Alex

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

[Alex @InterviewGames]

LinkedIn has officially become the only place where someone can post a corporate fairy tale, collect applause from VPs, and then act shocked when someone enters the comments with questions.

Earlier today, I received a private message starting with “Bruh…” When a message begins with “Bruh,” we’re not discussing quarterly synergy. Someone wants a refund for corporate theater. The message thanked me for challenging a public post, tagging the people involved, and saying what others were thinking. I’m keeping the sender anonymous, because unlike certain corporate departments, I respect confidentiality.

My comment section has become customer service for people who are tired of being served motivational oatmeal. Most people see a questionable corporate post and keep scrolling because they’re worried a recruiter might discover they have independent thoughts. They click “Celebrate” on announcements they don’t believe, type “Great insights!” under paragraphs containing zero insights, then take a nap because pretending to be inspired is exhausting.

Meanwhile, my inner raccoon is standing on the keyboard in reading glasses yelling, “TAG EVERYBODY. WE HAVE QUESTIONS!” Corporate LinkedIn is a magical land where companies can announce a “people first” initiative right before the first people find out their badges don’t work. An executive writes an emotional essay about authenticity that has been approved by Legal, HR, Marketing, and a fern with an MBA. Somebody posts “Leadership is about listening” and immediately disables comments. Sir, that’s not listening. That’s a hostage situation with hashtags.

And those comments! “Powerful perspective.” “Thank you for your courage.” “This resonates deeply.” Resonates with WHAT? The office printer? Everyone is networking so aggressively that even compliments come with quarterly targets. LinkedIn should add a reaction button labeled “I Disagree But Need Employment.” It would break the internet before lunchtime.

I’m not claiming to know everything behind someone else’s post, and I’m not interested in inventing a scandal. But if you’re going to make public statements and invite applause, you can survive a public question. Tagging a company isn’t a declaration of war. It’s ringing the doorbell while holding a receipt and asking whether anybody’s home. If the messaging is solid, a little scrutiny shouldn’t send the leadership team running for an emergency offsite.

To the person who sent that message, thank you. I appreciate you. Your identity stays private, but the laughter is going public. I’m not applying to become Senior Vice President of Nodding, Director of Strategic Silence, or Chief Officer of Pretending Everything Is Fine. My qualifications are terrible: I read posts, notice contradictions, and occasionally ask the question everyone else types and deletes.

If LinkedIn finds that uncomfortable, it can schedule a mandatory webinar about my tone. I’ll attend, ask who approved the agenda, and bring the raccoon.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

Corporate America has officially entered its Olympic era. Forget running, swimming, and gymnastics. The newest sport? Surviving a job description.

I spotted a LinkedIn post from Michael Seckler, CEO of Justworks, hiring a Chief of Staff. His last two Chiefs of Staff landed big executive roles after two years. A real career path! I almost dropped my coffee. Then I kept reading and discovered the ideal candidate must be an “incredible business athlete” with a technical bent and “demonstrated AI fluency.” Suddenly I wasn’t reading a job posting. I was watching ESPN interview a spreadsheet.

A business athlete? Michael, what are the tryouts like? Do I sprint through quarterly reports for a medal? Bench-press the operating budget? Run a relay race carrying a broken printer while the CFO yells, “WE NEED MORE SYNERGY!” I’ve spent years jumping through corporate hoops, dodging red flags, and running from toxic bosses. If that’s not a decathlon, somebody owes me a gold medal and a lifetime supply of ice packs.

And AI fluency? Absolutely. I speak fluent synergy, conversational Excel, and just enough corporate nonsense to translate “circle back” into “we forgot.” Ask AI for a strategy memo, and it’ll give you six pages. Ask a manager for a decision, and you’ll get a calendar invitation called “Quick Touch Base” that lasts ninety minutes and solves nothing. At least the robot asks for context.

According to the post, this Chief of Staff gets to see almost everything the CEO sees: board meetings, executive hiring, organizational design, strategic initiatives. Fantastic. You’re the CEO’s shadow, with extra action items and fewer parking privileges. You get a front row seat to every high level decision and probably become the person responsible for finding the HDMI cable five minutes before the board arrives.

I left Michael a comment explaining that I’d trained for this my entire career. Eight rounds of interviews? Endurance. Rejection emails at 2:22 a.m.? Night training. A recruiter vanishing for six weeks? Mental toughness. An interview panel with seven people asking the same question? Competitive synchronized suffering. My inner raccoon is already wearing a tracksuit and insisting that dumpster diving counts as supply chain optimization.

To be fair, Michael’s post actually names two people who advanced into executive jobs. That’s refreshing when “growth opportunity” usually means three extra duties and a cupcake. I respect the transparency. I just need to know whether this business athlete position includes a warm up, a personal trainer, or a waiver for injuries sustained during budget season.

Until then, I’ll be practicing my corporate long jump: leaping over unrealistic expectations, landing in another interview, and trying not to face plant into a culture fit assessment. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the breakroom stretching before my next performance review. My raccoon says he’s ready for the Olympics. HR says he needs five years of experience.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

The other day I replied to a LinkedIn job posting by Aaron Martin, President of Insurance at Humana, and apparently I accidentally kicked a corporate hornet’s nest wearing a blazer. My inbox is blowing up with people asking if I’m brave, unemployed, or being escorted out by two guards named Chad.

Aaron posted an opening for a VP of Strategy and Chief of Staff. Simple, right? Wrong. This human Swiss Army knife must be a Chief of Staff, an Amazon style Technical Assistant, a strategic advisor, a business architect, an execution specialist, and possibly the person who fixes the office microwave when it starts speaking Latin. NASA has entered the group chat.

The candidate must be organized, strategic, decisive, willing to travel, and based on the East Coast. Healthcare experience? A plus, but apparently optional. Excellent. You don’t need to understand insurance; you just need to drive the company’s “mechanisms.” What mechanisms, Aaron? A forklift? A giant lever behind the CEO’s desk labeled SYNERGY? Do I bring my own wrench, or is there an executive toolbox in the breakroom?

Then came my favorite part: after 18 to 24 months, the person would move into an “important role.” An important role! That’s not a career path. That’s a fortune cookie with a corporate email address. Congratulations, you’ve completed two years of executive gymnastics. Your reward is a mysterious door at the end of the hallway. Behind it could be a promotion, a parking spot, or another meeting about stakeholder alignment.

Naturally, I asked whether the salary covers all five personas or whether that’s included under company culture benefits. And that’s when LinkedIn turned into the Thanksgiving dinner nobody wanted to host. My inbox started behaving like a Black Friday checkout line. People were laughing, cheering, and probably forwarding my comment to coworkers with the subject line: PLEASE DELETE AFTER READING.

One person probably wants me to write their next job description. Another wants to know if I’m accepting applications for Chief Raccoon Officer. My inner raccoon has already applied. His resume lists dumpster strategy, cross functional scavenging, and seventeen years of leading high impact trash initiatives. He also refuses to relocate unless the garbage is premium.

Look, I have no problem with ambitious executive jobs. I have a problem when a job posting sounds like five departments climbed into a trench coat and asked HR to call them one person. If you need a VP, hire a VP. If you need a chief of staff, hire one. If you need somebody to drive mechanisms, call a mechanic and explain why the engine is making that noise.

And to everyone flooding my inbox: thank you for the laughs. I’m just reading job descriptions out loud with the sarcasm turned on. If corporate America doesn’t want jokes at all, it should stop writing punchlines and calling them growth opportunities. My raccoon agrees. He’s currently interviewing for Senior Vice President of Whatever This Is.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

Apparently, I’ve been promoted to Chief Executive Officer of Saying the Quiet Part Out Loud. The salary is zero, the benefits include suspicious looks from HR, and retirement is a raccoon with a bagel.

This morning, I opened LinkedIn and found a kind message from someone thanking me for my stories. She said they were a delight, full of energy, and that I was writing what everyone else was thinking. Thank you. Also, that is both the nicest compliment I’ve received and a terrifying diagnosis of the workplace. If this is what we’re ALL thinking, corporate America needs more than an employee engagement survey. It needs an exorcist with PowerPoint.

I always assumed my brain was an amusement park where rejected applications ride the roller coaster, recruiters run the haunted house, and my inner raccoon operates the snack stand illegally. Apparently there’s a line outside too. Welcome aboard. Keep your salary expectations outside the applicant tracking system.

Some people read my posts and laugh. Others read them and whisper, “Did he secretly attend our Tuesday leadership meeting?” Nope, Karen. I don’t need access to your calendar. Every company runs the same meeting. Somebody says, “We value transparency,” then shares a spreadsheet called FINAL_v7_REALLY_FINAL that nobody is allowed to open. The CEO demands accountability while the printer has waited eleven months for a toner cartridge.

And hiring? My favorite circus. A job posting asks for fifteen years of experience in software invented last Thursday. The recruiter says, “We’re moving quickly,” which apparently means the speed of a glacier wearing flip flops. After six interviews and a personality test that determines which office chair you are, you receive an email saying they’ve decided to pursue someone whose background more closely aligns with their needs. Their needs? A unicorn with an MBA, a forklift license, and no interest in health insurance.

Then there’s the motivational manager. “Bring your whole self to work!” Absolutely. I’ll bring my anxiety, overdue bills, and the version of myself that asks why we need a meeting to schedule another meeting. Suddenly it’s “Let’s keep things professional.” Sorry, I thought we were family. Was I supposed to bring potato salad?

My favorite part is the people who message me privately: “I can’t like your post because my boss follows me, but I laughed so hard I spilled coffee.” That’s not employee engagement. That’s workplace witness protection. At this point, LinkedIn needs a button that says I AGREE BUT I HAVE A MORTGAGE.

So to the person who sent that wonderful message, thank you. And to everyone reading, if my stories sound suspiciously familiar, congratulations: you’re not imagining the circus. You’re just sitting in a different section. I’ll keep writing the things we’re all thinking. HR can schedule a meeting about it, but my raccoon has already declined the invitation. He cited a toxic work environment and stole the conference room donuts.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

Corporate America has turned interviews into escape rooms, except the door is locked, the clues are written by HR, and the prize for surviving is a ninth interviewer who hasn’t read your resume.

Yesterday, I had a conversation with an HR executive at a Fortune 500 retailer about their interview process. He explained that they ask tough questions to find loopholes and to see how candidates react. Based on the answers, they decide who moves to the next level. The next level? Sir, are you hiring a store manager or recruiting contestants for Squid Game: Business Casual Edition? This is retail, not CIA recruitment.

Every answer is a psychological experiment. “Tell me about a time you handled conflict.” I once watched two grown adults argue over who stole the breakroom yogurt. I handled it by leaving before anyone called the National Guard. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Hopefully not still answering this question in round seven while your company reposts the job again.

Then comes the trick question: “What is your biggest weakness?” Being honest during interviews, apparently. Say you’re a perfectionist and you’re fake. Say you struggle with delegation and you’re risky. Say you need money to pay bills and you’re not passionate enough about selling discount patio furniture. The only acceptable answer is, “My weakness is loving shareholder value too intensely.”

I asked him what kind of loopholes they were hunting. Are candidates smuggling counterfeit leadership skills through customs? Is there an underground market for teamwork? Does HR have a tiny detective in the ceiling tiles whispering, “He paused for two seconds. Clearly a criminal.” My inner raccoon was already in a trench coat, asking why the company needed six interviews to fill one vacancy.

He talked about observing reactions under pressure. So we’re judging facial expressions now? If I blink, do I lack confidence? If I smile, am I hiding something? If I ask what the salary is, does a red light start flashing in headquarters? Somewhere, HR is reviewing footage of a candidate scratching his nose and calling it “a culture fit concern.”

Meanwhile, the company wants someone adaptable, decisive, resilient, and able to think on their feet. But let a candidate ask one unscripted question about turnover and suddenly the interview becomes a hostage negotiation. “We can’t share that.” Interesting. So your loopholes are confidential, but mine require a PowerPoint presentation and two character witnesses.

Here’s a revolutionary idea: ask questions that actually reveal whether someone can do the job. Give people realistic scenarios. Have a conversation. Stop treating the interview like a polygraph administered by a motivational poster.

Because if the hiring process needs twelve rounds to discover whether a human can lead a team, maybe the loophole isn’t in the candidate’s answers. Maybe it’s sitting across the table wearing an HR badge and calling the whole circus “talent acquisition.”

[Alex @InterviewGames]

Employment gaps are apparently the only holes Corporate America believes require a federal investigation. A company can lose three CEOs, four departments, and a pension plan, but God forbid your résumé has six months without a spreadsheet.

The other day a hiring manager asked me about a gap in my employment. She leaned forward like she’d discovered classified documents. “Can you explain those months?” Absolutely. I was unemployed. Next question. Unless you’d like me to reenact the grocery store conversation where I negotiated with a carton of eggs.

But here’s where it gets delicious. Before the interview, I researched the company, the hiring manager, her LinkedIn profile, and every motivational masterpiece she’d posted. Her feed was a calendar having a nervous breakdown. “Everyone’s journey is different.” “Your career does not define your worth.” “Normalize taking time to reset.” Apparently, those quotes came with a disclaimer: EXCEPT APPLICANTS. Then I noticed something. She had an employment gap herself. Not a weekend getaway. A blank space, big enough to park an HR department and its unused empathy manuals.

So I smiled and asked, “I noticed you also had a gap. How did you navigate that period?” The room went silent. Somewhere a recruiter dropped a Stanley cup. Her eyebrows filed for emergency leave. “Oh, that was a personal growth sabbatical,” she said. Amazing. When she has a gap, it’s a spiritual expedition. When I have one, it’s an episode of Dateline. She was finding herself. I was apparently hiding from Interpol. Her unemployment was a journey. Mine required three references, a background check, and permission from the Department of Homeland Resumes.

She asked, “What did you accomplish during your gap?” Well, I mastered receiving rejection emails at 2:14 a.m. I learned that “we’ll keep your resume on file” means it’s buried beside the office Christmas decorations. I applied for jobs demanding five years of experience in software invented last Thursday. I became an expert in clicking “Yes, I am still interested” on vacancies that vanished six weeks ago.

My furious inner raccoon wanted to open her LinkedIn post about compassion and read it like courtroom evidence. Exhibit A: “Lead with empathy.” Exhibit B: “Why weren’t you employed?” Exhibit C: the trash can where company values go after onboarding.

Then she asked if I had any questions. Just one. “Does this company believe people deserve second chances, or is that only something leadership posts between golf outings?” For the first time all interview, she stopped saying “Great question.” I consider that my greatest professional achievement of the quarter.

Employment gaps aren’t a character defect. Life happens. Companies lay people off. Finding a job takes longer than motivational posters suggest. If your leadership philosophy fits inside a LinkedIn graphic but falls apart when a human sits across from you, the gap isn’t on my resume. It’s between your posts and your personality.

[Alex @InterviewGames]

You ever notice how workplace bullies don’t actually look like bullies anymore? They’ve evolved. No yelling, no throwing staplers, no “I’ll see you after class” vibes. These days, they hide behind “Just trying to help!” and “It’s just a joke, don’t take it personally.”

The modern office bully doesn’t raise their voice, they raise your cortisol levels. They don’t throw punches, they throw calendar invites titled “Quick Sync.” They’ll hit you with passive aggressive compliments like, “Wow, you actually finished that on time?” and somehow make it sound like praise. They’ll “forget” to CC you on emails, “accidentally” leave you off calls, and say, “We assumed you were too busy.” Translation: You were too competent, and that was inconvenient.

And when you finally speak up, they act shocked. “Whoa, someone’s sensitive.” No, Brenda, someone’s just tired of being your unpaid emotional dartboard. HR calls it “interpersonal conflict.” Because “abuse” sounds too dramatic for the employee handbook. Instead of help, they offer “conflict resolution training,” which is basically yoga with paperwork.

If this happened anywhere else say, at brunch, you’d block the person’s number. But at work? You say, “Thanks for the feedback,” and stare into the abyss of your coffee cup like it’s offering therapy. Eventually, you start keeping notes. Every microaggression, every fake smile, every “friendly” jab that hits a little too hard. You learn to weaponize professionalism, calm tone, straight face, the kind of composure that makes them nervous. Because nothing terrifies a bully more than the person who won’t react.

You start using phrases like, “Can you clarify that in writing?” and watch their confidence evaporate. You stop explaining, stop apologizing, and start documenting like your mental health depends on it, because it does. And then you realize the truth: the quiet bullies are the worst. They don’t shout; they post motivational quotes about teamwork while making your life a living HR seminar. They’re corporate chameleons, blending in with buzzwords and “collaboration,” armed with fake smiles and “Let’s circle back” energy that drains souls faster than the office coffee machine.

But here’s the thing, they can’t handle boundaries. The second you say “No” with a smile, they glitch like an outdated PowerPoint transition. That’s your power. Calm. Confident. Documented.

So if you’re surviving this circus, congratulations, you’re basically an Olympic athlete in emotional endurance. You’ve mastered the art of sipping coffee through chaos and smiling through sabotage, all while pretending the Wi-Fi isn’t cutting out and your sanity isn’t hanging by a USB cord.

Because in the end, the only thing stronger than workplace toxicity… is the professional who refuses to lose their peace, or their sarcasm. The one who turns chaos into comedy, pain into punchlines, and still shows up every Monday like it’s a performance review with destiny. And Brenda can take notes!!

[Alex @InterviewGames]

Somewhere in Corporate America, an executive is staring at a computer asking why payroll stopped working. Three meetings and one emergency pizza party later, somebody finally whispers, “Didn’t we fire the woman who knew how to do all this?”

Congratulations. You’ve unlocked the premium edition of Stupid Decisions.

Someone recently shared a layoff story with me that deserves its own Netflix series: How to Destroy a Department in One Calendar Invite. She was one of three directors. She knew the HR system, managed vendors, approved invoices, handled pay changes, created positions, and kept 200 other things moving. Leadership thanked her by announcing, “We’re taking the department in a different direction.” Apparently that direction was directly into a dumpster.

Picture Monday morning. “Who approves the invoices?” Silence. “Who knows the HRIS password?” More silence. “Who built the pay structure?” Someone points at a houseplant. The new director announces, “Let’s circle back.” Wonderful. We’ve promoted a calendar invitation to Chief Operating Officer.

By Tuesday, accounting is crying into Excel spreadsheet. IT has opened a ticket titled EVERYTHING. A vendor asks who their contact is, and HR responds, “We’re currently identifying key stakeholders.” Translation: we fired the stakeholders and misplaced the keys. My inner raccoon has applied for the position. He has no MBA, but he can locate garbage, identify suspicious behavior, and operate under pressure. That’s already three qualifications more than the executive who approved this disaster. His first strategic initiative? Stop putting idiots in charge of the flashlight.

And let’s discuss “different direction.” Different from what? Functioning? Paying people? Knowing where the contracts are? If the captain throws the pilot out of the airplane, that’s not innovation. That’s a documentary with a short runtime.

The executive team will probably announce a transformation initiative. Phase one: eliminate institutional knowledge. Phase two: hire consultants to rediscover it. Phase three: pay those consultants five times what the employee earned. Phase four: post on LinkedIn about bold leadership while the office printer files for emotional leave.

But here’s where the jokes stop for a moment. Behind every layoff is a person who gave their time, carried responsibilities, solved problems nobody noticed, and went home believing their work mattered. Being told you’re no longer needed without a explanation or a respectful transition can hurt more than any spreadsheet will ever show.

To anyone who’s been discarded after holding everything together: your worth didn’t disappear when your badge stopped working. You still have the knowledge, resilience, and talent they couldn’t erase with one meeting invite.

And to the executives now searching for the missing procedures? Check the folder labeled PERSON YOU FIRED. If that doesn’t work, schedule another meeting. Apparently that’s the only system still running.

[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.