting the up and down head movements of my audience agreeing with each word I say.  “These knives are state of the state and will not break.  And if they are damaged you can return them no questions asked.”

There is an awkward silence.

Some Job interviews are like dates with girls you don’t want to take home. Others are dream dates with women you suspect will not like you.

Guess what type this is.

“This is the knife for you.” I wonder if I should pretend to be holding the knife and chopping hammers as I talk.  “We make the cut.”

“Thanks, Michael,” says a lanky giant of a man with brown hair that vaguely reminds me of some combination of Sideshow Bob and a poodle.

The other audience member is a 20 something woman who looks like she is going to cry.  “Really great. Really great, Michael.”

Her tone says that I haven’t made her cry. Probably just a cold.

“So you understand what the job is?” asks “Bob”.

The answer to that question is not really.

I’ve shown up for a job interview that I found out about on Craiglists and it turned out to be an audition. I’m applying to do in store infomercials for a company that sells knives and mops. I don’t really know what that means but I’ve watched enough Sham Wow and Snuggie commercials to feel that I might be the right over animated Jew for the job.

“So what makes you think you can do this?”

“I worked for Amnesty International for a whole summer bothering people on the street,” I say. I would look deeply into a woman’s eyes while discussing women’s rights that usually meant discussing rape. Flirting while talking about rape for charity still strikes me as one of the most brilliantly obscene actions I have ever participated in. “I can bother people ever so politely.”

Laughter.

“We don’t bother people,” he says. “It isn’t sales. Just infomercials. So what do you do for fun?” he asks.

“I do comedy, spoken word and…” Now is not the time to advocate against stigma around the mentally ill…stay on task.  “I also write a blog.”

“What is it about?”

Don’t say mental illness.

“It’s about that time between finishing university and becoming an adult with responsibilities,” I say, automatically gliding into my PR spiel.

“Are you talking about most of my 20’s?”  he laughs.

“Me too,” says Crying Girl.

“Yes. You two specifically.”

“Well you convinced me.”

“It’s about the friends who help you get up when you fall on your face to figure yourself out on your way to your future,” I say. And yes that is also PR. Notice the amount of F’s in that sentence.  Now foot goes into to mouth.  “The jobs you take, the false starts…” Fuck.

“So you’ll write about this?” he asks.

“Never. I only write about terrible jobs where they don’t hire me.”

They laugh.

“Why do you want this job?”

“Have you looked at the jobs on Craig’s List? Everything is a scam,” I say. Notice quick glances between my potential bosses. Suspicious, very suspicious. Stop glaring at them. Continue talking. “I went to this one interview and I didn’t know what job it would be for a whole hour?  Turns out I was working for Enron executives scamming senior citizens on their gas bills. One job said they wanted to hire me and I just had to take an IQ test.  Turns out it was a scam so that some company could send messages to my cell phone and charge me for it.  I thought I would be perfect for that job.”

Things are going well. They are laughing and bobbing their heads.

Here is where I begin deep throating my foot.

“I saw an advertisement for being a dominant to a submissive,” I begin and notice their grins changing into question marks. “All you have to do is spit on people and shout abuse. Maybe hit em a couple times.  Might just suit me after the bitterness caused by this long job hunt.”

Laughter. And yes, I actually said this.

“This job is better then that,” says Side Show Bob.

“I believe you.”

He laughs.

“We’ll let you know about call backs tomorrow.”

“Sounds great.”

I walk out of the room and begin to beat myself up for my complete lack of common sense. Who the fuck talks about BDSM during a job interview?

So you are probably thinking that I didn’t get a call back?

Which makes you absolutely and totally wrong.

I know what you are thinking and I agree.

I am awesome.

*******************************************************************

Walking through Toronto’s Eaton Center with a New York Fries poutine churning in his belly is a champion. A knife-selling king of the world champion. He’s blond, he’s Jewish and he’s got on a winter jacket over his suit jacket. Why?

Because he’s ready for business.

Only….

No one has any idea of the proper amount of space to give to other shoppers and people keep bumping into me.  Sometimes it’s just the bags they are swinging that hit me.  I tell myself not to swear at them.

It’s not their fault that I don’t have much money to spend this Christmas or that my landlord has decided to send me a bill for excess Internet usage directly before my job interview.

Unfortunately a traffic snarl has left me unable to move an inch.  Christmas is blocking my path. It takes the shape of a gigantic tree covered in pretty lights and silver tinsel. Children and adults get their picture taken next to it, many assuming bizarre positions that make it appear like they are attempting to ride the tree like a horse.

I don’t know why but the average Canadian citizen loses a hundred IQ points as soon as a camera is pointed at them.  A little girl is doing duckface.  A little boy is pretending to be Tupac Shakur with both fingers raised in a gangsta thug peace sign.  Parents are smiling like fishhooks have been inserted into their mouths.

Most of all why does shopping need to be commemorated? Are you going to look back with your kids one day and say remember that amazing sale at Winner’s?

There are close to a hundred thousand people buzzing past me and everyone is in a hurry. Adorable children have taken on the faces of hungry blood sucking insects as they drag their parents to different stores, hoping to have some sort of influence on what the fat white man brings them for Christmas.

The high shrieking tones of glee add a pressure to the space around my temples and the blaring Holiday Musak makes me feel like I’m in a hell located in a Hallmark commercial.

They should take people through this mall who are looking for the courage to get a vasectomy.

I walk through the four stories of the department store on my way to my interview.

It’s not difficult determining exactly where my future employers have set up their display inside the rather large department store. Near 50 people have gathered around a chef holding a very large knife, next to a video screen reflecting back pictures of the product. I notice that all the people have what appear to be kazoos on the end of their fingers.

What da fuck?

The chef begins to cut into the back of a hammer.

“You can’t break these things,” says a woman form the crowd. “I have had mine for almost ten years.”

“She’ll be getting commission,” says the chef, as he determinedly digs his knife into the head of the hammer. “Look: no scratches.”

Oohs and awws follow. No, the audience isn’t being paid. They really are this stupid.

“You are probably wondering about all that free stuff?”

“That’s what I’m curious about,” says a homely old man. And laughs and cheers greet his comment.

They are Christmas exhausted and the word free has them foaming at the mouth.

“These knife sets are 30 dollars and we don’t apologize for that. These are top of the line knife kits. Used in gourmet restaurants across the world,” says the Chef.

Perfect for when they need to cut a hammer in half during kitchen rushes. “It’s 30 dollars, no discounts, nothing. We take pride in the quality of our work and expect you will. If it ever breaks you can bring it in for replacement, at any time, no matter how long it has been. No questions asked. But free stuff. You like free stuff?”

“Yes! Yes! Give it to me! “

Fingers with kazoos attached are waved, the crowd moves closer and I’m cramped on the verge of being trampled by eager deal seekers.

“If you buy today, and only today with this top of the line set of gourmet kitchen knives you get… four free steak knives. Also state of the art. Just because you’ve been so great today.”

Bated breath.

“So who wants to take advantage of this limited time offer?” asks the Chef.

“Me! Me! Me!” They reach out to grab knives with their kazoo fingers.  He passes them out like

“Does anyone need a second one for loved one? Once I’m out, there will be no more. Don’t feel pressured. It doesn’t make a difference to me.  Do whatever you want. I won’t be offended. I’m proud of this product.”

“Me! Me! Me!”

Soon there are no knife sets left. Everyone has bought one and some have even bought two.

I turn and I see Sideshow Bob smiling at me, like a pimp staring at a young Jodie Foster before she turned her first trick.

“You want to come over and get started?”

“Sounds great.”

************************************************************************

“Hello Michael.  First of all this isn’t a pyramid scheme,” he begins.

I want to place my finger on his lips and stop him.

You had me at hello.

Instead I try to decide the proper way to react to that particular comment and decide no reaction is probably the best response.

“We’ll never ask you to invest any money with us,” he says.

Pause.

“We go to department stores all across America and we do infomercials, like the one you just saw.”

Don’t ask about the kazoos.

“That was amazing,” I say. Seriously though…how’d you get them all to wear kazoos on their fingers? “It worked so well.”

“He is very good at what he does,” he says. “Do you think you could do that?”

“Maybe.”

“I appreciate an honest answer,” he says with an engaging smile. At this point I notice his hands are huge. This may explain his extreme confidence. Don’t look at his hands.  “It can seem a little intimidating at first. My first week doing this I didn’t make any sales. You know why?”

“No,” I say and look deeply into his eyes, trying to learn the secrets from the master. Don’t sound sarcastic. “Why?”

“Because I was selling.  Not just talking to them. By the end of the year I was averaging two hundred dollars a day. Because I was talking to them. Is that something you’d like to do?”

Yes! Yes! Yes! Give me two!

“Sure. I’d love that.”

“It’s really up to you how much you make.  We have some people who make as much as 3000 a week. Could you use that sort of money?”

“I sure could.”

I feel a nervous excitement rising.  I love money, as does anyone who can feel their bank account running out and life’s free ride coming to an end. People who say that money doesn’t mean anything to them have it. Plain and simple.

“How does it all work?”

“Well the first two weeks you make 350 dollars for 30 hours of training. Sound good?” he asks.

“Sounds great.”

It doesn’t but this is the beginning of the spiel and I want to get to the end.

“I thought you might like that. Then it’s entirely on commission. What do you think of that?”  Makes question marks with gigantic hands.

“Ahhh….”

“I make my money if you make your money.  It matters to me that you do well.  We’ll make sure you know how to do this.”

“I’ll certainly try.”

“That’s all we can ask. You like warm weather?  Bermuda? Would you like to take a spin over there?”

“Yes. I really would like that.”

“Travelling is part of the gig. You like travelling?”

“Yes.”

The scam artist collects yeses. The more you give the more likely you are to give a yes at the pivotal point.

“Good because that’s part of the gig,” he says with a big grin.  His moustache looks more prominent then it did before. Porno moustache. “We’ll be sending you all around the country. Maybe even to the states. And if you do real well and average a thousand dollars over 235 shifts in a year, we’ll send you to Bermuda for free and give you a thousand dollars spending money. Would that be something you might enjoy?”

“Yes.”

“You have to work five shifts a week and if you don’t show up for work without calling in we can fine you $500 dollars. So you are going to call if you can’t come to work?  You do want to go to Bermuda, don’t you?”

Bermuda sounds nice but what is this about traveling across country? I’ve already stated I like travel. I’m trapped.

“Tell me more about the travelling.”

“We send you to different sites across the country,” he explains, keeping perfect eye contact. “Every store gets hit once every four months. Sometimes for ten days dependant on how often we hit them. One day you’ll be in Hamilton. The next Manitoba.”

“I don’t have a car.”

“You can get anywhere by transit.”

“Do you pay for transportation?”

“Does MacDonald pay you to get to work?”

“So no, then?”

“It’s part of the job. You have to get to the office. Your office just changes spots sometimes. Sometimes it changes cities. We give you two percent extra commission to cover costs.”

“What about hotels?”

“The two percent extra commission takes care of that.”

So I’m paying to go to other cities to sell your products and you will give me a small amount more commission to pay for hotels to stay in other cities to sell your shit?   So if I don’t sell any I lose money?

“Some people aren’t cut out for this,” he says. “Are you?”

Real men would do this. Take the job…pussy.

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me why you think you’d be good at this job.”

Long silence.

“Why should we give you this job?”

This is reverse psychology and I know it.  His implying that I won’t be good at the job is supposed to make me want it all the more.  A part of me wishes I could run with this. I wanted to tell my dad I had a job when I came home for Christmas.

However there is a more important issue at stake then employment.

“I’m great at public speaking. I’m funny. I’m good at selling. I listen well.  Ummmmmm…”  This isn’t working. He can see that I think he’s full of shit and that there is no way in hell I actually want this job. Long pause. “So what the hell is the deal with the kazoos?

“Kazoos?”

“The things on their fingers. When they are gathered around to buy stuff.”

“You give them out at the beginning of the presentation,” he says. “It’s to show that they are getting a free gift. It’s to keep them there during the presentation. To get the free gift.”

Bermuda is my kazoo.

Fuck.

I need to find a real job.

He puts out his gigantic hand for me to shake.

“Merry Christmas,” he says. “We’ll give you a call if you get the job.”

“I’ll be waiting,” I say.

We smile at each other as he crushes my hand.

I’m not going to get my free gift.

As I try to make my way out of the mall I hear some children caroling in high dulcet tones.

Everywhere I turn I see: Happy Holidays. Santa has kids sitting on his lap. The elves are in my way. Now a gigantic family, every member holding a bag full of Christmas are in my way and refuse to move.

For a moment I stop, feeling the desire to let loose a burst of vile curse words to wake these people the hell up.

Don’t you see……Don’t you see……..

You are all wearing kazoos on your fingers and you think it is some promise ring to your family. Impoverishing yourself, all for the purpose of showing people on TV that you love your family.  More people die during the Holidays then any other time of the year.  Because we don’t fit in photos and we don’t have enough money to be good people.  I feel like the protagonist in Soylent Green.  Don’t you understand? Santa is eating people and all your happy go lucky shit is too much pressure to live up to.  Why is it okay to use Jesus to sell shit people can’t afford?  Wasn’t he all about poverty and compassion?

Haven’t you watched the Charlie Brown Christmas special?   Don’t you see?

“Would you like to donate some money so that a child can have a good Christmas?”

Thoroughly enraged I continue walking and ignore this good cause like I ignore the homeless.

Tomorrow I go home.

Welcome to my journey into the heart of the Holidays.

And we’ve only just begun and we won’t end until New Years.

When we finally confront the kazoo.

By Michael Kimber