Evidently the parental units had a sense of history in spite of themselves, contriving to unleash their firstborn upon the world right around Thanksgiving, with no way of knowing that someday Webster's would be printing a picture of him next to their definition of "ingrate".

Actually, I come by this fairly naturally. Biting the hand that feeds me is instinctive, as most of my employers will willingly testify assuming they haven't blocked out all memories of the likes of me. I really wouldn't blame them if they did; in fact, on one application, I filled in the blank for "Reason for leaving previous job" as "Mutual illness", and explaining in the fine print: "I was sick of them, and they were sick of me."

Of course, the hand that feeds me is also the hand that slaps me around, especially given the stresses that pervade today's permanent-5-percent-unemployment job market; I don't feel anyone should apologize for occasionally slapping back.

Does this constitute disloyalty? I don't know. I do know, though, that loyalty goes both ways, and if you won't stand beside me, I probably don't want to be seen with you.

The Vent

25 November 1996

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 Copyright © 1996 by Charles G. Hill