Are you in the mood for a fun game today, gentle reader? Even if you weren’t, it really wouldn’t matter because all questions tend to become rhetorical here. We’ll name our game “One-Line Existence,” a pithy title for a race to reduce your current calling, your occupation du jour, into a single, dismissive line. Think of it as an anti-resume.
Perhaps a little explanation is in order. If anyone were to win this game, and I mean continually win, it would be yours truly. Most people I meet–including friends, family, complete strangers–respond to my job with one of two replies.
“Oh, you’re one of those people,” goes the first response. This is usually accompanied by a chuckle or a look reserved for Special Olympics cheaters.
The second reply: “Spam.” On rare occasions, the verdict comes with an implicit demand that I wish, beg, I were a delectable block of seasoned meat rather than an advertiser.
Am I irreparably broken? Do I spend sleepless nights pondering my personal worth? Of course not. For an evening, though, let’s forget the cardinal rule of “judge not lest ye be judged” and play the game to the hilt. Prove your existence!
Advertising = spam
Marketing = advertising
Student = dumb and poor
Police = donut
Law student = aimless (I honestly heard this from someone who, in all likelihood, had to justify “studying the earth” on a regular basis.)
Fireperson = pole
Musician = covers
Teacher = daycare
Daycare = snack time
Artist = starving
Neurosurgeon = what?
Consultant = die by 30
Journalist = nosey
Programmer = fat and blind
Researcher = just give up
If you’re ever subjected to this game, unwittingly so, think of it as a celebration of your roots instead of patronization. We’ve all got to start somewhere, right? Brad Pitt, for instance, donned a chicken suit in the days before fame struck him mercilessly. Quentin Tarantino? He worked the counter at a video store. What about you and me? Let the games begin.
No matter how technologically advanced we become, no matter how many shiny inventions roll off the assembly line, science will never–never, I repeat–formulate the perfect way to shop. It’s just not in the cards, nor is it on the periodic table. Do you honestly see Shoppium on the chart? The Noble Gases, who incidentally all wear monocles and Prada, love to scoff at the wimpier misfits like Californium or INamedItAfterMyselfium. Well, Shoppium can’t even enjoy this dubious pleasure.
I’ve had enough chemistry for the year, gentle reader, so let’s talk about reality. It’s impossible to shop for Muse, try as I might, year after year. I’m convinced she likes it that way, and truth be told I don’t mind it either. I like the complexity.
Last Christmas Eve, on a blustery evening not unlike tonight, I gave her a signed first edition of The Odyssey, which I thought was a bona fide home run. Finding a copy wasn’t exactly easy, you know, especially a copy still sealed in shrinkwrap. She seemed genuinely happy, but it was only later that I discovered all of the pages were in her own handwriting. For the love of eggnog, why didn’t I just steal her journal, wrap it up in some of her clothes, and wish her a fantastic Christmas? It would’ve been much, much faster.
I’m going to get it right this year, mark my words. I’m thinking a little sailing, a lot of dancing, only the finest eats, and maybe even some caroling. And I won’t complain during any of it, not one bit.
I spent the majority of Thanksgiving break in bed, gentle reader, as sick as a dog with a predilection for collecting viruses. Despite my feverish state, despite the gloriously delusional bus stops before unconsciousness, my entrepreneurial wheels continued to turn.
I wanted to bottle my virus and sell it. Botox paved the way for bacterially assisted treatments, so why wouldn’t my virus be desirable? There were certain flashes during my weekend, times when I didn’t wonder if I would die, where I could eat a single meal and still feel satisfied all day.
You know what that means. Atkins can take his rashers of bacon and keep them to himself, just as all the South Beach books in the world can stay in the south. There’s a new diet in town. If you want a sample, simply send me a self-addressed envelope with a plastic baggie.