HELP! THEY WANT TO ASSIMILATE ME

There are a few things you need to know about me before I delve into the main topic of this post. Firstly, working in the media is a cut throat business, which means it ain't all love, kisses, celebrities and abundant cash. In reality it is more along the lines of being addicted to some kind of hard core drug and the company you work for is your dealer, they smile and treat you with love and respect but there is an under current of 'fuck us over and your dead'. The minute you get too dependent, start grand standing or become a liability they will cut the supply off and cast you out to fend for yourself and let me tell you the comedown is hard to work through.

A sweeter way to look at it (for the ladies) is this, it is sort of like being a fluffy little bunny, they look sweet, some of them are a bit rough around the edges, have a bit of mange or myxomatosis, and all of the bunnies have some sort of tumor attached that can either grow and absorb its host or can be kept in check with constant medication, more commonly referred to as keeping yourself in check or being grounded. Yes of the course the tumour is also known as an ego. The bigger the tumour the more it drags in the mud, slowing down the rest of the warren and hindering it's owners ability to escape when the bright lights shine in it's face and it gets pressed into the bitumen and remodeled with a tyre tread across it spine. Hmm smacked you around with that one didn't I.

Yeah so in the event the dealer cuts you off or you get turned into some sort of road kill luncheon meat you generally need to find a job. In my 17 year career this has happened to me twice, not bad, all things considered. The 2 times it has happened I have decided to take my limited skills to companies that do telephone research. You spend hours on end cold calling poor, innocent punters and asking them to stay on the phone from a few minutes to a good quarter hour. The level of abuse that you receive from a job like this is immense as most of the calls happen during dinner time and God forbid you interrupt whatever useless reality/soapie/topical/game show/porn they were zoned out in front of to ask them if they think religion should be taught in schools or marijuana should be legalised.

So having spent time being treated like a dribbling freak and abused by faceless morons over the phone whenever someone calls me and asks the question

"Hello Sir, would you mind completing a short survey for us"

I feel morally obliged as I know how soul destroying it is trying to get your quota up and knowing that as soon as the last few people are surveyed you can go home and get paid some shiny beads and a handful of warm spit for your dedication. This happened to me on Saturday last week. A sweet little elderly lady knocked on my door and asked if I could answer a few questions for a survey, thankfully the Scientologists don't do it door to door, so with the usual pangs of sympathy and guilt I agreed.

After spending roughly 20 minutes with her looking at various magazine covers, trying to remember what TV I watched a week ago and sorting through whatever else they needed to know, she wrapped up by saying something about a booklet. I was so wasted and mindless from answering so many questions I thought she was talking about some colour brochure that proves her company is legitimate and agreed that she could drop one at my door the following day. It was waiting for hubby and I when we stepped outdoors the following day and I picked it up and cast it inside and ignored it, as you do. Anyway Wednesday night I get a call asking if I have started filling out my survey and I wonder what the hell this woman is talking about. Then I remember the book on the door step that I have been walking over in the hallway all week, the junk mail that comes back to bite you. So feeling obliged once again I sat down to answer all the questions in the 2 survey boks, that's right, 2 survey books.

Last night while hubby was delving into the Opera world on DVD I started to fill out the first and biggest book, as I kept putting more and more black biro (blue if you don't have back but never a felt tip pen) crosses in tiny boxes and turning more and more pages to be confronted with more and more questions I started to FREAK OUT! Even with all my experience in this industry I have never seen a survey this big. We are talking 118 pages, that's right and each page is FUCKEN over flowing with questions. They cover things like sports you do and watch, toothpaste you buy or have heard about, sanitary napkins (WTF), meat and smallgoods, shopping centres, service stations, telephones, mobiles, gas and electricity, my weight (YOU RUDE PRYING FUCKOS), beer, wine, pre-packaged and mixed drinks, coffee, butter, my height, my bowel movements (actually I made that one up but I would have put my crosses in the boxes if they asked) and the list goes on and on and on.

What was freaking me out the most is how much they will know about me once this thing is completed. They could quite easily being growing a little me clone next to all the sheep named Dolly1, Dolly2 etc., and just program all my info into it and I am totally replaced. Oh and yes I will complete the surveys (sometime in 2007 at this rate) as they have a draw to win $10,000. As far as I'm concerned I should be given the cash for even bothering to answer the questions, let alone that I am actually answering all of them truthfully. Why am I such a fucken goody, good? Oh that's right, because I used to do this job and I know how annoying it is when people don't do it. If I was a nastier man I would use each page to wipe my friggen hairy butt on and then send it back C.O.D. with a couple of house bricks thrown in so they have to spend maxi cash getting it out of the post office only to find it repugnant when they open it.....GRRRRRR.