The Most Controversial Opinion Ever!

Or, Mr Fug Doesn't Get the Job

“The exercises are hidden,” said Mr Fug

“I’m sorry?” replied the sour-faced interviewer.

“The exercises, on the email you sent along with the job application, they’re hidden.”

“So that’s why you haven’t sent them over?” she huffed

“Yes.”

“Well, did you do them?”

“Well, no, because as I said they were hidden.”

“Were hidden, so they’re not now?”

“They…I haven’t done them because they were hidden.”

“I see. Well, let’s carry on anyway.”

~

Mr. Kenny Fug had applied for a job he didn’t want, to pay for a car to get to the job, to pay for a house within commuting distance of the job, to buy things for the house for ‘appearances’, to pay for holidays to ‘relax’ from the job and, eventually, to acquire a retirement fund to eek out an existence encroaching on inevitable death. Ultimately, Mr Fug was doing a thing he didn’t want to do so he could go on doing a load of other stuff he didn’t want to do.

The job itself didn’t matter. None of them really do. Like so many other people of that time and place, he sat down in front of a screen and tapped away either on a keyboard or on the screen itself. Over 8 hours per day, 5 days a week, roughly 47 weeks of the year, Mr Fug could be seen tapping keys, moving things around on a screen, and clicking various boxes. He sat. The screen glowed. And, as far as he knew, things happened elsewhere because of it that were important enough to warrant paying him enough to live on. But that’s just how it is, isn’t it?

So he had applied for this job (it could have been any job, really) and had got the interview. He knew what to say and write on these forms. He knew what they wanted to hear and read. He knew they knew what they wanted to read and hear. He knew they knew what they knew they wanted to hear. And so, the whole thing was a recursive, drawn-out, bureaucratic jerk-off session that between-the-lines entailed stating ‘I will play the role you need me to play as to keep this whole farce going.’ That’s all any job interview is really, an opaque test to see if you’re normal. Are you going to do something weird? Are you a bit too creative? Do you give anyone the ick from the way you walk? Does your jacket have a bit too much of, well…that going for it? Please…please! Just be normal. So, with this all in the bag, so to speak, he got the interview. He wasn’t the least bit surprised or enthused or excited or happy or, well, anything. He had opened the email mid-sip of tea and, finishing his sip, internally pronounced a subtle Huh.

He put on that suit—the one they knew was the only one he had for occasions such as those—and arrived at the office where he was to be interviewed. It was both where he would be working if he got the job and where he was to be interviewed. A light torture, in truth. A stress test of a sadistic kind. Can you deal with this? Day in, day out, this! Alas, he knew he could. He’d been jumping between jobs of this sort for years now and, again, in truth, the only reason he’d applied was because…he couldn’t remember, maybe just something to do? He walked inside. Faked a grin (the eyes didn’t move). Shook some hands. He was gestured toward a chair (one of four) that stood outside a slightly ominous and all-too-glossy blue fire door and waited. Some others walked out grinning (eyes not moving) and he grinned back (eyes not moving). One of them said Good luck! and Mr. Fug replied You too! and then realized that person had already had their interview and thought to himself that he looked like a right twat now.

“Mr…Hug?”

“It’s Fug.”

“Oh, so not like Hug, like cuddling?”

“No, it’s Fug, like…nice to meet you.” he stretched out his hand toward the woman who—they both knew—was now thinking about the word fuck, and Mr Fug (Kenny) wondered if he now came across like a bit of a creep (he did). She shook his hand, “Pleasure.”

“…it is, yes,” he said, holding her hand. Fug, fuck, pleasure! Kenny thought he was either going to cum or vomit, she looked pale, this was just awful.

He followed her into the room wherein before him was a single chair facing a table, behind which sat four other people including the woman. He sat. They all looked oddly alike. The same skin tone. The same clothing tones. The same tight grins. The same taut muscles. The same falsely awake eyes. The same inquisitive yet conforming look. The same.

The room could have been anything at all and yet, as the butterfly flaps its wings, it has become…this. The most boring of all possible worlds. Walls that are clearly a single coat of what could be grey, light blue, beige, maybe even green? The windowsills whiter-than-white and yet still internally dirty. The radiators much the same, with big drips of lazy gloss paint trickling down them. Piss-yellow blinds. Chair cushions full of old dust. Heavy metal clanks. Pipe groans. Shoes scuffs around the wall. Skirting boards actually apparent. A few posters were dotted about: fire training, first aid training, mental health in the workplace, fire extinguisher guidelines, and a four-year-old invitation to a BBQ. The light was the loudest thing there and yet managed to drown out nothing else. There was a breeze that came from nowhere at all. When the door closed you heard the rub of the weird fire-door fur over the slam (which it always did). The pens scratched. The paper was thin on cheap pads. Someone there had indigestion. Groans of all kinds abound punctuated by hard swallows, lip smacking, fake laughs, stifled yawns, passing cars, jet soars, clock ticks, random buzzes, and HVAC purring.

They got started and Kenny answered every question without hesitation. He’d mentally practiced the answers, the jokes, the digressions, the looks, the smiles, the body language, and even the rhythm of how we spoke, the importance of which he thought could not be overstated. Can’t seem like you have rehearsed (even though they all know you have), but equally can’t seem like you haven’t rehearsed (lest they think you actually are some sort of true renegade!) So, he passed all the questions with flying (normal) colors. Then they moved onto any questions he would like to ask, of which he had picked two that give him both signals of how bad the place was, whilst showing to them he was serious about the role (whatever the hell that meant). They like the questions (he could tell, they could tell he could tell, etc. etc.)

And so all was well, things were being rapped-up in that patting-legs, letting-out sighs, push-down-grin, ‘Well!’ type of way and, just as Kenny was about to let out his cherry-on-top finale Well, this has been great, and if you need any more from me, please don’t hesitate to email! the woman who let him in released the company curveball.

“Mr Fug, before you go, there is one final question.”

“Oh, yes?”

“It’s something we add in just for a bit of fun, so don’t take it too seriously. It’s one of those types of questions, you know?” she said, falsely laughing with the other sniff-snuff laughs.

“Yes! I know the kind!” he replied, also laughing entirely via a nose out-breath.

“Okay then, again, just a bit of fun.”

“Okay, hit me!” he said, a little too enthusiastically.

“Well Mr Fug, what would you say is your most controversial opinion?”

There they sat. The four corporate shit-eaters currently eating copious amounts of shit via their grins. Each thought that their question was the most original to have ever landed on planet Earth. Position four’s eyes were expansive with apprehension. Position three had clenched fists. Position two bit his bottom lip. Position one, the woman who had asked the question, held her mouth agape in anticipation! Kenny’s mind was a flurry of intrusive thoughts. He had a truly controversial opinion, but he couldn’t, could he? Play it safe with a faked moon landing? 9/11 being an inside job was very in these days. Maybe something related to nutrition? Barefoot shoes!? Aspirin and cancer!? CIA created cigarette filters?!? Flat fucking earth?!? LIZARD PEOPLE?!!? He didn’t know what to do. He was actually sweating. He half-laughed, wiped his brow, cleared his throat, sat up, and arched his face into a Real grin.

“You have no right to be unhappy.”

Position four’s gaze dropped to her pad. Position three clenched his fists so tight they pooled red and white. Position two bit his lip so hard he drew blood. And the anticipatory woman let out a gasp that carried on until she was fully out of breath. She half-gasped, breathed in a deep panicked breath, and replied

“What in the hell do you mean?”

“Yeah, just what exactly do you mean by that?” came in position two quickly, wiping his lip.

“I mean what I say, that you have no right to be unhappy.”

“Who, me?! I have no right to be unhappy? Or are you speaking for yourself, because I can tell you Mr Fug that I…well…I just…”

“I mean everyone, really. No one has any right to be unhappy.”

“You motherfucker.” said position four under her breath.

“You can’t mean that?” position two said, “You can’t seriously believe what you just said?”

“I stand by it,” said Kenny

A great cosmic in-breath arose amidst the egoic egregore before him, then began the orchestra of ‘buts’: But what about having all your stuff stolen - damaged car - social anxiety - failure - unreciprocated love- heartbreak - loneliness - loss - illness sickness disease - job loss - AIDS - house burned down - pet death - death of a loved one - depression in summer - death of a child - Grandma falls down stairs - entire family obliterated in a car wreck - every single person you’ve ever loved decimated in a bombing run - Grandad napalmed! - depression in WINTER - genital rot - just plain old bad mood - diarrhea - balding(!) - every single person who has ever starved or suffered ever on planet earth’s existence as some given fact - burnt toast - meal that took ages to prepare kinda sucks - flat tire on motorway - scratched car - holiday CANCELLED - the flu - stomach ache - headache - dentist tells you you need a filling - GETTING a filling - dentist waiting room - ANY waiting room - imagined family explodes - plane crashes into imagined orphanage - all WAR ever - parcel arrives LATE! and on and on they went for some two hours, but what about this, what about that, what about IF!

Eventually, the panel calmed down. Each in turn got up to grab some water and cool off. “Well, Kenny. I can’t say I’ve quite heard anything like that before, and given our response, I assume you meant your statement ironically, yes? Because I just can’t-”

“No, I meant it. No one has any right to be unhappy.”

“Kenny, usually we get moon landing stuff, or barefoot shoes, or Kubrick! But not…this. Please, I’m going to have to ask you to explain yourself…”

“I think….I feel and understand—and this is just a conclusion that I have come to—that we live solely in the present, and that nearly enough all—if not all—unhappiness is outside of the present.”

“Well, what about pain? What about if I came over there and kicked you in your dumb head?” the other panel members looked at Position four alarmingly yet agreeably.

“I would be in pain, sure, but pain isn’t anything at all, it’s just pain, isn’t it?”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Let’s say I go to some new dentist and they turn out to be a bit crap, meaning that the drilling is painful.”

“…okay?”

“Well, what is that pain telling me?”

“That it’s painful!”

“That you want to get away from it!”

“That it’s bad!”

“I agree - It’s painful and a part of me that is unhappy wants to get away from it, but I also know I need it, so the pain itself tells me nothing in and of itself.”

“I don’t fucking follow?”

“If you kicked me in the head, as you appear to desire to do so,” half-grunt in agreement “Well, I wouldn’t be able to avoid it, I would be in pain, much like any other pain, and my head would hurt, but where is the unhappiness there?”

“I’d be unhappy if I got kicked in the head!”

“They aren’t correlated. It might be the case that I get kicked, sit with the pain, and don’t add needless suffering to it via anger, misery, or anxiety.”

“Well, that…that’s…stupid, Kenny. Okay, well, whatever. What’s this thing you mentioned about the present?”

“Well,” they all had their arms crossed and were leaning back, “when we are unhappy or miserable or whatever, it’s always the case that it’s a thought in relation to the past or the future, not right now.”

“Not so, Kenny! What about when my car got scratched just yesterday? I saw the scratch and let me tell you, I was fuming!”

“Why?”

“Because my car was scratched!”

“Yes, but why did that makes you unhappy….angry, whatever?”

“Because it’s my car! I’ll have to sort it, it’s something I have to deal with now!”

“Sure, but did getting unhappy change anything? It seems like you can see the split there, right?”

“Well, yes, maybe, no, whatever, but it’s only natural, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so, no. The fact is your car has a scratch on it now. That’s the fact. Outside of that, any emotional attachments seem like…pleasures, something you wanted to do.”

“I can see the point you think you’re trying to make Kenny, but I’m not sure that means people have no right to be unhappy or whatever, which, actually, this all feels more like you’re saying people choose to be unhappy!”

“They do.”

All positions tightened their crossed arms. One eye-rolled. One was fearsome. The other trembling lightly. “People choose to be unhappy?!”

“Well, after I said my opinion-”

“And that’s just what it is, an opinion, Kenny!”

“Well, after I said it, what did you all do? You all immediately replied with justifications and times when it would be apparently legitimate to be unhappy. So when told you have no right to be unhappy, the first thing you did was to try and find that right. In that not choosing to be unhappy?”

“So I shouldn’t be unhappy if my wife dies?”

“Is she dead or dying?”

“No, but-”

“Do you think she’s never going to die?”

“Well, I don’t have a wife, but the point stands. It’s an awful world out there Kenny!”

“Your lives all seem quite comfortable?”

“That isn’t the point, Kenny!”

“Is it not?”

“…you’re an asshole.”

“Well, you asked for my opinion.”

“I just can’t believe you believe that!”

“I do. And look how unhappy you are now, and why?”

“Because…I am unhappy with what you said. Do I need a reason?”

“What would change if you weren’t annoyed right now, or angry at me?”

“You think I can just stop this?”

“Yes. I do. I think you tolerate it. That you could just decide not to be, but it’s comfortable for you. You know it. It’s familiar. You justify it”

The room was silent for a long time. Each of them in turn looked up at Kenny and then back down at their pads. The room finally felt still. A man outside said something about ribs having too much sauce. Position three sighed.

“Just go, Kenny.”

“Okay.”

“We won’t be in touch.”

“Oh.”

“If you…if…you know, moon landing, lizard people, fine. But…this has been, well, I speak for us all when I…just go, Kenny.”

Kenny pushed off his chair.

“If you-”

“Just go, Kenny.”

Kenny left the room. They all sat in silence for some time. One got annoyed. One got angry. One was confused. One had a face that seemed to say nothing at all, possibly tearful.