Pink Slipped: A Love Story
Description
A love story. It sounds great. It’s right there in the title. What’s not to like? All warm and snuggly. It’ll be like sunshine and baby bunnies, or like being swept away in a tsunami of hugs and kisses. The same thing as rubbing the belly of a big fat Koala bear. Maybe. Seems reasonable. There is that reference to death, which is somewhat of a concern. But I don’t think I’d get too worked up about that. It was probably thrown in for dramatic effect, serving only as a counter-weight. Idiot writers pull crap like that all the time.
Twelve. That’s how many humans that have so far walked on the moon. Just so happens they were all American men of European descent. Forty-four. That’s how many people that have been President of the United States. All but one of those an American man of European ancestry. Coincidentally, this happens to be the demographic group into which I fall. Leaders of the free world, space travelers, I’m probably fortunate to be loosely aligned with this group. Of course American men of European ancestry have a bit of a checkered past. A fair amount of exploitation, land grabbing, raping and other assorted bad behavior can be found in the historical record. But for the sake of expediency and convenience, I’ll just say that I had nothing to do with any of that. It was all done by others, with whom I claim no kinship. In the enlightened here and now, you’d think being a member of this group might lead to economic good fortune.
A nice theory, which has completely unraveled. Instead, I find myself part of a much larger group comprised of all ethnicities and both genders. All three if you include the trans-gendered. My temporary demographic advantage now a distant memory. Just as well. I’m not a big fan of demographics anyway.
The coalition I am now a part of is made up of those who held jobs in this country, and watched on as they were sent to another country.
Twelve moon-walkers. Around twelve-million jobs have moon-walked out of the U.S. They just “Beat Itâ€. Mine was one.
When you lose a valued job that you have been at for nearly two decades, you have quite a few thoughts on the topic. Most of them are contained here.
My guess is that most companies, after out-sourcing jobs, and in my case shutting down a plant, would rather that their former employees scatter to the four winds without a murmur of discontent.
This is a murmur.
Twelve. That’s how many humans that have so far walked on the moon. Just so happens they were all American men of European descent. Forty-four. That’s how many people that have been President of the United States. All but one of those an American man of European ancestry. Coincidentally, this happens to be the demographic group into which I fall. Leaders of the free world, space travelers, I’m probably fortunate to be loosely aligned with this group. Of course American men of European ancestry have a bit of a checkered past. A fair amount of exploitation, land grabbing, raping and other assorted bad behavior can be found in the historical record. But for the sake of expediency and convenience, I’ll just say that I had nothing to do with any of that. It was all done by others, with whom I claim no kinship. In the enlightened here and now, you’d think being a member of this group might lead to economic good fortune.
A nice theory, which has completely unraveled. Instead, I find myself part of a much larger group comprised of all ethnicities and both genders. All three if you include the trans-gendered. My temporary demographic advantage now a distant memory. Just as well. I’m not a big fan of demographics anyway.
The coalition I am now a part of is made up of those who held jobs in this country, and watched on as they were sent to another country.
Twelve moon-walkers. Around twelve-million jobs have moon-walked out of the U.S. They just “Beat Itâ€. Mine was one.
When you lose a valued job that you have been at for nearly two decades, you have quite a few thoughts on the topic. Most of them are contained here.
My guess is that most companies, after out-sourcing jobs, and in my case shutting down a plant, would rather that their former employees scatter to the four winds without a murmur of discontent.
This is a murmur.
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