For those that don't know, the writers for ZubazPants.com DO NOT get paid. Yes, I know, it is shocking. With the plethora of talent that we all possess, you would think each of us would at least be getting $500 an article.
This is not the case however, for we have created ZubazPants.com as a Not-For-Profit institution. We are all noble people here, so we write because our fans need our prose in their lives. You can thank us later.
In light of that, most of us (ahem, Russell Gilbert) have real jobs that we work 40-plus hours a week at. Of course, these jobs come second to our responsibilities at ZubazPants.com. But you should know that already.
So, we thought it would be fun to take you with us through a day at our respective workplaces, to give you a feel for what we do outside of this website. Enjoy.
Isaac Kasikov
Hmmmmmmmmm …Work.
Right now I am working for Morgan Stanley.
Relax you pretentious vagabond, I’m not a financial analyst hotshot intern, or even a coffee bar attendant. I’m the lowest of the low; I move tables and chairs into rooms for meetings and get bossed around by a 27-year old boss with a 365-day period.
Another one of my ape like tasks is to prep rooms. The prepping of a room involves putting a Poland Spring bottle, paper pad, and Morgan Stanley pen in front of each chair around a table. Did I mention every pen has to be facing with the Stanley label up? And every 12 oz. Poland spring label has to face towards the individual?
TEDIOUS, is not the word to describe this job. This was mind torture, a complete diagram on how the social elite avoid any form of labor at all costs.
Get this, at one point during the job a fellow employee had to go into the appetizer room and ring a triangle to inform the guests that dinner was ready! HAHAHA! I haven’t even seen a triangle since third grade music class, and this one was shiny and 100 percent silver! It was like a goddamn ranch and these pigs needed to be directed to their troughs.
After finishing this primate work I was instructed to move steel patio furniture from room to room. STEEL! Not plastic, or wicker, STEEL! Chairs weighing 25 pounds each, tables 60. My back ails in pain as I type, my fingers are blistered, and my feet deformed. I must have moved 500 chairs today and over 200 tables.
The best part about all of this nonsensical work was that we were instructed not to come in contact with any of the fanciful associates. We had to take extra long routes to avoid coming face to face with these monsters. Do you think I listened to that? No way, I took the most direct route and made the most noise making sure to interrupt as many conversations as possible.
It was at this point that I came into contact with the associates. They were all Yale like frat boys sucking down tall, icy gin and tonics. They oozed sweat in the heat, perspiring greed that propelled an inhumane stench into the air. You know the type, Shiny shoe pearl soled bastards, parted hair, capped ivory teeth, polo socks, labels through labels, double breasted suits, hollow laughs, Velcro wedding rings, ENRON MOTHER FUCKERS.
HA…this all seems pretty bleak doesn’t it? Well, tonight for about 30 minutes I tasted the life that these scoundrels lead every night. The catering service decided they would give us the left over food from the banquet. This was the kind of food that you ate tangy sorbet beforehand to liven up your taste buds, I’m dead fucking serious, and I followed suit and ate sorbet before the meal to prepare my mouth for this 300-dollar meal.
300 dollars! HA! The waiters brought us out mammoth plates of filet mignon, lobster, shrimp, crab, various veggies, pastas, chicken, and other foods that I was unfamiliar with due to their lofty place in the social appetite.
I devoured the meal and chased it with three glasses of $100 a bottle red wine and felt the same as I had before. Honestly, the expensive food was no better than a solid NEW YORK slice of pizza, or a standard burger and a hot dog. The lifestyle, the accessories, the glam, the glitz, fuck it all man, don’t end up at Morgan Stanley, don’t end up having people shine your shoes for you, don’t end up having a personal driver, because in the end you will still remember how you felt when you had none of the pleasantries, and it is no different.
Doug Enemy
Ever wonder what its like to spend eight straight hours sitting in the same chair enclosed in a 6x5 plastic cube? Well, what about sitting in that space along with talking on the phone with some of the least educated people in the country? Add some screaming, yelping, crying, and dumbfound silence to that equation and you have my job.
I won’t give you the name of my company, mainly because I enjoy having a job. I work for an investment company that specializes in retirement plans. You know; 401(k), 403(b), IRAs, etc. I am an investment counselor for this company.
Every single day I come in and spend eight hours on the phone. Each call starts the same way, “Insert the name of my company, this is Doug speaking. How may I help you?” Couple that with the required closing of “Was there anything else I can help you with? No? Thanks for calling.” Also, the bosses keep track of how many calls you take, how long you have people on hold for, how long you’re logged out to take a piss. Everything.
So far this probably doesn’t sound too terrible, right? Well I guess you forgot about the aforementioned screaming, yelping, crying, and dumbfound silence that transpires in between those opening and closing statements.
I don’t pretend to think that these retirement plans are easy to understand. They’re not. They required months of training for me to know inside and out, and also required me to be licensed to know how the investment parts work. But let me tell you rule No. 1. They are not fucking savings accounts. You cannot take the money out whenever you damn well please. They are retirement plans.
So here is my tip of the day: DON’T PUT YOUR MONEY INTO THESE PLANS if you work some lowly job making $22,000 a year and you are serving peanut butter on toast for dinner to your family of five four nights a week.
I cannot begin to tell you the horror stories I have heard of people trying to get their money out. I get frenzied calls from people who have cancer, who can’t afford to feed their children, whose cars broke down, whose husband is in jail, etc. I feel bad for many of these people; they have legit reasons for needing some dough. But Federal Law prohibits distribution of their funds for many of the reasons they need it for. Sorry Charlie. (That is also the official answer we are trained to give to such inquiries)
But these people think like any other rational human being who has no idea how the world works would. “Err, it my money. I want money. Give me money. Me no care about laws. Why does IRS get to decide when I can have money? I no like taxes. What do taxes do for me anyway?” Idiots. Ok, yes it is your money, but YOU decided to put it into this plan that has rules. Rules which I can guarantee you did not read, if you in fact even know how to.
Most of these people also have less than $1,000 in these accounts, too. So it is not like we are talking thousands upon thousands of dollars. What is the point of saving up $1,000 for retirement when right now you can’t even afford to buy 2-ply toilet paper?
But then there are the people who are so absolutely dumb and ignorant that it makes them angry and mean. These are the ones I really have to work hard not to start yelling back at. For example, I once had this nice woman who wanted to wire funds from her account with us to her bank account. Pretty simple request, wiring funds is basically just an electronic transfer for those of you who don’t know. It requires your checking account number along with your bank’s ABA or routing number. The ABA or routing number is basically your bank’s account number so you can tell one bank from the next.
Well this Gladiator of Knowledge and Wisdom gave us the wrong ABA number three times. Three times! Just call your damn bank and ask them what it is lady! Anyway, the fourth time she called she happened to get me on the phone. It was around 4:30 p.m. when the call started (banks close at 3 p.m., as everyone knows). I took the new ABA number and proceeded to tell her that, “We will attempt the wire again tomorrow.” She happened to repeat this out loud, and all of a sudden, the earth split open releasing the fires from the pits of hell and along with the flames came an immense amount of heat and this woman’s husband.
“TOMORROW?! What the fuck is going on? These fuckers are god damn ridiculous. Give me the fucking phone. HELLO? Why are you fucking me over like this? Does your company enjoy fucking people over? Why isn’t this being fucking done today?”
“Sir, we can’t wire the funds again today. The banks are already closed.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. You just want to keep our money. Stop bullshitting me. Why is this taking like two weeks to get my money?”
“Sir, we attempted the wire on three different occasions, but we were provided with the incorrect ABA number and the wires were rejected.”
“Stop with this bullshit asshole. What the fuck do you need this number for anyway, just send it to my fucking bank.”
“Sir, the ABA number is required to transfer the money to your bank, without it the wire cannot go through.”
“So just look it up”
“Sir, there are thousands upon thousands of banks in this country; there is no way for us to know which one is yours.”
“Fuck that, you are a fucking idiot. Just find it out!”
“Sir, your wife has given us four different numbers, we will attempt the newest one tomorrow, but we can’t do it again today because the banks are closed.”
“Are you calling me an idiot? Fuck you. You’re the idiot.”
“Sir, I think you need to calm down. I am not calling you an idiot; there is just no possible way to do this again before tomorrow.”
“Your company is a bunch of bullshit assholes. You’re taking advantage of me and using my money for shit.”
“Sir, the money is out of your account here, and is in the account that sends out the wires, we are not using your money I assure you.”
“More bullshit. Is that all you do is tell bullshit? I want my money.”
“Sir we will attempt the wire again tomorrow. If you would like to call your bank right now to see if they can personally verify the ABA number, it might help to be sure you will get the money.”
“Fuck it. Fuck your company. Assholes!”
That is just one example of many such calls that I take everyday. It really baffles me how some of these people are able to make important responsible decisions that affect their lives and the lives of their children, let alone not eat their own feces.
Roosta Da Neezy
Let’s time travel back to February 1, 2005 at about 1 p.m. This day will forever be remembered as the day Russ was sent free from Aldi’s.
So I come into work, punch in, then jump on the register. So far, so good. After checking out about three customers my boss called me into his office.
Me: “Hey Tom what’s up?”
Short Angry Bald Guy: “Have a seat Russ.”
Me: “So what do you need to talk about?”
Short Angry Bald Guy: “Russ you’re fired!”
Me: “What!? Why?!”
Short Angry Bald Guy: “It’s simple really. Quite frankly I hate your name. Russell Gilbert. You have two first names!”
Me: “Is this legal?”
Short Angry Bald Guy: “Another day, another problem. Hey I have a joke for ya. What’s eating Russell Gilbert? Unemployment! Now get your ass out of here bitch!”
Me: “Fuck you asshole! Looking like a broke ass Danny DeVito.”
Now, my first initial thoughts were like anybody who just got canned. What the fuck am I going to do? How do I pay my bills? Maybe I can be a stripper and wave the goods around like there‘s no tomorrow. Decisions, decisions.
I called my mom to let her know the bad news. Seeing how her other two kids are unemployed as well, she had some knowledge about the subject. She turned my frown upside down.
Let me introduce you guys to the best thing since pussy. Unemployment Benefits.
That’s right everyone. You guys are paying for me to “look for a job.” Now I did start to look at first, but then I realized I’m already getting paid $300 dollars a week to hang out. Most places I’d have to put in 40 hours a week to take home that. Fuck that shit. It’s a no-brainer.
These last 4 1/2 months have been glorious. My stress level has gone down tremendously because all I do is relax. I sleep in until noon everyday then wait anxiously for the mail to come at 1 p.m. Seeing how I built up such a workout walking to the mailbox and back I treat myself to an hour nap. After that, I relax for two hours. Then I lay down and then if I’m still tired I’ll just chill out.
I’d like to thank everyone out there who works and gets taxes taken out of their paycheck. It’s like you guys are all my parents. You guys buy me a new jersey when I‘m bored with the ten I already own. When I’ve had a long day and I need to kick back and have a couple drinks you guys are right there to pay for the bottle of Captain Morgan. The countless number of hours I spend playing online poker wouldn’t be possible if you guys weren’t working.
Man it doesn’t get much better than this. The other day my dad’s friend asked me the classic “ice breaker” question: “So are you working hard, or hardly working?”
Answering with the usual hardly working just didn’t seem right. I’m not hardly working. Shit, I’m not working at all. The other day I spent three straight hours watching the grass grow just for the hell of it. I saw more action in a Mormon porn than I did watching the grass grow but it was okay because I was getting paid for it.
I even managed to answer the biggest question in the World today. I figured out just how many licks it takes to get to the tootsie roll center of a tootsie pop. A mind-boggling number of 749 licks. It makes my tongue hurt just thinking about it.
Man the things a guy will do when he's bored.
Yesterday I started to dig a hole for fun. This wasn't just any hole though. This hole was to China. I don't make enough money to fly all the way there so I figured this would be the next best thing.
Shhhhhhh! This will be our little secret.
Well there you have it everyone. That's a day in the life of Zubazkateer, Russell "Milks the system" Gilbert. From the bottom of my heart, thank you guys for making a boy's dream come true.
Matt Fishman
I'm a Data Entry/Research Guy. That's not the official title, but it's easy to remember. Basically, my company's lifeblood is its vast database. Why? I'm keeping that a secret because I actually take work very seriously - I won't even tell you the name of my company or what exactly we do.
My job is to proofread, maintain, and upgrade the information of thousands upon thousands of people. The information has to be 100 percent correct. That part of the job is good for me because I have OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). We poor souls that are afflicted with this terrible disorder LIVE for making sure everything is in its right place. I'm also a very skilled proofreader and have gud speling n' gramor me think.
I take the 8:03 a.m. train into New York City in the morning. There are many people who I went to high school with on this train. I never say hi, and truth be told, they don't want to say hi to me.
I actually hate a couple of them, but the others I really have nothing against. It's not like I'm unfriendly - I just really don't have anything interesting to say. I'm not very good with small talk.
Anyway, the 8:03 train is supposed to get into Penn Station at 8:42. This has never, ever happened. Ever. The earliest it ever arrived was 8:45. By the time I get out of Penn Station with the morning crowds and all, it's 8:47. I have 13 minutes to walk to work, which is located around the New York City Library/Bryant Park/Grand Central Station region. That's if I'm lucky. The train usually arrives at 8:48 (meaning it's 8:50 when I leave Penn). Ever see an idiot running down the street because he's late? I'm one of those idiots! Why don't they just reprint the schedules and say the train will get in at 8:46? There's a good reason probably, so I won't bitch about it anymore.
It takes on average 18 minutes to get to my office from Penn on foot. Sure, I could take the subway, but I did some calculations: by the time I reach the subway station and wait for the line that brings me to the area near my building, it's the same amount of time as if I walk, if not more so. So I'm always in a rush in the morning and I always arrive 5-10 minutes late every day.
When I get to my office after the run, I stink. My morning shower and Power Stripe (now with DryTek) cease to be. My co-workers hold their noses, tell me that I smell like an unwiped asshole, and usually throw letter openers and/or scissors at my eyes. Thank Buddha my bosses are understanding about the mild tardiness. Oh, and in case you're wondering, the train before my usual train gets into Penn at 8:15, which will leave me with too much time on my hands.
Apart from arriving there, I like my job. I don't have to wear a suit, which is the most awesome shit in the history of awesome shit. I love you, business casual. I want to have, like, a million of your babies. I also appreciate the little things, such as reading awesome last names in the database. Some people have the last name "Quicksilver" and "McCool." It doesn't get any better than that in my book. I also really like my Inbox. You may be saying, "Big fucking deal," but it's MY inbox and it has my name on it!
What is starting to scare me is how much my professional life is becoming like Office Space. Remember that weird dude Milton who loved his red stapler? I have become the same way. I love my stapler and I don't know why. Maybe it's because it clamps down on things with tiny sharp objects. I even named it Mr. Stapler and really didn't think that I was crazy.
One day I came into the office and saw that I had two staplers on my desk. The new stapler was thinner and more sleek, so I decided it was a female stapler named Ms. Stapler. Then I imagined that Mr. Stapler and Ms. Stapler must have met when the office was closed and hooked up. Out of nowhere, a dose of common sense and sadness hit me, which made me realize that I was spending a large amount of time thinking about two motherfucking staplers. I locked myself in the office bathroom and cried for 39 minutes.
When the day is out, my eyes are tired from proofreading and looking at a computer screen for eight hours. So what's the first thing I do when I get home? I go on the computer. Then another wave of sadness hits me, but instead of crying, I just drink whiskey and pass out. My parents don't really care - it keeps me quiet.
