It's Time to Pursue a Career in Not Working

This summer was educational. I learned a lot about myself, my likes and dislikes. It turns out, I do not care for working. I do like doing whatever I want whenever I want.

I learned this the hard way. I started out working at a summer camp. There I could only do a few things I wanted to do (play sports and have children entertain me) but I also - most absurdly - was obligated to stay there all day and be responsive to the children's needs. Ooooo, pay attention to me! Oooooo, give me a snack! Ooooooo, let me out of this cage! God, go away, already! What a drag. If this is what work is, than I want no part of it. I'd love to play a game of kickball and then hear an 8-year-old sing Adele's "Rumor Has It" at the camp talent show, but right afterward, I want to peel out of the parking lot in the Camry and do whatever I want whenever I want.

Next I worked at the race track at Saratoga. I had mornings off. This taught me a valuable lesson: I like mornings free and all other times free, too. I could read, journal, take a walk - whatever I wanted. Then 11 ocklock rolled around, and I had to go to work, and it was STUPID. I didn't like one single un-leisure-like minute of it. I'd be sitting there trying to read my book, when some jerk would come up and rudely interrupt me just so he could bet on a race. Do you not see the book in my hand and the look of utter adolescent-styled contempt on my face? I could hardly get any reading done at all there, so what was the point of even being there? And, as with the summer camp, I couldn't leave for several hours. If I wanted to go to a prison camp, I'd travel back in time and piss off a soviet official in Stalin's Russia.* Historical reference burn!

So, what to do with this information? Clearly, I need to stop working immediately and start spending time doing whatever the heck I feel like doing. I'm not sure why this didn't occur to me before. I have to blame my parents and the schools for never encouraging me to pursue a career as an aristrocratic loafer. How could they have possibly believed I would want to do work for a living? Didn't they know that I would much perfer to spend my time playing kickball with friends and taking long, rambling walks while having all of my financial needs covered by my massive inheritence? It's irresponsible of them, frankly, allowing me to take on all of this responsibility. Thankfully, I came to this counclusion before I foolishly worked another day in my life. I've finally found my true calling: someone who does nothing. It feels good. I can't wait to get started!

As a Man of Leisure, I will look something like this:



So beautiful!


*Wow, what kind of jerk compares his First World job to a prison camp? Obscene!

We are the Mighty Blue Hens?

I would like to talk sports a moment, so I can prove that, though I'm not a Real Man myself, I know what a Real Man would talk about.

More specifically, I would like to talk about sports team names, because I'm a bit confused about the whole naming process. For instance, I was driving my car tonight, as I do from time to time, and in front of me was a car with some Deleware University's name and team name bordering the license plate. What was the team name for this college? The Blue Hens. First off, call me a make-believe animal hater, but what's a hen doing being blue? Second of all, aren't sports team names supposed to be intimidating. Lions, Trojans, Coffee Shop Baristas. I mean, I'm sure a hen could scratch you up pretty good, but I don't know if I could take my coach seriously when he said, "Ok, hens, let's go get these Grizzly Bears!" "But, sir, no offense, but if I'm a hen, I'm not going to fight a Grizzly Bear. That's ridiculous. Maybe there are some field mice we could play? Some rabbits?"

Don't makes me lay an imaginary blue egg on yo' ass, biatch!

In Minneapolis, where we lived for a year, there were the "Golden Gophers," whose fans could be found in restaurants and shops in "Dinkyown". Perhaps there was a mixup between the college and a local daycare center? The toddlers were then acidentally christened the Pythons, who played, much to their parents' dismay, in The Snake Pit.

The other big topic with team names, of course, is cultural sensitivity, particularly when it concerns Native Americans. More specifically, maybe you shouldn't wipe out and dislocate an entire people and then use racist images of them to support your White European Ass entertainment. Of course one remedy, besides stopping the appropriation of Native American culture for White Fun and Profit would be to create equally offensive names of teams based on white stereotypes. For instance, we could have teams like The Nerdy White Guys with a mascot who is thin, pale, pimply, wears suspenders and glasses and carries around a calculator. Or we could have the Genocidal Maniacs, with an image of Christopher Columbus with horns, pitchfork, tail and gold coins in his eyes.

Anyway, I have to go catch the, uh, game....with that team, who I'm always rooting for and talking about with all of my many masculine male companions while we drink some economically friendly liquor in can form without, of course, using glasses.