Seasonal Illumination Jamboree

Every day I wonder why half of all job adverts are written by people who can't spell, then proof-read by bats. If you didn't know what a spelling mistake was, and were wondering where to find one, they're all at the Job Centre, having an orgy, shoving unlubed apostrophes in places conservatives say they shouldn't. Then you have to beg the person who made them for a job.
The thirty-something potential employers I've applied to are all waiting for someone who isn't me. Their signs and adverts say wanted, in capital letters usually, and I meet all the criteria and am available now, right now, and I've even had a wash and my knees both point in the same direction and I can go all day without despairing. I'm a modern human and here's my CV. But no matter how many times an hour I phone them sobbing why not me, why not me, why why why why why not me, nothing changes. I've had more success with companies who haven't seen my face or heard my voice. "More Success" means one interview in six weeks.
There is a local monster and it knows exactly what to say and how to act and speak and dress and move in order to extract all the vacancies from the small cloud of hope that sometimes drifts through town in daylight. I've never seen the monster, but I think when I do I might have to break its fucking femurs.