Occupation Irritation, Part 3

WARNING: Swearing, mindless humor.

DISCLAIMER: Cartman belongs to Comedy Central. Tom Kraft is my character.

Cartman cursed under his breath as he slammed his bedroom door behind him. Goddamnit. That job at Tom's Rhinoplasty had gone to hell. He had fucked up with the chemicals and Sharon Marsh, the mom of that asshole Stan, had nearly gone through the roof. Was it HIS fault that the guy who was scheduled for plastic surgery had instead gotten the "Daffy Duck on crack" treatment?

He didn't think it was, but, oh, well. Time to try agin.

Muttering profane curses, Eric Cartman opened to the HELP WANTED section of the newspaper again. It wasn't very long before something caught his eye, and he focused on it. The black and white ad seemed, to him, to be another chance, another possibility of getting those goddamned cheesy poofs.

_________________________________________________________

HELP WANTED: Personal Stockboy. Must be used to lifting heavy weights.

Good Benefits. $6.00 pr Hr. Apply at J-Mart. 22 N. Main St. South

Park, CO. 80247

_________________________________________________________

Kickass. Cartman knew that he could do this job with one hand tied behind his "muscular" back. The job called for someone used to lifting heavy items? No problem. He was beefcake, after all. Beefcake!!

Grinning, Cartman left his house and started to walk down the street to J-Mart.

*****

The manager at J-Mart, Tom Kraft, sighed, annoyed, as he thumbed through the long list of applicants. What a bunch of losers. There was the woman who spent the entire interview talking about nothing but getting the job so she could support her lazy cat. There was the guy who spit on him with every word he had said. Tom had even gotten an interview with a young girl who had kept working Roswell and other so-called "conspiracies" into the conversation. Where did all these losers come from?

A few minutes later, Tom got another one.

The fat teenage boy strolled in, and, walking right up to him, asked roughly. "Hey, who do I talk to about employment around hyah?"

Tom was taken aback by the boy's directness, but he didn't show it. Instead, he offered his hand to the strange youth. "You talk to me. I am Mr. Thomas Kraft, the head of the corporation. And you are?"

The youth didn't shake his hand, leaving it hanging in the air. "Cartman. Eric Cartman."

Tom dropped his hand onto his desk, seeing the uselessness of offering a handshake. "Well, Mr. Cartman, I take it that you are interested in joining our family here at J-Mart?"

"You take it goddamn right!"

Tom winced at the brashness of that statement, but again, he didn't let it show. He just smiled calmly. "Well, do you have any work experience in the field of Stocking, and/or unloading the new weekly shipment of clothing?"

Cartman looked at him. "Uh... yeah..."

"Oh, good." Tom reached into his desk, and, opening a drawer, ripped a paper off the pad, and laid it on the surface before Cartman. "Here's an application. Do you need a pen?"

"Yeah, I need a goddamn pen, hippie!"

Tom handed him a black ink pen, and Cartman snatched it from his hand. Jesus. This kid was rude. Tom decided to ignore this, and tried engaging him in conversation while the boy wrote down his references, work history, and personal information.

"So, why do you feel like you'd be good for this job?"

Cartman looked up. "Come again?"

"What qualities would you bring to this corporation?"

Cartman flexed his flabby arms as if they had muscles. "I'd bring my manly biceps to this place, that's what. Beefcake, Beefcake!!"

Tom sucked in a breath. Calm, Tom. Stay calm. This kid was getting annoying, and he was the rudest person that Tom had met yet, not to mention the most deluded. Could he-would he-hire this boy? Suddenly, Tom decided to hire him anyway. Cartman was rude, but he was more qualified then the other jerk-offs that he had met. The manager knew that hiring a obnoxious person like this in a place full of otherwise caring individuals made no sense, but nothing ever seemed to make sense here, so why the hell not?

When Cartman had finished signing the application, Tom took it with a smile, and again offered a handshake. Cartman just stared at him like he was a freak, and in a few seconds, he lowered his hand onto the surface.

"Well, Mr. Cartman, I have several more job seekers to speak with. It'll quite possibly be a few days, but I'll let you know. Thank you for stopping in. Have a nice day."

Cartman was startled. "Wait a minute, I have to WAIT to find out if I have the job or not?"

Tom suddenly feel uneasy. "Well, yes, that's usually how it works." He took a card, and, scribbling something on the back, handed it to the fat kid. "But come back on this date for your job interview."

Cartman stared. "Didn't we just have it?"

"Well, I asked you a couple questions, but it wasn't the full interview. For that, I'll need to see you on the date and time on the card."

Cartman looked at the card. His appointment was set for the following Friday at 3 PM. He walked out, and when, he reached the bedroom of his house, he shut the door quietly before cutting his emotions loose. He expressed his reaction with three simple words, a small epitaph that summed up what he was feeling at the moment.

"GOD FUCKING DAMNIT!!!"

NEXT: Cartman At J-Mart.