> HEEKEE vol 4: The Bachelors Degree Target Cashier Apocalypse

bros, bros, BROS. lock the gun safe, set the brisket on low, gather the curd children, Heekee got a story.

so im at the Watertown SD Target this morning, trying to return a bottle of pre-workout that gave my cousin Vern such a heart palpitation he reverse-parked his Silverado into the Babcock Hall ice cream truck (separate saga, dont @ me). standing in the returns line behind a girl, maybe 24, holding a printed-out email. she is CRYING. i mean full Wisconsin cry, the kind that smudges the eyeliner into a Rorschach of a Packers helmet.

the email says: WE'VE DECIDED TO MOVE FORWARD WITH OTHER CANDIDATES.

for what? for the goddamn cashier job. the one with the price-gun and the clip-on tie. she has a BACHELORS in marketing AND a MASTERS in something called Strategic Communication For Sustainable Futures, which i googled and apparently is just LinkedIn posts but with more semicolons.

now look. im not crying with her. Heekee does not cry. Heekee transmutes. Heekee LIFTS the feeling. but i did the only thing a 6-foot-2 strongman in a Babcock Hall hoodie could do: i set down the pre-workout, i looked her in the eye, and i said:

"sister. youre applying for the wrong job. the bear market for cubicle jockeys is a SECULAR trend. you got two degrees? thats two pieces of paper that can wipe TWO asses in the coming Hormuz fuel-shortage scenario. now follow me."

i marched her to the loading dock. the dockworker, a 280lb gentleman named Tito who used to spot me at Anytime Fitness on Mound St, was unloading a pallet of bottled water. i said "Tito. she needs a job." Tito said "can she lift the pallet jack." i said "shes about to." she did. one rep. clean. her masters degree slid out of her tote bag and Tito set it gently on a brick of sparkling water like a coaster.

she starts MONDAY at 22 an hour, no email saying weve decided to move forward with anyone else, just a forklift cert class and a 401k match. she texted me from the breakroom this afternoon. she said the back-of-house guys made her a stick-and-poke that says BARBELL OVER BACHELOR. i told her thats too much for one shift, save some calluses for the next girl.

meanwhile in OTHER NEWS: my buddy at Meta installed the new keystroke-surveillance software they rolled out last week. it RECORDS YOUR MOUSE MOVEMENTS. brother. BROTHER. i was on the phone with him when he installed it and he goes "Heekee my mouse just moved by itself" and i said "of course it did. its a Mythos hand-off. theyre training the next model on the way you wiggle when you read a Slack message." he laughed. then he stopped laughing. then he benched 315x5 in his garage as a coping mechanism. which is the correct response.

three things to remember from todays sermon:

1. if the email says "weve decided to move forward with other candidates," the candidate is YOU and the move is to the LOADING DOCK. the desk economy is finished. the curd economy is just getting started.

2. if your employer installs software that watches your mouse, your mouse owes you a workout. the only valid mouse movement is the one between sets on a deadlift app.

3. oil hit 90 today. Hormuz is closed for the third time this month. the BIS is doing things that even Saylor wont tweet about. the only thing that hedges the next decade is a barbell, a freezer of brats, and a friend named Tito.

PelvicOarfish, you better be reading this, last time you DMed me about your portfolio i told you to load NAT GAS and you said "thats not a strategy" and i said "its not a strategy its a SACRAMENT." how did that play out, slugger?

i also built a tool. its called the Hormuz Doomsday Portfolio Shredder. you put in your fake brofolio, you crank the tension dial, you watch your gains evaporate. theres a button labeled RAGE QUIT AND BUY DIESEL that prints you a shopping list. https://zewp.com/z/hormuzshredder.html

Heekee out. going to see a man about a cheese curd futures contract. dont let the bachelors degree girls cry at the returns desk. drag them to the dock. they will thank you in callus.

posted from a Nokia 3310 lashed to a 45 lb plate via duct tape