Then they ask you a series of questions about your experiences at your job. Well, many readers do say my articles are like death to them...
Then you put in your education.
You can also specify some things you'd like out of your Internet-delivered job. Now this is some Web 6.0 shit right here!
Oh my God! A match! Bless the Lord, my days of eating Ramen noodles and beating off to guro tentacle rape porn on 4chan are over! My only question, is that a regular 9.2 or an IGN 9.2? There's a huge difference.
They even offer a pie chart to help you understand your score. Imagine if I actually had the education USC was looking for. That would surely send my job match to 11!
As my job matches came rolling in I fell into the fetal position, started rocking back and forth, and muttered to myself, "It's all gonna be okay now... it's gonna be okay..."
Is this really the future of job hunting? We do enough sitting on our asses. Going out and trying to find a job is the last bit of exercise we Americans actually get.
Hard times call for desperate measures. The economy is so bad that I've resorted to working at a non-profit organization and competing for food scraps at the group's monthly benefit dinners with the other receptionists.
But I'd never use a web site's matching algorithm to dictate where my career is headed. I already know where it's headed, the dumpster. Besides, how long until Jobfox is spammed by the same MLM scams and phony jobs that plague CareerBuilder and similar sites?
Maybe I'm wrong here. Maybe eHarmony-type job matching sites are the wave of the future. Then crap, I need to go back to school so I can get some better matches. If a 9.2 is the job of my dreams, imagine how much more dreamy a 9.3 job would be. One day, I'll catch that elusive 10.
I mean, how the hell am I going to know where I want to work if a web site doesn't tell me?
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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