I am sitting in a US Census meeting. One fan. And it isn't me. Drenched. My t-shirt looks like I entered a contest in a bar sponsored by Jagermeister. There is droning about Form #49283XBF and the matter of the RUV-83DE project. I just want my answer what do about the asshole doorman on 21st Street who is ruining my life. Instead I sit and fester and marinate.
Census work is not for the weak of heart. It is for the unemployed.
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