Aforementioned sweet little lady tells us we will get our badges in a few minutes or so, and proceeds to tell us about what our jobs will entail. We will be basically pumping out vast amounts of mentally-taxing, thought-intensive work for next-to-nothing, enduring an excessive commute for no benefits, no vacation, and not even paid lunch breaks. Most of our job will revolve around reading boring, dry information in wordy, lengthy documents and then interpreting it, efficiently enough to handle 3 to 5 such reports a day. She says it will be hard, boring, and extremely demanding. 10 bucks an hour. She says if looking over the materials makes us want to fall asleep with our face on the table, then maybe we should reconsider. At this point I scramble to snatch up my belongings and dash for the door as quickly as I can.

No, no, of course not, just being humorous. I may be a slacker like nobody's business, but such an easy quitter I am not. So we take a tour of the building and I am too upset over the ennui of the current situation to be witty and chipper while my young co-trainees mingle amongst themselves. It turns out though that everyone is overqualified, with some of the simpletons even carrying M.B.A.'s and law degrees and settling for this bottom-level job. I believe the secretary not only makes more than we do, but also reaps boatloads more respect. As do the janitors.

After returning to the conference room, we receive our ID badges. Now I have worked a WIDE variety of jobs in my day, ranging from the federal government to UPS, so forgive me for assuming that these badges would look at all familiar. One would think such a badge would be used for security purposes, with a photo and some kind of access code to enter the office or the building. Nope. No such luck. Not this time, kids. These fancy pieces of corporate attire are nothing more than laminated 3x5" index cards with our names on them. So the permanent staff can learn our names. We are supposed to wear these ridiculous objects of demoralization for the first week or so. Oh, did I mention they hang around our necks by a piece of string? Yeah. I feel like I'm in kindergarten. So we go through various standard briefings and fill out paperwork, etc., and of course none of the equipment works. No one can figure out how to get the projector to function, and they inform us that we can't practice any of the techniques we've been bombarded with all morning, because the network is down, and the programs aren't working, not everyone has computers, the passwords aren't in effect yet, and so on. This is basically how the rest of the week will go. Also, every chance she gets, the sweet little lady tells us to "make a little post-it note" with the notepads we've been supplied with. If she had it her way, our entire binders would be filled with neat little squares of yellow paper.

Well, we reach lunchtime, and I rush out before I get caught and trapped into a dining nightmare by one of the annoying saps that wants to be friends with everybody (more on this guy later). Well, I decide it's particularly great weather for a walk down the block, so off I go to explore this new territory, hoping to familiarize myself with the area a little better. I stumble upon a coffee shop that serves a few surprises with its espresso.

Now I have to tell you that I work in a section of D.C. called Dupont Circle, which has a bit of a reputation for homosexual activity. There is a fairly high concentration of gay people in the population. I forget this every single day, and step off of the subway completely surprised when I see a middle aged man with a perm, flaming down the street with the biggest smile you can imagine, winking at me. I then realize, "Oh, yeah, that's right. I'm in Dupont Circle. Duh."

So I have a particularly sobering experience when I order my coffee from the young Caribbean woman at the counter. I glance to my right, and see a man working the steamer, with long hair, blush, mascara, eye shadow, lipstick, frilly earrings, you name it; the whole nine yards. I sort of stare, in a bit of a shock, and then realize where I am, and that I shouldn't be surprised. What should have surprised me, (and does, practically making me drop my coffee) is that the guy's name is Jennifer.

WOW. I guess maybe this guy is awaiting a sex-change operation or something. I later tell my girlfriend, also named Jennifer, saying that it made me think of her, which she didn't like as much.

I return to the conference room, post-lunch. More training, boredom, dementia, etc. So back to this toolbag who I mentioned earlier, the guy who wants to be buddies with everyone. Let's call him, um, Jean-Claude Polymeaux (anonymity again). To give you a taste of what I have to deal with, every time he introduces himself (which happens quite often, because he MUST know everyone), he holds out his hand like a greenhorn who's missing papers, fresh off the boat, looking for work in the New World, and says (pronunciation provided): "Hello, my name is ZHONN CLOWD PO-LEE-MO!"

Now this is said in the most godawful French accent you can imagine. Okay, French name, said in a French accent, you would think the next logical step in this conversation, the natural response, would be to ask him if he is, in fact, French. It turns out he is not. However, upon asking this fateful question, you are bombarded with the obtusely zealous answer of: "NO!!! Je suis Americain!!!"

Which, for those of you who have no linguistic inclination, or basic sense of deduction for that matter, means "no, I am American." So he says his name in a ridiculous French accent, and then proceeds to tell you he's NOT French, IN French. How retarded is that? As soon as I experienced this for the first time, I had to use all my inner strength and sheer will to not punch him right in the face. It doesn't stop there. He's one of those guys who thinks he knows everything there is to know about everything. In addition, he has to let you know it. At all points of the day. He always has to say SOMETHING about the topic at hand. So our training dragged on mercilessly due to him imparting his vast library of knowledge on corporate governance every time we came to a new topic. Also, you would have to look far and wide to find someone who can incorporate the bloody Enron scandal into any conversation as well as he can. You know, someone could be talking about Vince Carter's free throw percentage, and he would pipe in something to the effect of: "His game has probably suffered since the Enron crisis. He probably should stick to Ken Lay-ups! HAHA!"