The needs of Rancid Vat's Whiskey Rebel, known to family and friends as Phil Irwin, are simple and noble; a roomful of records, quality time with his wife and son, the occasional opportunity to plug in and make an unholy racket with his bandmates, a clean, quiet, comfortable place to evacuate his bowel, and a job he can bust his ass at for at least eight hours a day, with minimal grief from co-workers and management, and then leave behind for the sanctity of an icy 12-pack of brew. But Irwin's work ethic, as he unflinchingly divulges in "Jobjumper," the funniest and most brutally honest account of sucking the coporate teat since Ben Hamper's archetypal "Rivethead," is decidedly old school and as he so woefully admits, completely out of touch with what passes for workplace commitment. It's loaded with alcohol and narcotic-blurred insight and stories he'll undoubtedly share with his grandchildren about the rogue's gallery of practical jokers, social outcasts, insect eaters, and party animals he shared employment with dating back to his childhood. Ultimately, though, Irwin threw up his hands and drew a line in the sand, leaving the nation's workforce to those with little or no imagination, preferring to concentrate on his music and internet commerce. Godspeed, Phil.
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