F'K U, HAUS! — THE TRAINING THAT NEVER FUCKING HAPPENED
By Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
There is a special kind of corporate bullshit that deserves its own exhibit in the Museum of Human Stupidity.
It's called PROMISING TO FIX A PROBLEM AND THEN FIRING THE PERSON WHEN THE PROBLEM ISN'T FIXED.
Welcome back to Haus Morgenrot.
Where the policies are apparently sacred, the training is imaginary, and the employee is expected to develop psychic powers before clocking in.
I worked there.
I liked working there.
That's the part that pisses me off the most.
I didn't hate the job. I didn't hate the hours. I didn't hate having a routine, a paycheck, and something productive to do with my day.
Six twelve-hour shifts, two days off.
Was it exhausting? Absolutely.
Did I enjoy the money? You're goddamn right.
I showed up because I wanted to work.
And then came August.
An allegation. A suspension. Lost hours.
Management told me I'd failed a policy check and promised training.
Wonderful!
Training!
You know, that revolutionary workplace concept where somebody actually teaches you how to perform a task according to the rules before expecting you to perform it flawlessly.
What an astonishing fucking invention.
Except there was one tiny problem.
THE TRAINING NEVER HAPPENED.
No magical classroom.
No corrective instruction.
No promised opportunity to learn the procedure properly.
Just the expectation that I'd return to work and somehow absorb the missing knowledge through the walls.
Perhaps the employee handbook was supposed to crawl into my ear while I slept.
Perhaps I was supposed to develop Hiei's Jagan Eye and gaze into the forbidden dimension where management keeps its operational competence.
Apparently, the third eye wasn't included in my $16-an-hour compensation package.
Then September 14 happened.
The wand kept beeping around a client's upper leg and groin area.
And I made a mistake.
There. I said it.
I MADE A PROCEDURAL MISTAKE.
I continued the screening when I should have stopped and followed the staff-notification procedure.
I acknowledged that in my written statement.
I didn't claim to be a flawless employee descended from Mount Olympus with a golden security wand and divine certification in Contraband Detection.
I was a human being trying to complete a task.
And I disputed the allegation that I intentionally touched anyone's genitals.
Those are two different fucking things.
A procedural mistake is not automatically proof of malicious intent.
But apparently nuance is an endangered species in the corporate wilderness.
And here's the especially maddening part.
That night, the supervisor asked what I should do when the wand alerted near the groin.
Sit the client down. Call the SOD.
That was my answer.
That conversation happened during the September 14 incident, not weeks beforehand.
So please, for the love of every miserable cactus growing in Texas, don't rewrite the timeline to make it sound like management had already sat me down and delivered the promised practical training.
Because they hadn't.
Then came the suspension.
September 14.
September 15.
September 16.
The calendar kept moving.
The paychecks didn't.
I waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Until September 30, when the phone finally rang and I learned I was terminated.
October 1 brought the official letter.
My alleged crime, according to the paperwork?
Unsatisfactory or careless work. Failure to comply with guidelines or quality standards supposedly explained by a supervisor.
SUPPOSEDLY EXPLAINED.
Well, that's a fascinating phrase.
Which supervisor?
Which explanation?
Which training session?
Which specific instruction?
And where the hell was the training you promised after August?
I'm not claiming a termination letter has to contain an entire encyclopedia of workplace policy. But if you're going to cite standards supposedly explained to an employee, don't act surprised when the employee asks when that explanation actually occurred.
Because from where I'm sitting, the training department apparently operated out of Narnia.
And then, just when I thought the bureaucratic circus had exhausted its supply of clown shoes, along came unemployment.
October 2: claim filed.
October 14: payment request processed.
October 19: still under review.
Benefits paid?
ZERO FUCKING DOLLARS.
Now, I understand that TWC has to investigate. I understand that an employer's decision to terminate someone and the state's decision about unemployment eligibility are different matters.
Fine.
Investigate.
Check the facts.
Ask the questions.
But while everybody takes their sweet time reviewing paperwork, the unemployed person still has to live.
The bills don't enter administrative review.
The phone company doesn't accept “Your payment is currently under investigation” as legal tender.
The grocery store doesn't let you purchase dinner with an eligibility determination that's still pending.
And the bank account?
Oh, that magnificent little bastard keeps getting smaller.
Meanwhile, I've been applying for jobs.
Not five.
Not ten.
EIGHTY-FOUR APPLICATIONS ACROSS MY FIRST TWO CLAIM WEEKS.
And I'm still looking.
Because unlike the fictional employee management apparently imagined, I actually want to fucking work.
I want my routine back.
I want to earn my money.
I want to pay my bills without staring at a dwindling balance like it's the countdown timer on a bomb.
And I'm tired.
Not the cute kind of tired where you take a nap, wake up, and everything's wonderful.
I'm talking about the kind of exhaustion where you start wondering how many more administrative hoops a person has to jump through before someone finally says something useful.
Here's what I want people to understand.
I CAN ACCEPT RESPONSIBILITY FOR MY OWN MISTAKES WITHOUT ACCEPTING RESPONSIBILITY FOR EVERY FAILURE OF THE ORGANIZATION THAT EMPLOYED ME.
I can acknowledge that I should have stopped the screening.
I can acknowledge that I should have called the SOD.
I can acknowledge that I wasn't perfect.
But I can also ask why management promised training and never provided it.
I can ask why it took sixteen days after my second suspension to terminate me.
I can ask why I had to sit without income while decisions about my livelihood dragged on.
And I can be angry without pretending that anger makes every accusation against me true.
That's not refusing accountability.
That's refusing to become the designated fucking scapegoat for an entire workplace's problems.
So here's my message to every organization that loves putting ACCOUNTABILITY, PROFESSIONALISM, and EXCELLENCE in enormous letters on its walls:
Try practicing them.
If you promise training, deliver it.
If your employees don't understand a procedure, teach them.
If there's a safety concern, address it before somebody gets hurt or loses their job.
And if you're going to make decisions that affect someone's livelihood, communicate like you understand that the person on the other end has bills, responsibilities, and a life outside your goddamn office.
I didn't ask for perfection.
I asked for a fair opportunity to do the job correctly.
Instead, I got a suspension, a termination letter, and a front-row seat to the bureaucratic waiting room.
So yes.
I'm angry.
I'm exhausted.
And I still have to get up tomorrow and look for another job.
But I'm not going to drain my bank account out of spite.
I'm not going to manufacture evidence.
I'm not going to pretend I never made a mistake.
I'm going to preserve my records, tell the truth, keep applying, and protect whatever money I have left.
Because the one thing Haus Morgenrot doesn't get to take from me is the ability to decide what I do next.
ACT BROKE. STAY BORING. KEEP THE RECEIPTS.
And to the mythical training session that was promised in August:
If you ever emerge from whatever dimensional portal swallowed you, please report to Human Resources.
Your employee has already been terminated.
Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
Chief Executive Raccoon, Department of Unsolicited Accountability
Final workplace performance review:
Training promised: Yes.
Training delivered: No.
Employee terminated: Yes.
Bureaucracy completed: Still fucking loading.
F'K U, HAUS.