Fired from the unfireable job

The souring of the economy had collared me as well. I was out of work, looking, looking, looking. I'm the guy who had seven or eight apps filled out by the time I got home at 8 p.m. on a Friday night five years ago after getting canned at 4 p.m.
But this ain't no five years ago market.
The classified section of the paper has turned from "help wanted" to "how can I help?" No longer are employers looking for employees; employee hopefuls are looking for employers.
I saw a shopper with gray empty boxes staring off the page stating YOUR AD HERE but nobody's got enough business, or not enough money, to advertise.
So... I'm swimming in the icky soup of unemployment longer than I've ever swam. Weeks drag by. Now it's months. I've networked, looked in person, door to door, online, asked, begged... I'm either overqualified with my college and writing career or not showing required experience in a certain field.
So, out of sheer desperation, and a need for gas in the tank to look more, I stop by the blood plasma donor place. It's a Friday, at 7:05 a.m. The place is packed. A lobby full of freaks, geeks and weirdos.
I look too clean cut; perhaps my college educated blood is too rich for them. But I decide 50 bucks is 50 bucks.
I bring a long book anticipating a long wait. I stand along the wall with others who don't have a seat, only to realize I'm in the line for the database. Plasma groupies know the drill. You go in, line up and download your information into the database so you can get called to one of eight checkpoints before they stick you. When I get the glare from the groupie behind me I sit down in the back row, wedged between a fatty and a woman with a few remaining teeth and in bad need of a bath.
I open my book, but feel like I'm insulting the illiterate next to me.
One by one, names are called out as we all sit facing the front of the room. An attendant barks each name, and each person belonging to that name stands as if struck, then enters a room to be briefed before giving plasma.
After an hour or so, I realize I'm not getting called. "Are there any other first time donors?" the barker woman barks.
A guy that came in after me steps forward. I try to cut him off, and they push me to the side. I stand and wait again. From the front of the room, the motley crew hasn't seemed to change. If anything, there are more people than ever. Eventually I get another seat, read, then go to the bathroom. I've been drinking nearly a gallon of water in the last 12 hours, since they recommend being hydrated. I can't keep out of the bathroom.

Back and forth from book to bathroom. Hours tick by. I overhear loud, vulgar conversations. I interject with a guy in my age bracket once in awhile. Then, as if by magic, my name is barked and I'm being briefed without the preliminary reading. Oh, well, I'll wing it. I fly through the briefing in a mere 30 more minutes. It's now 1 p.m. I'm starving. I get to the big donor room, and people are lying around with needles in their arms.
I get settled in my recliner, book in hand. The phlebotomist looks at me. She takes an arm, studies it, then drops it like a piece of trash. She looks at the other arm, as if to say, "Are these the only arms you have?"
"Your veins are too small," she says. "I'm really sorry."
A second look by a second phlebotomist. My veins are still too small.
They dismiss me with an apology and a card for $20.
Six hours. $20. Hmmm... back to the classifieds...