This is an entry for the blogathong, which I heard about from Scary Scary Quite Contrary. I don't know many details about it other than people are expected to write a blog a day, Monday to Friday, for the next 16 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.
Send all complaint letters to firstname.lastname@example.org.
If there’s a better example of how little it takes to get a human being to degrade themselves than gainful employment, then I don’t know what it is.
Unfortunately, work is something we all have to keep doing.
I once attended a pyramid scam sales pitch where the manager told us the difference between a job and a career. He said a job is something you do for money, but a career is something you do for life. He added something after that, but I can’t remember what it was; it was hard to hear him over the IRS agents reading him his rights and hauling him away.
Either way, that little tax cheat was right; a career is something that we do for life.
Only, you often don’t get paid for doing things that last for life. You should, there’s no reason why a father shouldn’t receive compensation for all the food and shelter their children enjoyed while growing up, and what court wouldn’t award monetary damages to a mother for all the vaginal tearing their children caused?
Of course, becoming a parent is a trade off. In order to afford the things children need, like food, medicine, and the occasional chew toy, you have to go to work; which means that the only way to have and provide for children is to spend large amounts of time away from them.
As a childless, non-breeder, I’m free to while away all sorts of time not working and pursuing the activities which please me the most, such as growing a beard on half of my face, marking the neighbors lawn to keep away other transients who might want to set up a fort in their shrubbery, and inserting filthy images in Bob the Builder episodes that I then distribute online.
The irony here is that I have no one with whom to spend my time. My friends all work, and my wife wants nothing to do with me when she’s sober.
Sometimes I think it would be pretty sweet to have a child; they have tiny hands, so they can sneak into places that adults can’t; plus, their fingerprints are not yet on file so the cops can’t catch them and when they see the tiny prints, they’ll assume it’s a midget what did it.
It’s too bad that children are distracted by shiny objects, or they would make great thieves.
I would also like to teach my child to say horribly filthy things to express frustration like, “Fuck a cunt” and “Well that just smears my smegma” so that it’s peers and elders would recoil in horror, but the said reality is that the kid probably wouldn’t last too long keeping that up before the other children started to avoid it, and I got a visit from whatever state agency is in charge of keeping children away from people like me.
Instead, I fill my spare time by making money spending time with other people’s children.
I’m a teacher.
At least, I am part of the time. When I’m in Korea, I’m definitely a teacher, because if I wasn’t they would kick me out of the country; I don’t know what I am in America. The last teaching job I had, while working for a high school, lasted about a month until one of my students found this blog (which was then posted under my real name), someone told their parents about it, and then I got a visit from a police detective and a junior DA who wanted to know if I liked to touch children and whether or not I was ever abused as a child. I don’t know that any school would want me back after a situation like that.
The more important question is whether or not to threaten my paying career with my non-paying one.
Luckily, I don’t have to make this decision until at least January, which is over two months away, and, if George W Bush has taught us anything, there’s no sense worrying about something until it’s too late to do anything about it, that way you can use the timing as an excuse for your failure.
I don’t know if I’m part of the small group of people that thinks they’re going to make it and does or in the majority who fritter away the best years of their lives producing the kinds of things that you get for free when you purchase a slightly chipped set of plates at a yard sale, but I know that, no matter what, I could never stop, because I like doing it. If, tomorrow, a doctor told me that I was suffering from a rare skin disease that can only be cured by not masturbating, I would immediately call my friends and family to tell them that I will not be able to attend their various social functions and gangbangs.
I love to do what I do in the way that some people love children; the kind of people who spend much of their lives locked away from the rest of society, and are forced to notify their neighbors upon moving to a new neighborhood. I want to take this blog into my cellar, feed it sedative laced grape juice, and take Polaroid pictures of it in compromising positions that I can use to bribe my way into the next Republican party presidential nominating convention in 2012.
Just like people with children, if you want something bad enough, you have to make it work, even if it means degrading yourself to the point where you spend your Friday evening listening to Rafi and cleaning another human beings shit off your face because your baby learned how to projectile defecate. It’s a selfish way to live, but if human beings can’t be selfish, then I don’t know what’s become of us as a species. We may as well just call ourselves moose and move to Canada.
You can bet your ass that a moose would never wear a tie and call an idiot “sir” for fifty thousand dollars a year and medical benefits.
Sex Mahoney for President
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