AcmeShorts

The bills were stacking up. Money was tight. There was no hope in sight but for HUMINSORC -- the city’s leading temporary employment agency. John, a post-consumerist, stared up at the building and wondered. “Which floor is the office on again?”

But earlier! Aw, man. Earlier in his basement apartment John really articulated a devastating analysis of sterile post-industrial-consumer culture. He tossed around the words odorless, hairless and bloodless. He mentioned something about pasty, garish souls shriveling in desiccating artificial light. “401 K,” he grunted. “Shit.”

The meeting proceeded uneventfully. Here are the minutes:

“Sir, after reviewing your resume and other relevant documents we’ve decided to place you, or rather out resource you, to an impressive financial interest."
"Wonderful."
"But there’s one thing.”
“What.”
“You have to wear a suit.”
“No suits. You don’t understand. I don’t wear suits. I’m a post-consumerist!”
“It’s office protocol.”
“Yeah, no. I’m probably not allowed to laugh either.”
“You don’t understand. Preparations have already been made.”
“There's principalities at stake here!”
“You’re already hired.”
“I stand for something. Something important!”
“To the fitting room.”
“But I’m a post-consumerist!”

As hooligans from the HR dragged John away, his muffled refrain, shrieked over and over and over…, traveled through the spotless galvanized steel H-VAC. Its echoes could be heard beneath the neutral hum of the fluorescent lights and the whirr of hard drives. Somewhere, I think on the 37th floor, a post-post-consumerist shifted meaningfully at his desk.