Application refused! (bureaucratic flash fiction)

…these foreigners, God help us. They land at Narita, doesn’t matter if they don’t have two braincells to rub together, the very next day lo and behold they’ve got a job teaching English. Some crook running a godawful tinpot eikaiwa above a Tsutaya two blocks behind Kawasaki station takes them on after checking they can say He is Mr Smith. Work there a couple of weeks til they get sponsored for a visa, then – would you believe it – they bugger off, on to the next sucker who’ll give them a salary. Six months here, six months there. I’ve taken shits longer than some of them last in jobs. And all the time they’ve only got one bloody thing on their minds, and it sure ain’t teaching or doing any sort of job properly. You’d think the Ministry of Education could at least do its job properly and educate our females on the dangers. But no. Seems these imbeciles are the very paragons of desirability, regardless of them being useless no-hopers back wherever they came from. Because sooner or later they all get themselves their precious kanojo – god just hearing one of them say that word makes me want to spew up all over this pile of forms. Yes these fucking forms. Would you believe it, muggins here has been landed the most hideous job in the whole Japanese Pension Service. Why why why? What did I do to deserve it? Because after a while they go away don’t they. Thankfully. Well, most of them. But when they do, are they out of our skin for good? Not likely, they’re still there, like the phantom itch they say you get on a limb that’s been amputated. They’re still niggling away, having the brass neck to claim back the pension payments they made while they were here flitting between twenty two different non-jobs. And that’s where I get them. Or I get the forms they have to submit. The instructions couldn’t be clearer, I tell you. And yet, hardly a single one of them ever does it right. Take this one here. Alexander Reid’s the name on his passport. But would we – would the Japanese taxpayer – mind paying his fucking pension refund into a bank account for someone called Sandy. I suppose I’m meant to assume it’s the same person. That’s what they like isn’t it: assuming. Don’t do things carefully, don’t do them seriously, as if they actually matter. Oh no. That’s not their way. Just assume. But – Mister Sandy Fucking Alexander fucking Reid- it is our way and we’ll stick to it, thank you. Now where’s my hanko? Here we are. Quick dip in the red ink. And… THWOCK. Application refused! Too bad dogbrains. Better luck next time. If you’re very very lucky it’ll land on the desk of that sap Ichikawa san. No steel that kid. No backbone I tell you. It’s all the Ministry of Education’s fault. Consider retirement, they have the gall to tell me. Ha! Not likely. What the hell do they think would happen if the young generation took over now? Chaos! Unmitigated bloody chaos! Still, only four hours to go and then I’ll get some ramen and hit the izakaya. Aren’t the Giants playing tonight? Nothing like a bit of baseball to take your mind off all the crap we have to put up with here…





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