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.
Baby-seal clubber.
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.
Goat-ball licker.
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.
Pregnant hooker.
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.
Victorian princess.
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.”
3 comments:
Uhhh Jake,
1. Madonna is a good pop singer. Not the best BUT NOT the worst. 2. YOU avoid drama? Refer to your Lipo posts. Talk about avoiding drama. 3. Uhhh, thanks for the "copious butt hair" image. Suddenly, I'm not really hungry at all. :)
1. Madonna couldn't hold a pitch if it were stapled to her forhead. Even when she's electronically pitch-corrected, she still sounds flat. I am FAR from alone in holding this opinion.
2. I do avoid drama. At all costs. That doesn't mean drama doesn't find me. And if provoked enough, I sometimes retaliate. I'm nobody's absolutist.
3. Sorry about the butt hair comment. *I* thought it was kinda funny. Apparently I'm alone on this front. (And, for the record, it's not really true; I was just going for a cheap joke.)
I would give anything to be a strong black woman.
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