More from Anthony Rhody’s book serial: “Does This Stress Make Me Look Fat?”
I have had a wide variety of jobs because I’m so good at so many things.
I get bored after just a few months.
I come from a long line of people who don’t have careers to speak of…
Although my Father was out standing in his field.
Often.
Even in the pouring rain.
I flirted for a while with the idea of becoming a methadone actor but decided it would get in the way of my cocaine habit.
Then I worked briefly for a magazine called VAGUE.
Never did figure out what it was for.
I was a narrator in a novel once but got fired for being unreliable.
Like any good entrepreneur, when I see a need I like to fill it.
Naturally, it was only a matter of time before I started my own plumbing business specializing in unclogging toilets that women giving themselves abortions tried to flush their embryos down.
I charged $100.00 for every month along that the unborn had been allowed to gestate.
An extra fee of $25.00 if there was an umbilical cord.
But business plunged when the environmental people convinced these women to put their “mistakes” in bio-bags and toss them into the green bin for trash pick-up.
Stupid environment!
What else was there…?
Oh, I once owned an origami business but it folded.
Then I managed a funeral home but drove that into the ground.
Funny thing about my favorite employee:
Our undertaker had a sign attached to the ceiling over his slab that said:
IF YOU ARE READING
THIS THEN YOU’RE
ALREADY DEAD.
After that I pretended to be a real estate agent just for the irony.
I was a fake real estate agent.
Had print ads with me standing in front of my house saying, “I’m not just a homo; I’m a home owner!”
Then I got found out.
I was arrested and they did a thorough cavity search but didn’t find a single cavity.
That’s because I brush and floss regularly.
Then I worked as a 9-1-1 operator, where I loved to correct callers on their grammar and usage before agreeing to send the help they allegedly needed.
Once, a distraught woman claimed that she came home and found her child unconscious on the living-room floor.
“He’s just laying there!” the woman cried.
“What is he laying,” I asked, “a blanket, a rug, what?”
“Huh?” the Mother asked.
“He’s on the floor and not moving! Please send help!”
This went on for some time.
I don’t know what the outcome was.
My break came up and I passed the call off to someone else.
God people, learn some damn grammar. It may be a matter of life and death.
My business ideas are plentiful and solid like the dump I took this morning and they also come to me while I’m taking one.
For example, I want to open a brothel that serves clear soup.
Then, when I get out of jail, I want to open a pie shop named TT.
I was in the process of opening a daycare center for both children and pets called Dingo’s Got My Baby.
But someone beat me to it.
The only word that rhymes with entrepreneur is “manure.”
Now I fucking know why.
My last serious job interview went like this:
Would-be employer: Where do you see yourself in ten years?
Me: Uhm…in a mirror?
Right after that I was able to go on permanent disability because there was obviously something not quite right with me.