Antonin Scalia’s butt-boy. I would rather staple my lips to David Gest’s wife-beaten scrotum.
Artist. I can’t even draw crooked lines. Of course, that didn’t stop Jackson Pollock.
Bartender. Everybody would get beer. Or Coke. Or water. Because that's all I know how to make.
Chemistry teacher. Little-known fact: I started college in pre-med. But after a semester of never even remotely wrapping my brain around orbitals and electrons and tables of the elephants, I realized 12 more years of feeling as stupid as Ann Coulter on Recite The Alphabet Day was not a great way to start a career. So I became a
Danny Zuko in Grease. For me, this would be a harder acting job than playing that big black lady in the Milk of Magnesia commercials because 1) nobody’d ever believe me as a streetwise hoodlum and 2) Sandy would just giggle when I tried to pass myself off as a jock. Besides, I am the worst pop singer ever. Worse than Madonna.
Door-to-door salesman. I’m not a very fast thinker on my feet, so the first time you said you weren’t interested in my encyclopedia vacuums, I’d be all OK. ’Bye, I guess. Plus there’s that whole Jake’s-afraid-of-talking-to-strangers thing.
Interior decorator. Though I think the stuff I’ve done to my house looks pretty cool, each room took years of painful decision-making—usually just to pick paint colors.
Migrant lawn raker. Your lawn would be littered with leftover leaves. And I wouldn’t care.
Miss America. Maybe 15 years ago, but at 36 I’m simply too old.
Murder victim. It just wouldn't be a good match for my skill sets and my English degree. Besides, I bruise easily.
NFL commentator. 1) I wouldn’t be able to stop giggling every time someone said “wide receiver.” 2) I don’t know a down from a touchdown. 3) I don’t really care.
Porn star. Unless I could get it in my contract that nobody would watch me having sex. Ever.
President. 1) Toe-the-line partisan politics makes me want to hit people. 2) Christian fundamentalists who think they speak for the electorate make me want to hit people. 3) Only a chromosomal-deficient monkey would want this job.
Reality show contestant. I avoid drama at all costs, which would make me so boring I’d be voted off before the first commercial. Unless I got to smack that arrogant fucker Simon Cowell upside the head. Now there’s some drama I could get into. (Besides, my nose looks unnaturally toucan-like on TV.)
Spiritual leader. Unless it could be for a religion that worshipped Sondheim, CSI and peanut-butter sandwiches. On wheat.
Strong black woman.
Sycophant. The only sucking up I’m willing to do involves a straw and a chocolate malt.
Thong tester. Three words: copious butt hair.
White Sox fan. Designated hitters are for pussies. (Did you buy that? Did I sound butch?)
Wal-Mart greeter. “Welcome to Wal-Mart. Um … if you get back in your car and head to Target, you’ll find nicer stuff and you won’t have to stand in line next to rock-dwelling cretins to buy it. So go now—before they lock you in this place and make you mop the floor.”