All Things Profane and Sacred

So, I heard yesterday that the forces in Newport have not yet decided my fate. My mole, deep within the fortress, told me that the decision is down to two people, me and some other person. This horrible person, I was told, was edging ahead of me, because she speaks a little Spanish. My mole thought this was indeed stupid, and said that it wasn't enough to converse with clients, and most of the Spanish speaking clients were illegal, and thus couldn't be helped with our federal funds anyway. The position I want is funded with a grant to help out a nearby tribe, and most of my time would be spent working with them.

So, what's a gal to do? I called up Newport, re-expressed my extreme and raging interest, and, oh, mentioned that I was going to the tribe's powwow this weekend, and wondered if anyone from the office would be there.

Take that, Spanish-pants.