God bless the microscopic little hearts of those who run our government institutions.   Some of them really do try to help, but they are caught in the gears of a machine that grinds on relentlessly.   Others find that it is the perfect place for Empire Building as they carve out their tiny corner and forge it into a place of omnipotence for themselves.   Entering into those places is like being given a number to await your turn to drop your pants, bend over and back into the first available Ream-A-Tron.   Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

    There are very specific guidelines for a code of ethics here.   They are unfathomable to the average human being and quite often are in conflict with themselves.   I recently found myself in the unenviable position of being unemployed, and since my savings and assets were non-existent it would be necessary to go through the unemployment mill.

    There are those that are so often out of work I guess they have the system down to a fine art and adroitly leap through the obstacle course without so much as putting a single hair out of place.   Many of them have advantages, but I’ll get to that in a bit.   I turned up at the unemployment office about two hours after being told that my services were no longer required.   Dutifully I stood in the reception line up and waited my turn.   My nightmare was only just beginning.

    I was given a ream of forms about the same thickness as the Holy Bible and told to take a seat, fill them out, and bring them back to the receptionist when I was done.   Each one begins the same: “Please identify yourself…” and then proceeds to ask you to list all your vital statistics in a very precise manner.   Why it would be necessary to do this on every form was absolutely mystifying to me until I realized that the computers on the counter were simply there as ornate paperweights.   No deviation is allowed and failure to answer questions in the proper way will result in all manner of horrible tortures, as I was about to discover.

    Having used several gallons of ink in filling all these out I once again took my place in line.   I finally was in the august presence of the receptionist who promptly informed me that I had not e-filed my statistics and she directed me to a bank of computers.   Apparently she was unable to use a keyboard herself so it would be necessary for me to assist her at her job of data entry.   Odd that she didn’t tell me to do that while I was filling out the forms, but I guess it makes them look busier if there are lots of people in line.   I sat down at the ‘puter and proceeded to fill out electronically the very same forms that I had just filled out by hand.

    Once again I returned to the line-up to wait.   By now it seemed that the number of people in line had grown considerably.   Possibly they were previous applicants trying to file claims they started during the Great Depression of the 30’s but I can’t really be sure.   Finally arriving at the receptionist she reviewed my claim.   Apparently several of the answers I gave were unsatisfactory so she gave me several more forms to fill out explaining why I had answered the previous questions in such a stupid manner.   I “identified” myself at least 6 more times.   I think the ‘puters they use are connected to the shopping network and have nothing to do with personal claims at all.

    I returned to the line-up which now included several gladiators who had been out of work since the fall of the Roman Empire.   They left in a state of great despondence when they were informed that their claims were refused since time worked towards a claim cannot be backdated more than a thousand years, and in any event were disallowed because their previous employer had not provided them with a valid record of employment.   I smiled with all my charm at the receptionist who took my forms.   She scowled at them and promptly discarded the ones I had just filled out.   Evidently they were similar in nature to writing on the blackboard “I have been a bad boy.” a thousand times.

    She provided me with a numbered ticket and directed me to a waiting area where I was to wait for a counselor.   I was about 16 numbers away from being called.   By now I had grown a beard that would put Rip Van Winkle to shame, so I decided to return home and try again in the morning.   This was to prove a wise decision.   Bathed and rested, I returned early the next day.   Since there were only a few out of work Neanderthal Hunter/Gatherers in line before me my wait was short.   The counselor took my papers, entered all the information on the ‘puter that I had already entered on the ‘puter the previous day, thanked me for my time, and told me that my claim would be processed once I turned in my record of employment from my most recent job.   Somehow I got the feeling that clamps were being applied to the most intimate parts of my body.

    You see, the thing is that the Unemployment People have this thing called a “waiting period”.   Your claim can only start from the time when all your paperwork is complete.   This means that my previous employer can screw me over twice…first of all by letting me go, and then by using their own bureaucratic machine to issue my record of employment.   They are allowed a whole month before the government gets miffed at them for not filling out forms.   By that time I am reduced to eating ketchup and serviette sandwiches at the local MacDonald’s.   After that I begin my “waiting period”.   I think the waiting period is just to allow the Unemployment People sufficient time to digest yesterday’s lunch before hurling themselves into the fray once more.

    Earlier I mentioned that there were people who were distinctly advantaged when it comes to collecting benefits.   While I waited in the office there were several parades with banners and juggling clowns and all kinds of interesting things.   This parade was to inform me that I would not be discriminated against based on race, creed, skin colour, sex, age, religious belief, sexual orientation, marital status or if I had donated campaign funds to the Liberals in the last election or not.   I found this rather odd because on the several thousand forms I had been required to fill out in each case I was asked:
My age
My sex
Was I of native descent?
Was I Metis?
Was I a member of any visible minority?
Was I disabled in any way?
Was I French or English?
Was I an immigrant?

    I’m not all that bright, but these questions seemed to be blatantly discriminatory to me.   Furthermore, as a white Anglo-Saxon it seems that I had been put at the bottom of the pile somewhere.   If you were over 45, your career options were limited to that of being dog food.   In viewing the available “help” literature it looked like there was lots of help available if you were young, an immigrant, or a member of some minority group.   Now I know why dinosaurs became extinct.   They died out because they were ineligible for UIC assistance.   It seems that in order to get instant assistance I would need to immigrate to someplace like Botswana, have a complete sex change done, dye my skin, become gay, join a French speaking tribe and then re-immigrate to Canada claiming refugee status.   Hell…they would probably hire me on the spot as a department head, particularly if my language skills were nearly indecipherable!

    Well, the Great Adventure is just beginning.   They have promised to continually plague me with demands for my work search records just to make sure I’m not shamming them; to test and see if I’m not really interested in the dignity of regular employment.   This would also be accompanied by demands that I attend completely mystifying and totally useless courses evidently designed for people with the intellectual capacity of a stalk of rhubarb, or face suspension of my entitlement benefits.   It’s going to be very interesting to see what unusual things the government is doing in a few years’ time when my Canada Pension Plan kicks in.