Where Do I Find That Neat Bar With All the Freaks?
I don't think I've ever made a worse career choice than the one I'm stuck in right now, let me tell you. Just today I've been here since seven, and if it's not one thing, it's another. Being the only guy on the Death Star who knows how to set up any kind of audio visual equipment gets me all the work and none of the respect. I don't know what the record for pointless slide shows is, but these people must be pushing it. Every ten seconds my beeper goes off and it's "Hey, can you get over to 513A East Star and set up a screen, we need to show our plans for taking over the galaxy to some newbies." And absolutely nobody seems to know the first thing about getting a hologram to work. I'll take a golf cart up twelve levels right in the middle of my lunch break just to find out some idiot in a jumpsuit switched the AUDIO IN cable with the AUDIO OUT. From there it's down to the Grand Hall of Sinister Declarations to replace a bulb in the eighty-foot telescreen just seconds before Monsieur Vader's big melon head is supposed to appear on it, yakking about this and that through defective speakers which no one seems to want to cough up a lousy two hundred bucks to fix, so once again everyone in the back few rows can't hear a word that's being said. For all this I'm getting paid eleven dollars an hour. Everyone tells me I should be delighted with just having a job on the Death Star. Tell you what---the day I see one Stormtrooper learn to simply hook up a new microphone to the PA system so that the constant cries of "BREACH IN THE OUTER SHIELD, FEDERATION SHIPS WITHIN THE SYSTEM" don't come through with every other word chopped in half with static, I'll be delighted. Till then, I'm moody and bitter and surly, like everyone else who works on this thing. (Exception: Heather down in Electronics Acquisitions. Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.)