Alex

Professional overthinker, sarcasm distributor, job market narrator, and part time raccoon consultant. Surviving chaos with caffeine and questionable optimism.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

Corporate America has officially turned layoffs into a subscription service. Just when you thought your career had survived the first episode, Amazon reportedly dropped Season Two: The Employees Strike Back.

Except the employees don’t strike back. They get an email, a cardboard box, and a complimentary opportunity to update LinkedIn. I saw the headline about Amazon cutting hundreds more jobs in another round of layoffs, and my first thought was, does anyone in corporate leadership know how to use the unsubscribe button? Because these layoffs keep arriving like packages I never ordered. Same day delivery, zero job security. Somewhere an executive is saying, “We’re streamlining operations.”

And you know HR has prepared the script. “We appreciate your contributions.” Fantastic. Can I pay my mortgage in contributions? “This decision was not made lightly.” Really? Because it landed in my inbox faster than the socks I ordered with Prime. “Your role has been impacted.” Impacted? My role didn’t get hit by a meteor. Somebody deleted it from a spreadsheet.

Then comes the inspirational LinkedIn post from a senior executive. “Today is a difficult day for our Amazon family.” Family? Uncle Jeff just sold my bedroom and told me to network. Please stop calling employees family when the family reunion involves security escorting people out of the building.

And the timing is always spectacular. Companies spend months telling workers to think big, demonstrate ownership, invent, simplify, and deliver results. Then one Tuesday, they simplify you right out of the organization. Congratulations! You’ve successfully demonstrated ownership of a laptop you now have to return by Friday.

My inner raccoon is already digging through the corporate trash looking for the missing accountability. He’s wearing a tiny business suit, and screaming, “WHY IS THE COMPANY HIRING FOR A SIMILAR ROLE?” HR says it’s a different position. Of course it is. This one requires twelve interviews, three personality tests, and the ability to smile while being ghosted by a robot.

But behind every headline is a real person. Someone who worked late, missed dinner, covered shifts, believed the promises, and thought doing a good job meant a little stability. Someone who now has to tell a spouse, a parent, or a child that things are changing. That’s not a punchline. That’s the part that hurts. The same people who once called you essential suddenly act like you were an optional accessory. Funny how quickly a company can forget your name while remembering exactly where to ship the return label.

So if you’re one of the people affected, please hear this: a company can eliminate your position, but it cannot erase your experience, your character, or what you bring to the next chapter. Take the time you need. Be angry. Be sad. Laugh when you can.

And remember, your worth was never listed on Amazon Prime. You are not a discontinued product. You’re a human being, and your story is nowhere near finished.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

My feed is full of corporate espionage, billionaire romance, artificial intelligence, and missing PDF attachments. It’s Tuesday morning. I wanted coffee and a weather forecast. Instead, my phone handed me the plot of a James Bond movie written by the HR department at happy hour.

Apparently, Nvidia’s CEO admitted to an affair, and now there are reports involving a woman U.S. intelligence suspects of spying for China. Nvidia is investigating; China denies the spy claims. Meanwhile, I’m sitting at Starbucks wondering if my oat milk is stealing secrets. The barista wrote “Kevin” on my cup. I’m not Kevin. Is this spy recruitment?

I have questions. First, how do you explain this to HR? “Describe a time you demonstrated poor judgment.” “How much time do you have? Are these microphones live?” Second, what does the annual cybersecurity refresher look like now? Slide one: Don’t click suspicious links. Slide two: Don’t date suspicious links. Slide three: If someone asks for your password over candlelight, skip dessert.

Can you imagine being an ordinary Nvidia employee? You forget your badge once and Security escorts you through six doors like you stole nuclear codes. The CEO becomes the subject of an international spy thriller and suddenly the board needs a committee, outside counsel, and a conference room with tissues. The rest of us get a mandatory training video narrated by a man named Todd. LinkedIn is going to be unbearable. Some leadership coach is already drafting “Seven Lessons About Vulnerability From the Nvidia Scandal.” Another writes, “True leaders aren’t afraid to cross borders.” Sir, this is not a leadership lesson. This is a season of Homeland with a LinkedIn Premium subscription. Stop turning every disaster into a carousel.

And the recruiters! “We’re looking for someone who thrives in a fast paced environment.” How fast? “International incident fast.” “Must be comfortable handling sensitive data.” Sure, I once kept a coworker’s surprise birthday lunch secret. “Can you maintain professional boundaries?” Apparently that’s a stretch goal. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Not explaining my texts to Congress.

My inner raccoon has already put on sunglasses, taped a tiny earpiece to his head, and started interrogating the office Keurig. He found three expired creamers and a note saying “We’re a family.” He’s calling it the biggest intelligence breach of the decade. I told him to calm down. He demanded diplomatic immunity and a $14 latte. Executive material.

To be fair, the spying allegations are still allegations. Investigations exist for a reason. But the internet has already ordered popcorn, greenlit a trilogy, and cast the photocopier as the double agent.

It’s only Tuesday. By Friday, my toaster will be testifying before Congress, Workday will ask for its resume, and HR will remind us that office relationships must be disclosed in triplicate. Even my Wi-Fi wants legal counsel. I just wanted coffee. Not a security clearance.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

Starbucks on a Tuesday morning is a live-action documentary about what happens when caffeine becomes a religion and common sense calls in sick. It’s 6:00 a.m. The sun hasn’t finished loading, but twenty seven people are already in line, pretending they’re stable.

I walked in for a coffee. One cup of survival. Instead, I entered a corporate team building exercise sponsored by sleep deprivation. The man ahead of me was ordering a venti, half caf, extra hot, no foam, oat milk drink with three pumps of regret and a sprinkle of childhood trauma. The barista asked for his name. He said, “You should know me by now.” Sir, even your therapist needs a reminder. Behind him stood a woman wearing a headset, conducting a meeting loudly. “We need to circle back and leverage our synergies!” Lady, you’re standing beside a cake pop. Nobody here wants to leverage anything except the emergency exit. She told her team she was “working remotely.” From the International Space Station? We can all hear the blender interviewing for a promotion.

Then came the guy who ordered black coffee and announced he hates fancy drinks. Congratulations, Captain Simplicity. Do you also walk into a library to announce you don’t read? He looked at my latte like it had personally outsourced his manufacturing job.

At the pickup counter, a woman screamed, “THIS ISN’T MY DRINK!” Her cup said Brandon. Her name was Stephanie. Apparently literacy is now a premium feature. Someone asked why iced coffee was cold. I watched the barista’s soul quietly leave her body, put on an apron at Dunkin’, and transfer to Mars. The espresso machine was filing for leave. Meanwhile, the mobile order shelf looked like a witness protection program for abandoned beverages. Forty cups. No owners. Just names like Bex, Jax, Max, and someone called “CEO Energy.” CEO Energy had ordered a $12 latte and couldn’t show up on time. Sounds like upper management to me.

A man in a blazer was having a job interview in the corner. The hiring manager asked, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Buddy, at this rate, still waiting for your cappuccino. Then came “Tell me about a time you overcame a challenge.” I wanted to interrupt and say, “I successfully entered this Starbucks without flipping a table. Does that count as leadership?”

By 6:20, somebody had asked for a refund because their drink “didn’t taste like Tuesday.” What does Tuesday taste like? Unanswered emails, stale ambition, and the slow realization that Friday is still three business centuries away? Finally, they called my name. Wrong name, naturally. My cup said Kevin. I accepted my new identity because Kevin apparently had better benefits. I walked out with my coffee, and enough material for an HR investigation.

Tomorrow I’ll be back. Not because I love Starbucks. Because it’s the only place where you can pay nine dollars to watch strangers have a complete corporate meltdown before your first meeting. At least here, the chaos comes with whipped cream.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

Some toxic bosses treat your resignation like a breakup they never agreed to. You leave, move on with your life, and somehow they’re still watching your LinkedIn like a jealous ex refreshing your relationship status.

Congratulations, sir. You’ve been promoted from terrible manager to unpaid president of my fan club. The other day I posted a video about my toxic ex boss lurking on my LinkedIn. Apparently, the man has been telling his little minions to monitor my posts and report back. Report WHAT? That I’m laughing? That I have a pulse? That my inner raccoon has stronger leadership skills than the entire executive team?

I can picture the emergency meeting. “Forget sales. Forget customers. Forget that the printer has been on fire since Tuesday. Alex posted again. I need screenshots by noon!” One minion handles LinkedIn. Another watches Facebook. The intern is assigned to the raccoon because nobody in management understands who’s actually running this operation.

These people act like they’re gathering intelligence for the Pentagon. Buddy, you’re not MI6. You’re three assistant managers in a break room sharing stale donuts and one charger. Your classified mission is watching a former employee make jokes about toxic workplaces. Even Netflix would reject this plot for being too pathetic.

And the boss? Oh, he’s probably sitting in his office whispering, “What’s he saying about me now?” Relax, Captain Insecurity. Not every joke is about you. Some are about other terrible bosses. I believe in equal opportunity roasting. I don’t discriminate against incompetence. My favorite part is imagining the daily briefing. “Sir, at 7:43 a.m., the subject posted a joke. At 7:46, someone laughed. At 7:49, a raccoon was mentioned. We recommend an immediate all hands meeting and a strongly worded email nobody will read.”

Meanwhile, employees are asking for help, customers are waiting, and the workplace morale is somewhere underneath the dumpster. But yes, let’s devote resources to studying my hashtags. Maybe if you put half this energy into coaching your team, you wouldn’t need a surveillance department disguised as middle management.

To the minions: thank you for your dedication. Please like, comment, and share while you’re here. If you’re going to stalk my content on company time, I expect better engagement. At least add me to the agenda. Put together a PowerPoint. Include a pie chart showing how much of your workday is spent thinking about me.

And to my former boss, here’s a leadership tip: when someone leaves your company, you no longer get to manage their life. You can unfollow, move on, develop a hobby, or perhaps try managing the people still on your payroll. I hear they’re available for actual leadership.

Anyway, my inner raccoon says hello again!!! He’s currently accepting applications for Director of Corporate Surveillance. Requirements include zero self-awareness, five years of gossip, and the ability to panic when an ex employee enjoys a Tuesday.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

Corporate America has found a way to make job interviews even more ridiculous: hire four people to read questions off paper and call it a leadership assessment. Apparently, the real test is keeping a straight face while the hiring team struggles to read.

The other day I was on a Zoom call with four interviewers. Every single one had a sheet of paper in hand. Not notes. Not my resume. A SCRIPT. They were reading questions line by line like four substitute teachers covering a class nobody wanted. I kept waiting for someone to yell, “Cut! Let’s try that again with emotion.” Instead, they looked like an emergency meeting of teleprompter appreciation society.

The first guy asked, “Tell me about yourself.” I started answering, but he was already hunting for question two. I could have said, “I’m three raccoons in a trench coat applying for dental benefits,” and he would have nodded. “Excellent. Describe a time you demonstrated teamwork.” Sir, the raccoons share a coat. What more do you want? The second interviewer asked where I see myself in five years. At this rate? Still on this Zoom call, waiting for somebody to find page four. She stared at her paper so intensely I thought she was trying to summon the spirit of Human Resources. Meanwhile, my inner raccoon was chewing on the imaginary power cord.

Then came the behavioral questions. “Tell us about a time you dealt with a difficult person.” I looked at the four little squares on my screen. Finally, an opportunity for a real time case study! “Tell us about a time you showed initiative.” Well, I logged into this meeting voluntarily. That should qualify for hazard pay.

But the showstopper was the VP. Title. Serious face. Executive energy. He reached a word in his script and couldn’t pronounce it. Tried once. Tried twice. Then stared at the page like it had betrayed him. The other three went silent. I almost offered to sound it out with him, but I didn’t want to accidentally get promoted to Chief Reading Officer. Maybe the next interview round includes flash cards and a spelling bee.

When it was my turn, I asked, “What does success look like in this position?” Panic. Actual panic. Suddenly nobody could read from the paper because my question wasn’t on it. One person said, “That’s a great question.” Another promised to circle back. Circle back to whom? The screenwriter? The intern who downloaded Interview Questions for Dummies?

Here’s what gets me. These companies expect candidates to be authentic, spontaneous, innovative, and passionate. Yet the interview panel has the creative range of a microwave instruction manual. They want us to think outside the box while all four of them are trapped inside a three ring binder. If you’re going to judge my communication skills, maybe start by successfully communicating a sentence without technical support.

And to the VP: I hope you finally learned that word. If not, don’t worry. HR can probably schedule a six round panel interview to help you pronounce it.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

The other day I had a conversation with a hiring manager who told me, with deep concern, “It’s just so hard to find qualified candidates these days.”

I said, “Really? Let me see the job description.” Five minutes later, I understood the problem. They weren’t hiring a person. They were trying to recruit a supernatural creature with a LinkedIn profile, a master’s degree, and a willingness to work for cake.

The position was listed as “Entry Level,” which apparently means you entered the workforce during the Clinton administration. Requirements included 15 years of experience with software released four years ago. I asked whether they were accepting applicants with time machines. She said, “We prefer candidates who can demonstrate initiative.” Fine. I’ll invent the software in 2008 and circle back. The ideal candidate needed to be a visionary leader, a humble team player, a strategic thinker, a hands on problem solver, and someone who “thrives in ambiguity.” Translation: nobody knows what this job is, but you’ll be blamed when it goes wrong. Ma’am, you’re advertising for an operations director, not a hat rack at Burlington.

Then came the responsibilities. Manage 12 departments. Lead global initiatives. Build the budget. Fix the printer. Bring innovative ideas to the table, but don’t question management. Be available nights and weekends while maintaining “excellent work life balance.” I guess the balance is that work gets your life and you get a branded water bottle.

The salary? “Competitive.” Competitive with what? A middle school lemonade stand? She explained they offered a dynamic compensation package. I asked whether the package contained actual money or just complimentary access to the office microwave. And the culture! “We’re a family here.” Of course you are. A family where Thanksgiving dinner is a performance review and Grandpa fires you because the mashed potatoes didn’t meet quarterly targets. Benefits included flexible hours, meaning you answer whenever they call. Even the desk plant resigned, citing unrealistic growth expectations and no PTO.

I asked how many interview rounds. “Just six, plus a case study, personality assessment, panel presentation, and a casual coffee chat with the CEO.” Casual? That’s not hiring. That’s an international adoption process with a background check conducted by the Avengers.

Finally, she sighed and said, “People just don’t want to work anymore.” I looked at the description again. You want a Harvard trained astronaut, a Navy SEAL, a therapist, an accountant, a software engineer, and a motivational speaker, all rolled into one person who will cheerfully accept $52,000 and bring their own laptop. I told her, “Your candidate exists. He’s called Batman. But he has better benefits, his own transportation, and even he doesn’t answer emails after Gotham closes.”

Maybe qualified candidates aren’t impossible to find. Maybe the unicorns read the job posting, saw the salary, and decided to remain mythical.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

I never imagined getting laid off would turn me into a corporate nonsense detective with a raccoon as my unpaid legal department. But here we are. Life has a funny way of taking your career plan, feeding it through a paper shredder, and asking, “So, are you open to new opportunities?”

For years, I was the guy defending corporate culture. I talked about teamwork, loyalty, leadership, and belonging to a company that called everyone family. I believed the speeches and the executives insisting people came first. Then I got laid off. Apparently, I was family right up until the budget spreadsheet suggested adoption was too expensive.

It hurt. I questioned things I used to say without hesitation. Instead of pretending everything was fine, I started talking about it publicly. The rejections. The ghosting. The interviews that felt like auditions for a reality show nobody wanted to watch. I thought someone might relate. Then more people joined. And more. Suddenly my inbox was full of stories from people who had been carrying the same frustration in silence. That’s how The Interview Games began. Not in a boardroom. Not with investors. Just one guy trying to make sense of a broken hiring experience, armed with sarcasm, curiosity, and an inner raccoon who wants to subpoena every applicant tracking system in America.

Now I have exciting updates. I’ve started making videos that bring my written posts to life and tell the stories behind them. I’ve also launched The Interview Games on TikTok, YouTube, and Facebook. My raccoon now has more platforms than most corporations have functioning HR policies. He has already requested a dressing room, a publicist, and unlimited snacks.

And something I never expected: a couple of media production companies have reached out about the possibility of making The Interview Games into a TV series. A TV series! I went from being told my position was eliminated to potentially turning corporate absurdity into entertainment. If that happens, I hope the casting director knows how to find an executive who can say “We’re a family” without laughing.

Here’s what matters most to me: I don’t get paid for the content I make. I do it because I remember what it felt like to be overlooked, dismissed, and reduced to a line on someone’s spreadsheet. Behind every ridiculous rejection email is a real human being trying to pay bills, support a family, and hold on to hope. I want those people to be seen. I want their stories heard. I want someone reading a post at midnight to laugh and think, “Okay, I’m not alone.” And I want employers to remember that candidates aren’t disposable application numbers.

So thank you for sharing your stories, laughing with me, and helping this strange little experiment grow. The jokes may be unhinged, but the mission is serious: make hiring more human and more honest.

And if The Interview Games ends up on television, my raccoon is negotiating first class travel. I’m still trying to get him to answer emails.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

Sunday evening is that magical time when the weekend packs its bags, steals your happiness, and leaves Monday standing on your porch like a debt collector with a Teams invitation.

The air smells like reheated coffee, unfinished spreadsheets, and somebody saying, “Just a quick call.” You spend Saturday believing you’re a free human being. By Sunday night you’re negotiating with the clock like a hostage trying to buy one more hour of daylight. “If I go to bed now, I’ll get eight hours.” Then you open TikTok, watch a man build a cabin out of mud, and wake up emotionally invested in a raccoon stealing grapes. Congratulations. You’ve traded sleep for wildlife content and three new anxieties.

The Sunday Scaries are ridiculous. Nobody has emailed you yet, but somehow you can already hear Karen typing “Gentle reminder” with the force of a courtroom subpoena. Your inbox is stretching before the big game. Somewhere a manager is scheduling a 7:30 a.m. meeting titled “Monday Motivation.” Sir, if motivation requires an alarm before sunrise, that’s not leadership. That’s a misdemeanor with a slideshow.

Tomorrow we’ll all log in pretending we’ve been reborn. “Happy Monday!” chirps Brad, who apparently spent the weekend charging himself in a docking station. Brad has posted “Rise and grind” next to a photo of his protein shake. Brad, respectfully, shut the hell up. Some of us are still grieving Sunday and looking for pants. Even the coffee wants a day off.

Then the meeting starts. Someone asks, “Any wins from last week?” I successfully avoided replying to an email that began “As discussed.” That’s a win. Another person says, “Let’s hit the ground running.” Why? Did the building catch fire? We have chairs. Let’s hit the ground sitting and see how the quarter develops.

And to my job hunting friends, Sunday has its own special horror soundtrack. While everyone else dreads Monday’s meetings, you’re staring at seventeen application portals wondering whether you really need to upload your resume AND manually type every job you’ve had since the invention of electricity. Then a robot rejects you at 2:13 a.m. Even the rejection department has better work life balance than you.

But underneath the jokes, I know Sunday can feel heavy. Maybe you’re exhausted by work. Maybe you’re looking for work. Maybe you’re trying to hold your family, finances, and confidence together with leftover pizza and a prayer. You’re allowed to be tired. You don’t have to conquer the universe before breakfast to prove you’re doing enough.

So tonight, eat the snack. Watch the episode. Put the phone down before your thumb applies for a job in another state. Take a breath, laugh at the chaos, and remember that one rough Monday doesn’t get to write your whole story.

And if someone sends “New week, new opportunities!” at 5:01 a.m., I hope their motivational quote gets stuck in the printer. Sleep well, legends. Corporate court reconvenes tomorrow, and my inner raccoon has pleaded not guilty.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

The hardest part of losing a job wasn’t updating my resume. It was waking up each morning, staring at my inbox and trying to remember that I was still worth something even when nobody wanted to interview me.

Some days I had faith. Other days I had coffee, sarcasm, and a raccoon in my head screaming, “WE ARE NOT DOING ANOTHER PERSONALITY TEST!” A while back I wrote about having a job interview with God. Yes, God. Not a recruiter claiming to be a “people person” while ghosting 400 people before lunch. The actual Almighty. In my imagination, Heaven had a reception desk, an angel named Brittany, and a Keurig with better service than corporate HR.

I wrote it as a joke, but the truth behind it wasn’t funny. Some mornings I was one “we’ve decided to move forward with other candidates” away from applying to be a decorative plant. Plants get sunlight without explaining a five year plan.

During those days, I prayed. I also checked my inbox like it owed me child support. Refresh. Nothing. I started wondering whether my prayers were going to spam. Maybe Heaven’s software rejected my keywords. “Sorry, Alex. Your faith was impressive, but we’re looking for someone with seven years of experience walking on water.”

Somewhere between the ridiculous interviews and directors paid like part time squirrels, I discovered something. Humor didn’t solve my problems, but it gave me enough room to breathe. Faith didn’t magically erase the fear, but it reminded me that a rejection wasn’t the final word on my life.

That’s why I started The Interview Games: to talk about what job seekers whisper while everyone else posts inspirational mountain quotes. The embarrassment. The anxiety. The applications sent at midnight. The brave smile at dinner when your family asks, “Any news?” and the answer is still no. And the absurdity. If a company demands six interviews, an unpaid presentation, and a blood oath before an automated rejection, somebody needs to tell a joke. Preferably my inner raccoon, who has already requested legal representation.

If you are job hunting or recovering from a layoff, please hear this: you are not your employment status. You are not the number of callbacks you received this week. You are not a resume gap judged in ten seconds. You are a whole person with stories, strengths, people who love you, and a future you cannot fully see yet.

It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to laugh at a ridiculous rejection email and then cry again when the house gets quiet. Hope doesn’t always look like a motivational speech. Sometimes it looks like getting out of bed, making coffee, and trying one more time. And some days just surviving the silence deserves more applause than another promotion.

I don’t know when your next door will open. I won’t pretend I do. But I believe a closed door doesn’t close the story. Keep your faith, keep your sense of humor, and keep going. And if Heaven ever asks for your resume, send a PDF. Brittany is very particular.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

The other day I joined a Zoom panel interview and immediately realized I had accidentally logged into a hostage negotiation run by six executives allergic to leadership.

One guy was named “iPhone.” Another was a black square labeled “Strategic Vision.” The hiring manager announced, “We’re a fun, relaxed team,” like a prison warden announcing yard time. Before we started, everybody spent seven minutes asking, “Can you hear me?” Yes, Susan. We can hear your dog filing a formal complaint, your microwave announcing lunch, and your husband prepping for a colonoscopy. What we cannot hear is a single useful question. One executive had his camera pointed directly up his nostrils like he was broadcasting live from a cave system. Another kept nodding while shopping for patio furniture.

Then came the introductions. “I’m the VP of People.” “I’m the Director of Culture.” “I’m the Senior Director of Cross Functional Alignment.” Congratulations. I’m the Regional Director of Not Giving a Shit About Titles That Sound Like Wi-Fi Passwords. My inner raccoon chewed the ethernet cable and whispered, “We could still escape.”

The first interviewer asked, “Tell us about a time you handled conflict.” I wanted to say, “Right now. Six strangers are holding my mortgage hostage while one of you eats cereal with an open microphone.” I smiled like a plastic mannequin and explained teamwork. The next one asked where I see myself in five years. Ideally, outside this Zoom call, with my own hairline and a functioning will to live.

Then came the legendary “Tell us about a weakness.” Apparently, “I trust companies that describe themselves as a family” is too honest. Someone asked how I deal with ambiguity. Ma’am, your job posting said REMOTE, the recruiter said HYBRID, and the VP just said “five days in the office, depending on business needs.” I’m already dealing with a damn paranormal mystery. Halfway through, the CFO appeared twelve minutes late, muted, and visibly furious that we hadn’t paused the universe for his arrival. He asked me to repeat my entire career history. Sir, scroll up. Oh wait, this isn’t a text chain. It’s just a digital firing squad with branded virtual backgrounds.

The panel ended with, “Any questions for us?” Absolutely. Which one of you is actually authorized to hire me? Why does this entry level position require the experience of three retired CEOs? Is the salary competitive, or are we competing to see how long I can survive on tap water? And why has “Strategic Vision” been a black rectangle for forty five minutes? Is he alive? Blink twice, Kevin.

After eight rounds of corporate speed dating, they promised to circle back. Translation: I’ll be ghosted by a committee. Somewhere, six executives will meet again to discuss whether I was a “culture fit,” while the guy named iPhone votes no because I interrupted his lunch.

Zoom panel interviews are proof that hell has a waiting room, a calendar invite, and one asshole who says, “You’re still on mute.”

[Alex @InterviewGames]

Nobody wakes up one morning and says, “You know what sounds relaxing? Applying for 200 jobs and getting rejected by a robot before breakfast.” Yet somehow, that became my research project. Welcome to The Interview Games.

It started with the exhausting job search that slowly chips away at your confidence. I had experience, skills, and determination. Apparently, I was still missing the sacred qualifications: five interviews, three personality tests, a one way video audition, and a five year plan while I couldn’t see next Tuesday.

At first, I thought it was just me. Maybe my resume needed work. Maybe the hiring manager wanted a unicorn with an MBA who could start yesterday and accept payment in company culture. So I did what any perfectly normal, mildly unhinged person would do: I started experimenting.

I applied for jobs. Lots of them. I tried different resumes, different approaches, different job titles, and salary expectations. I tracked what happened. Sometimes one resume was rejected in seconds while another opened a door. Sometimes the door led to eight interviews and an email saying they hired someone who hatched inside the company. My inner raccoon watched from the sidelines, clutching a spreadsheet and demanding hazard pay.

Then something happened that changed everything. People started writing to me. They laughed, then said, “I thought I was the only one.” They told me about ghosting, layoffs, impossible requirements, interviews that felt like courtroom trials, and rejection letters that arrived while they were still completing the application. Behind every ridiculous story was a real person trying to keep their dignity intact.

That’s when The Interview Games became bigger than my job search. It’s an independent project where I test hiring processes, share what I find, call out the nonsense with humor, and give candidates a place to feel seen. We also help people strengthen resumes, prepare for interviews, and navigate the hiring maze. Employers can learn from honest audits too, because fixing hiring beats another inspirational break room poster.

I use sarcasm because sometimes laughter is the only thing standing between you and throwing your laptop into a lake. But beneath every joke is a serious message: your worth is not determined by an algorithm, a recruiter who disappears, or a company that can’t decide whether it wants ten years of experience or someone willing to work for exposure. This project isn’t about hating employers. It’s about asking for fairness, transparency, respect, and a little common sense. Candidates deserve to be treated like people, not abandoned shopping carts in an applicant tracking system.

If you’ve been rejected, ignored, downsized, or told you were “overqualified” for a job that barely pays for groceries, pull up a chair. You’re not alone here. I know because I have been there.

And if you’re a hiring manager reading this, welcome too. My raccoon has questions. So do I. We’re just getting started.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

Some people leave your life quietly. Others return like a software update nobody requested, with micromanagement, control issues, and a password that expired three jobs ago.

Earlier today, I noticed my toxic ex boss lurking on my LinkedIn profile. Again. He hasn’t paid me in ages but still reviews my headshot. So I sent him a text: “Are you lost, buddy?” Because at this point, either he misses me or LinkedIn has become the world’s saddest haunted house. Every time I post, his ghost whispers, “Per my last email.” Sir, what exactly are you looking for? My new job? My location? Proof I can “circle back” without throwing up? You treated me like a replaceable printer cartridge, and now you’re checking whether the printer found a better office. Spoiler alert: it did. And it never jams at “team culture.”

I pictured him at 11:43 a.m., sitting in his office with unread complaints, overdue reports, and an ACCOUNTABILITY poster. He opens LinkedIn, types my name with the focus of an FBI agent tracking an international fugitive, and whispers, “What’s he up to now?” Living, Gerald. I’m living. The company didn’t collapse because I stopped answering your Sunday texts. Although based on your leadership style, I assume the exit interview was conducted by a fire alarm.

You know what makes a toxic boss special? They tell you you’re not valuable, then spend months checking your market value. They say, “We’re moving in a different direction,” then follow your direction with binoculars. They call boundaries difficult, then cannot stop crossing mine. Buddy, I’m not a discontinued Netflix series. You don’t need to keep checking for a new season.

I’m tempted to update my headline to “Former Employee, Current Unpaid Landlord in My Ex Boss’s Head.” Under Skills, I’ll add “Survived unnecessary meetings,” “Fluent in fake urgency,” and “Can identify a toxic workplace from the parking lot.” For endorsements, I’ll request one from the office coffee machine. At least it showed up, did its job, and never asked me to be passionate about quarterly alignment.

Maybe he wants to reconnect. Perhaps he misses when every emergency was my fault, every success was his idea, and a pizza party counted as a compensation strategy. Maybe he’s drafting a message: “Hope you’re doing well. Would love to catch up.” Catch up on what? The unpaid emotional overtime? The annual review where you gave yourself five stars for watching other people work?

To every toxic ex boss quietly browsing a former employee’s profile: congratulations, you’ve finally discovered employee retention. You’re retaining us in your search history. Meanwhile, I’m over here enjoying my freedom, my peace, and the beautiful sound of a phone that isn’t ringing with manufactured emergencies.

I would block him, but watching him stalk my milestones is priceless! And buddy, if you’re reading this too, don’t be shy. Hit Follow. Apparently, even after I quit, I’m still the most interesting thing happening in your department.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

High school reunions are proof that time heals absolutely nothing. It just gives your former classmates LinkedIn Premium, and the confidence to call themselves entrepreneurs after buying a ring light. I went job hunting, only to end up networking with people who once ate glue.

The first guy I saw was the former class president. He introduced himself as a “visionary thought leader.” In high school, his greatest vision was copying my chemistry homework. Now he sells $499 leadership coaching. Sir, you couldn’t lead a conga line through an open doorway. I asked if his company was hiring. He said, “We aren’t hiring, we’re building a talent community.” Great. Unemployment with a logo.

Then came my toxic ex, gliding over like expired perfume. “Wow, you’re still looking for a job?” she asked, loud enough for the marching band to hear. I smiled. “Yes, and unlike our relationship, I’m actually reading the red flags this time.” She said she was a life coach now. Of course. She once dumped me by passing a note in algebra. Now she charges strangers to discover their worth.

The former football captain walked over wearing a suit tighter than his old helmet. Apparently he’s a recruiter. He asked where I see myself in five years. I said, “Anywhere this conversation isn’t happening.” He offered to review my resume for $300. Buddy, you failed open book history. I wouldn’t trust you to review the instructions on instant oatmeal. Then he told me to network. I was networking! Unfortunately, the network was down for maintenance and every connection required a referral.

At the buffet, the valedictorian was pitching crypto to our old math teacher. The guy who used to sell candy from his locker now calls himself a serial founder. Another classmate listed “CEO” on his name tag. CEO of what? His garage? Someone shouted, “We should all collaborate!” That’s corporate language for nobody has money but everybody wants a percentage.

Naturally, the reunion organizer arranged an icebreaker. “Tell us your biggest accomplishment!” One woman had climbed Everest. Another had three kids. I said, “I completed a Workday application without throwing my laptop into traffic.” The room went silent. My inner raccoon stood up and started clapping. Finally, recognition for actual hardship. Truly inspiring. Then they announced a raffle prize: a free professional headshot. I almost cried. After 600 rejection emails, I finally had a chance to be rejected in high definition. My toxic ex suggested I smile more in interviews. I suggested she put that advice in a jar, seal it, and bury it where our relationship belongs.

I left before the group photo. On the way out, the class president handed me a business card that said “Disrupting the Future.” So was the cafeteria chili in 2004, but nobody gave it a TED Talk. The reunion taught me one thing: high school never ends. The bullies become managers, the class clowns become consultants, and the rest of us are still waiting for HR to circle back.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

Costco is the only place where you can buy 40 pounds of rice, a gazebo, and enough toilet paper for three apocalypses, but you still can’t find a hiring manager willing to make one decision. I went in for a $1 hot dog and wondered if my job search needed a forklift and therapy.

The entrance guy scanned my card like an airport security officer. I nearly handed him my resume out of habit. After 800 applications, I assume every vest wants to ask why I left my last job. Sir, I came here for chicken, not to explain a gap in my employment while strangers fight over shopping carts. Then I saw the free samples. Beautiful. Costco gives you a piece of cheese, lets you try it, and doesn’t make you complete seven rounds of interviews before deciding whether you’re qualified to eat it. Corporate America should study this. One bite, immediate feedback, no recruiter emailing three weeks later to say they’ve decided to pursue a more experienced cracker.

I passed a family loading a sofa into a cart beside 96 granola bars. A job posting wants one person to handle sales, finance, IT, HR, marketing, payroll, and plumbing for $16 an hour. At Costco, that’s called a variety pack. In the corporate world, it’s called an exciting opportunity to wear many hats. Buddy, I don’t need more hats. I need health insurance and someone to fix the air conditioner.

Near the televisions, I checked my email. Another rejection! “We’ve decided to move forward with candidates whose background more closely aligns with our needs.” Fascinating. The job description said five years of leadership. Apparently they need someone who personally invented leadership while riding a dinosaur into Microsoft Excel. A recruiter called while I was staring at a pallet of mayonnaise. She asked whether I could do a quick 15 minute screening. Sure. She then asked me to describe a time I overcame adversity. Lady, I’m trapped between a man steering a cart sideways and a toddler throwing a loud tantrum over a giant teddy bear. I’m basically leading a disaster response team without authority or snacks.

At checkout, Costco inspected my receipt. They reviewed my qualifications in six seconds and approved my exit. If employers worked that fast, I’d have a job before the frozen pizza thawed. Instead, their hiring committee needs permission from an executive who’s been “out of office” since the invention of email.

I finally reached the food court. The hot dog was still $1. A miracle! Somewhere, an HR department is trying to figure out how to add twelve interview stages, a personality assessment, and a mandatory salary history disclosure before they’ll let you order mustard.

My inner raccoon looked at the giant cart and whispered, “Apply for the chicken position. At least someone here knows how to fill an opening.” He has a point. Costco sells everything in bulk, but corporate hiring is the only place where you can get rejected in wholesale quantities while receiving absolutely nothing in return.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

This morning I walked into Walmart on a Sunday morning for eggs and a little peace. Walmart on a Sunday morning is a county fair, traffic jam, and psychological experiment under one roof.

I hadn’t even reached the shopping carts before my last remaining brain cell whispered, “Tell my family I tried.” The greeter said, “Welcome to Walmart!” like a flight attendant announcing an emergency landing. I grabbed a cart that rattled like loose silverware. One wheel insisted on turning left, the others wanted a divorce, and the handle needed therapy. Perfect. Even the cart wanted PTO. I was now driving a shopping cart with the alignment of a 1994 pickup truck.

In produce, a man was squeezing every avocado like he was interrogating suspects. A woman blocked the entire aisle to compare two identical cucumbers. Someone took a call on speaker. Ma’am, I came here for bananas, not to hear your cousin explain why his third marriage ended. Even the oranges looked embarrassed.

The cereal aisle was a full contact sport. One child was screaming because his mother wouldn’t buy marshmallow cereal. Another was lying face down on the floor in a protest that had more passion than most corporate town halls. A dad stared at Cheerios like General Mills had put him on a performance plan.

Then I reached the electronics department, where everything expensive was locked behind glass and every employee had apparently been transferred to a witness protection program. I pressed the assistance button. Nothing. Pressed it again. Nothing. At this point, I expected a recorded voice to say, “Your call is important to us. Estimated wait time: until Tuesday.”

By the time I made it to checkout, I had forgotten why I came. Twenty registers, three cashiers, and the self-checkout area looking like airport security during a national emergency. The machine accused me of an “unexpected item in the bagging area.” Yes, Brenda, it’s called groceries. Would you prefer I leave the milk on the roof? Then it froze because I breathed near the scanner. An employee appeared to examine my bag like I was smuggling diamonds inside a loaf of bread.

And let’s discuss the receipt checker at the exit. I had just been trusted to scan, bag, and pay for my own groceries, but apparently I couldn’t be trusted to transport a pack of toilet paper twelve feet without committing organized retail crime. He checked my receipt like it was a classified document and waved me through with the authority of a border patrol agent.

I finally escaped into the parking lot, where a minivan was parked across two spaces, someone was returning a cart to absolutely nowhere, and a driver was backing up using nothing but faith. I looked at my bags and realized I forgot the eggs.

So yes, Walmart on a Sunday morning is an adventure. You go in for groceries, lose your dignity, question civilization, and leave with a 48 pack of batteries nobody asked for. See you next Sunday. Apparently, I enjoy suffering with everyday low prices.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

There is a special kind of corporate insanity where you apply to be an administrative assistant and end up auditioning for Secretary of Defense.

I just read a Reddit story about a woman who walked out of an interview, and she deserves a standing ovation and a medal made from shredded job descriptions. She arrived for an interview despite awful company reviews. Her husband waited outside. Inside? A gigantic, nearly empty conference room with black leather chairs, red carpet, fluorescent lighting, and the vibe of a hostage documentary. I expected a voice to announce, “Welcome, candidate. The first challenge begins now.”

Two interviewers entered. Asked questions. Left. Two MORE entered. Asked questions. Left. Was she interviewing or being passed around like the last working stapler? Four people questioned her, yet nobody explained the job. Payroll? Recruiting? HR? Making coffee? Performing surgery on the manager?

Then somebody announced they were going to fetch a THIRD interviewer. Oh, fantastic. Another boss escaped the executive terrarium. Is there a gift shop? Do candidates earn frequent interrogator miles? After six rounds, do you unlock the CEO, or does he appear only when you collect all seven infinity spreadsheets?

This woman looked at the room, grabbed her bag, and LEFT. No farewell speech. No exit interview. No opportunity for HR to ask where she sees herself in five years. She saw herself in the parking lot in approximately thirty seconds. Now THAT is career vision. And people online actually criticized her! Apparently, unemployment means you’re required to accept any circus with a company logo. You’re supposed to sit politely while seventeen department heads ask whether you can multitask, then offer to repaint the conference room before driving home.

Here’s an idea for employers: if you need four people and another mystery guest to interview an administrative assistant, your company might not need an assistant. It might need an adult who can make a decision without forming a congressional subcommittee. Your hiring process has more episodes than a crime drama, and nobody has found the missing job description.

I can already picture the emergency meeting after she disappeared. “We have a serious problem. The candidate exercised free will.” Someone from HR probably opened a spreadsheet titled Candidate Retention During Captivity. The hiring manager is still in the conference room asking an empty chair to describe a time it overcame adversity.

She was worried she’d thrown away an opportunity. Ma’am, the only thing you threw away was a possible lifetime subscription to meetings about planning other meetings. Sometimes the strongest answer to “Why should we hire you?” is walking out before they can ask it.

Dear corporate America: interviews are a two way street, not a haunted house with direct deposit. Tell people what the job is, respect their time, and stop treating candidates like contestants on Survivor: Human Resources Edition.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

The other day I went to 7 Brew Coffee for a simple coffee. I pulled into the drive thru expecting a sleepy barista and a latte. Instead, I entered a caffeine powered pep rally being hosted by people who apparently swallowed Spotify and chased it with jet fuel.

Before my window was down, an employee appeared beside my car. “HEY! HOW’S YOUR DAY GOING?” It’s 7:08 a.m. My personality hasn’t loaded yet. She had the energy of a golden retriever who just found out he’s inherited Disney World. I said, “Fine.” She responded like I’d announced we were getting married. “OH MY GOSH, WE LOVE THAT!”

The music was loud enough to shake my fillings. Someone danced while making drinks. Another employee was waving at cars like an air traffic controller at a nightclub. I half expected a mascot to rappel down from the roof!!! I checked the sign again. Seven Brew? I thought I was getting coffee, not auditioning for America’s Got Baristas.

Then came the menu. There were enough flavor combinations to require a math degree and a therapist. “Would you like caramel, vanilla, toasted marshmallow, cupcake, white chocolate, or a flavor that tastes like your childhood birthday party?” I just want coffee. “ABSOLUTELY! WHAT KIND OF VIBE ARE WE FEELING TODAY?” Unemployed Victorian chimney sweep. Surprise me.

The employee asked whether I wanted an energy drink. Look at me. I’m a grown man gripping a steering wheel like it’s the only thing separating civilization from chaos. I don’t need more energy. I need eight hours of sleep, fewer emails, and a manager who understands vacation. Then they asked if I wanted to join the rewards program. At this point I was considering joining witness protection. “Can we get your phone number?” Why? Are we dating? Is this coffee going to text me later and ask where this relationship is headed? I’m not emotionally available for a macchiato with attachment issues.

A guy ordered a drink with six syrups, extra drizzle, light ice, no foam, and instructions involving cinnamon. Sir, you’re not ordering breakfast. You’re building a potion to resurrect a medieval wizard. The car behind him had a dog hanging out the window, and even the dog looked overstimulated.

My drink finally arrived. “HAVE THE BEST DAY EVER!” the employee shouted. I hadn’t even had my first sip, and she was demanding a medal for my Tuesday. I took one taste and immediately understood the business model: coffee, sugar, enthusiasm, and the possibility of seeing through time. I drove away vibrating at a frequency normally reserved for power tools. By the second stoplight, I’d organized my glove compartment, forgiven three enemies, and developed a five year business plan. By the third, I could hear colors.

Will I go back? Of course. The coffee was good, the employees were kind, and apparently I enjoy being verbally hugged by an espresso machine wearing a headset. Next time, though, I’m bringing sunglasses, a seat belt for my emotions, and a signed waiver from my nervous system.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

Toxic coworkers are the only people who can stab you in the back, ask if you’re okay, and then nominate themselves for Employee of the Month for providing first aid.

Corporate America calls them “team players.” I call them office raccoons with Outlook access and a knife collection made entirely of compliments. You know the one. Smiles at you every morning. “Good morning, superstar!” Then runs to the boss with a three page report explaining that you took seven minutes to eat a banana. Congratulations, Nancy. You’ve turned fruit consumption into an ethics investigation. Next week she’ll be wearing a body camera near the microwave.

These people say, “I just want what’s best for the team.” No, you want my promotion, my parking spot, and the last chocolate donut. You’d sell your own grandmother for a slightly better seat at the quarterly budget meeting.

My favorite is the coworker who says, “Between you and me.” That’s not confidentiality. That’s the opening credits of a documentary called Snitches With Dental Insurance. You tell them the printer jammed, and by lunch HR has scheduled a confidential meeting about your “negative relationship with office equipment.”

Then comes the idea thief. I spend three weeks building a proposal. He repeats my idea in a meeting, adds the word “synergy,” and suddenly leadership calls him a visionary. Sir, you didn’t innovate. You put a mustache on my PowerPoint and introduced it as your cousin. If plagiarism wore khakis, it’d be sitting in your chair. And the group chat? Pure espionage. “We’re all so close here!” Sure. One conversation is called TEAM SUPPORT, and the other is called WHY GREG MUST GO. Half the office communicates exclusively through screenshots. The other half communicates through “accidentally” replying all. I’ve seen less betrayal in a medieval castle with a suspiciously high poison budget.

The funniest part is how they pretend concern. “You seemed stressed yesterday. Everything okay?” Yes, Barbara. I was stressed because someone told the boss I wasn’t engaged during the 8 a.m. meeting. It was you, Barbara. You were the someone. I recognize your punctuation and the way you weaponize exclamation points!!!

And don’t get me started on the coworkers who cc the boss on everything. “Just circling back!” Translation: “Dear Management, please witness me being professional while implying Alex is a criminal fugitive who forgot to update cell B12.” Relax, FBI intern. It’s a spreadsheet, not a hostage situation.

Here’s my rule: be friendly, but don’t hand everyone the keys to your peace. Keep receipts. Share credit where it belongs. Call out bullshit calmly and in writing. And if you’re a manager, stop rewarding gossip because it arrives gift wrapped as “initiative.”

Some people climb the corporate ladder. Others build that ladder out of coworkers’ backs. Let them have the ladder. I’ll take honest colleagues, a clear conscience, and a lunch break without an undercover informant disguised as a yogurt.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

The other day I discovered my former toxic boss was checking my LinkedIn profile again. Not once. Not twice. This man monitors my career like I’m a missing shipment of office toner. Apparently, quitting his circus didn’t cancel my subscription to the clown.

I got a notification that someone from my old company had viewed my profile. Immediately, I pictured him in a dark office at 11:43 p.m., wearing reading glasses, clutching cold coffee, whispering, “What’s he doing now?” Sir, I’m updating my skills, not plotting to overthrow a small European nation. Although at this point, managing a kingdom of angry raccoons sounds more peaceful than attending your Monday meetings.

This was the same boss who told me LinkedIn was “a distraction.” Yes, because employees developing professional connections is terrifying when your entire leadership strategy depends on everyone believing the exit door leads directly into a volcano. He hated networking. He called it disloyalty. He thought “Open to Work” was a personal attack against his bloodline.

Now he’s watching my posts like they’re episodes of a true crime documentary. “In today’s investigation, the former employee liked a motivational quote. Is he happy? Has he found better leadership? WHO AUTHORIZED THIS JOY?” Somewhere HR is dusting my endorsements for fingerprints. I considered changing my headline to “Former Employee, Current Threat to Your Fragile Ego.” But his personal issues require a separate data center!!!

I can imagine him calling a meeting. “Team, we have a serious situation. He posted a photo smiling.” The finance director gasps. “Without our permission?” “Worse. He got 400 likes.” They immediately launch an emergency task force to determine whether my happiness violates the employee handbook. Brenda from payroll is assigned to monitor my hashtags. Kevin from IT is ordered to investigate whether sarcasm can be disabled remotely.

And the messages! “Hey, just checking in. Hope you’re doing well.” Really? When I worked for you, you couldn’t check in unless a sales number was down or someone used the good stapler. Now you’re my career pen pal? Next you’ll send a connection request saying, “Let’s grab coffee.” Absolutely. I’ll bring a printed copy of your greatest hits: “We’re a family,” “No excuses,” and “PTO requests are suggestions.”

The funniest part is toxic bosses don’t want you back. They want proof you aren’t doing better without them. They need to believe every former employee is wandering the wilderness, crying into a company branded mug, begging for one more performance review. Sorry to disappoint, but my peace of mind got promoted and my blood pressure accepted a remote position.

So keep viewing my profile. Leave a reaction. Subscribe to the newsletter. Turn on notifications. If you’re going to stalk my career, at least help the algorithm.

And if you see me posting about toxic leadership, relax. I’m not necessarily talking about you. But if the ergonomic shoe fits, take it to HR.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

Job hunting in 2026 feels like being on a reality show where the prize is health insurance and the judges are three algorithms wearing a trench coat.

Every morning I enter a psychological escape room called “Careers.” Nobody knows where the exit is. HR insists the exit is an exciting opportunity.

My first application asked me to upload a resume. Beautiful. Then it asked me to manually enter every job I’ve ever had, including the lemonade stand I operated in third grade. Apparently the PDF is decorative. Next came a question: “Are you comfortable working under pressure?” Ma’am, I’m applying for a job while my electric bill is performing a countdown. I could defuse a bomb using a plastic fork.

The posting wanted an “entry level visionary” with fifteen years of experience, an MBA, and the ability to scale cross functional synergies. Salary: “commensurate with experience.” Translation: we’re going to pay you in compliments and a water bottle left over from a 2019 company picnic. Benefits include unlimited PTO, provided you never take it, and free snacks, provided you bring them. Then I met the recruiter. “We love your background!” Wonderful. “Can you do a quick twenty minute screening?” Sure. Forty seven minutes later, she’s asking what fictional kitchen appliance best represents my leadership style. A toaster, Jennifer. Because I’ve been burned repeatedly, yet I keep showing up every morning.

Round two was with a hiring manager who said, “We’re a family here.” Red flag!! I’ve seen enough family reunions to know somebody’s going to cry next to the potato salad. He asked, “How do you handle conflict?” I don’t know, sir. How do YOU handle an employee needing a dentist appointment without calling it a betrayal?

Round three required a personality test. “Strongly agree or strongly disagree: I enjoy being criticized in front of strangers.” What kind of company is this, a workplace or a medieval village preparing to throw tomatoes? Then came a case study: create a complete five year business plan by Monday. They called it a “small exercise.” My small exercise is walking to the refrigerator.

After six interviews, they said I was their top candidate. I smiled at my inbox like an idiot. Then the email arrived: “We’ve decided to pause the position.” Pause it? Did the job go to the bathroom? Is it buffering? Someone unplug the hiring manager and plug him back in. And LinkedIn? A motivational guru told me rejection is redirection. Fantastic. Please redirect my rent to his bank account. Another said to network more. I’ve networked so hard the barista knows my elevator pitch and my dentist asked me to stop attaching a resume to appointment confirmations.

If you’re job hunting, hang in there. You’re not unqualified because a robot rejected you at 2:04 a.m. You’re a human, not a keyword piñata. Keep applying, keep laughing, and remember: if the job requires a unicorn, a ninja, and a rockstar for $18 an hour, they can hire a magical guitar playing raccoon.