I have a DBA buddy of mine that works just up the street from my new gig; a real good friend. We go way back, since I was an FTE at the psycho ward, uh, I mean the mental health division of a major HMO. Wifey and I have dinner with him and his wife all the time. Great people.
So I text him to see if we can meet for lunch. Fifteen minutes later, we are at Outback.
“So how’s [insert name of major apparel company here]?” I ask.
“Hum, sounds fun.”
“Uh, it’s all I can get now. Job market sucks,” he tells me as he thumbs the screen of his iPhone. “Dow is down big. Look at Citi – 40 percent drop just today. I’m getting killed.”
“Tell me about it. You gotta go short, but I see a rally coming. So what have they got you doing?”
“Some XML shit. Don’t really know. Oracle crap.”
“Oracle sucks, it's all coded in India. Fuckin' Larry Ellison has sucked so much Desi dick that his tongue is brown, like a Chow. How’s the team?” I ask.
“Team? There ain’t no team. They got a bunch of H-1Bs working for some consulting company in there, doing the back end,” he says. "I'm just freelancing."
“Motherfuckers are taking over.”
“Tell me about it. It’s bad out there. I’m scared,” he tells me, biting his fingernail.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m living paycheck to paycheck. An’ this gig is just a couple of months.”
My DBA friend had just put two adorable daughters through college and both have engineering degrees. The denigrating Desis that insist that our schools can’t produce engineers should put that in their Hukka pipes and smoke it. And the fact that both kids are women would really piss off the average shrimpdick slumdog, with all his sexual issues.
“But you got a good rate, didn’t you? You’re a high-dollar guy.” I knew he billed $75-$100/hr W-2, back in the day. The guy is a EE from Penn State – way sharp. Knows data warehousing, all sorts of shit. The dude can write SQL like I can surf porn – with great efficiency.
“What ya’ mean? Man, I took 55 bucks an hour, and its 1099.”
“No shit? Dude, you still gotta pay taxes. That is so fucked.”
“I never seen it so bad,” he said.
“I hear ya’. It’s the fucking Indians, man. H-1Bs have fucked up the whole business.” I check my email on my Centro. Five illiterate slumdog comments from my blog and some spam. “Didn’t you have a shitload at State Farm?”
“Don’ even go there with me,” he says, glancing at the iPhone. “Obama’s speaking. Dow’s down another 50.”
“What, you were there a couple of years?”
“State Farm? Yeah.”
“Bunch of slumdogs, right? Dude, they're taking over.”
“Whatever. So how bad was it?” I asked.
“When I got there, there was fifteen on the team. Five white guys.”
“Two years later, there were 35 on the team. I was the only non-Indian.”
“What da’ fuck?” I ask. “Dude, that’s like, fuckin’ genocide.”
“No shit. I would help them, but they wouldn’t help me out. I was on my own.”
“Yup, they’re tribal, just fuckin’ primal. You get three of ‘em in a room and two will form some sort of alliance because they were from the same side of some shithole village and they will turn on the other slumdog. But now they got thirty days to get out.”
“Thirty days?” he asked.
“Yeah, they gotta get a new gig by then or go home. There are a bunch of Hindu fuckers in India trying to get that time extended, to like three months or something. But nobody would hire those dipshits, not in this economy.”
“Thirty days, and they gotta dump the house, pull the kids out of schools,” he said. “ In this market? They are so fucked.”
“The ones that have a house. Most live in motels. I saw it at [Curry Den]. Seven of the bastards lived around the corner in a Residence Inn. Motherfuckers would take two hour lunches. Check this shit out.” I picked up his iPhone and pulled up a Dice forum. “This whole Dice site is full of anti-H-1B shit. The whole I.T. biz knows it’s a scam. Managers won’t touch ‘em.”
“Plenty of Indian managers out there. I saw ‘em at State Farm. Local guys, not imports. They hired nothing but other Indians.” He scanned the posts on the Dice site.
“Dude, I told you, it’s a primitive culture. They don’t work like you and me – it’s all about the tribe.”
“Yeah, well I got a few more years and I’m out. Let ‘em have it. The business sucks. It used to be a good career, and –“
“No shit! I’m trying to get out. But what the fuck am I supposed to do? It ain’t like I’m some dumbass, I can code, design, deploy, back-end, front-end, middle-tier, you name it. I run circles around those retards. But at my last place, those fuckers got all scared as soon as they saw that I could do the work of three of ‘em. They had me sit on my hands all the time, because I made them look bad.”
“Ya’ walked out, huh?” he asked. “After a month or something?”
“Damn straight. Place fuckin’ sucked. It was like working at the county fair – they sound just like a bunch of farm animals, always braying, barking, moaning in broken English or Hindi.”
“They spoke Hindi in the shop?”
“All the fuckin’ time, man. They were all Hindi. Like, three white boys in the whole place. A couple of Asians. One little white guy spent his time kissing Indian ass, the dude had total Stockholm syndrome.”
“The prisoner thing?” he asked.
“Yeah, like you know, when you start to empathize with your captors and their agenda? Just like that. It was like they sucked his brain out of his head.”
“Oh yeah, like in Planet of the Apes, where Charlton Heston finds that guy with the big scar on his skull, and the guy is like, a zombie.”
“Oh, it was definitely Planet of the Apes at my last contract," I told my weary DBA friend. "Fuckin' bunch of simians. It’s a crime man. Operation Mindcrime.”
“Whatever. Let’s go. I gotta finish this batch job for the H-1Bs. Some inventory shit. They don’t have a clue what their doing.”
“Hey, go back and, like, the first one you see, say ‘madharchod" I tell him.
“How do you spell that? Is that like a greeting or something?”
“Yeah. It will help you get to know them.”
“Ok, I’ll try it. But I don’t want to know them. I just wish they’d get out I.T., they're worthless” he says.
“Tell me about it.”