I'm What..?

Next!

Get a load of this, my little gherkins. A friend of mine went for a job interview recently (no one will be named in order to preserve the dignity of the gimps involved). Now, said friend is a fucking genius in his profession: knows his onions, works his bollocks off, gives a shit, has even been wooed by a publisher who wants him to write an academic tome. You'd think he'd waltz before an interview panel and be snapped up, wouldn't you? 
Well fuck me if my chum failed to get the job he'd rocked up for. Why do you think that is? When the panel gave him feedback did they tell him he had poor qualifications? That he needed more experience? That his B.O. wilted pot plants? No. You know what they told him? That he was too enthusiastic.
Aye, you read that correctly, my Kraken loving gremlins. Too enthusiastic. What the fuck does that even mean? That his love of his job would too delightful to bear? That the spring in his step may devastatingly improve the morale of his new colleagues? Or perhaps too much enthusiasm would cause some sort of quantum shift in the fabric of the profession, bending time and bursting atoms until his specialism exploded in a cloud of gaseous infectiousness?
Of all the reasons to not get a job, that has to be the most fucked up of all. So what does it mean for his next interview? Perhaps he should act bored and ask the interviewer what colour knickers she's wearing. Or wipe his arse on his CV before origami-ing it into the shape of a B52 bomber and sending it by registered post.
Christ, but it makes me thankful that a large dose of the mentals has rendered me unable to work for a good while. Or perhaps I'd stand a better chance at jobhunting if I did it while drooling over a strait jacket. All the interviewing bets, sure as shit, are off.