Dream Jobs

Since I can never seem to find a job that I like, well-meaning people often ask me, "Well, what do you want to do?". These people, I fear, don't really want to know the answer to that question. The majority of the time they just inquire out of exasperation, as if to say, "You dumbass. Lots of people would kill for your job. Why can't you just come down off your throne of idealism and enjoy something for once? What is it exactly that you would rather be doing? What's your calling?".

My "calling". As if I'm a nun. I mean, am I supposed to believe that a stockbroker, for example, was just playing in the sandbox when he was a kid and suddenly heard a divine voice urging him to buy stock in AT&T, or sell shares in Tab cola? Of course not. The question is only posed to those of us who would rather eat our shoelaces than become stockbrokers. It's asked of those of us who have chosen unconventional career paths and who demand our work, however menial, is at least in sync with our passions.

But the question remains. While I try to become a working writer, what would my dream "in-the-meantime" job choices be?

Well stop asking. Here they are.

-Underwear Inspector. You may have noticed that when you open a new pack of undies, there is typically a small loose tag in the folds that reads "Inspected by #[insert number here]". This is actually someone's job. Standing on an assembly line, the inspector picks up every undergarment, checks it, and issues either a pass or fail. I don't really know what their checklist consists of, but I assume it goes something like this: Elastic waistband? Check. Equal-sized leg holes? Check. Enough support for even the most massive schlong? Check. Plus, underwear inspectors don't have to deal with the public. They deal with the pubic. Har-har-har.

-Amy Winehouse's Personal Assistant. I love Amy Winehouse and feel inexplicably protective toward her. I think she is insanely talented and insanely troubled. My fear is that she is going down the Janis Joplin road. I'd love to be Amy's assistant: trailing her all over London in order to shield her from the paparazzi, making 3 a.m. runs to 7/11 for candy and smokes, holding her hair back while she pukes. As an added benefit, you know that Amy gets the goooooooood shit, and she'd totally share.

-Pooper Scooper. I don't mind poo at all. It's a natural byproduct of being a living, food-dependent creature. Given these feelings, is there any more Zen-like job than professional pooper scooper? Some of these people make surprising amounts of money (I saw one ad offering $22 an hour!), and all they have to do is mosey around your backyard with a nifty contraption that collects caca. Dog, cat, rabbit, monkey...it doesn't matter. Poop is poop, and those who make it their business have a damn cushy job.

-Late-Night Cable Talk Show Host. Oh how I would love to have my own nighttime chat show on cable. It would have to be on cable since I would insist on a forum that allowed both my potty mouth and nude male dancers. The show wouldn't be tacky, though, in spite of the prodigious use of the F word and prominently-featured features of the go-go boys. I imagine an intimate setting, no studio audience, low moody lighting, and big comfy La-Z-Boy chairs. I would sit down with movie stars, singers, politicians, artists, and writers and would become known for asking the most unique, probing questions. Things like, "Tell us, Loni Anderson, who was the biggest slut on WKRP?" and "Dame Judi Dench, would you please satisfy our viewers and show us your boobies?". You know, important stuff.

-Sommelier. This one would be a toughie because I don't drink, but there's got to be a way to make it happen. When I was an imbiber, wine was always my favorite; a good merlot was better than any drug. And even with those days long behind me, the intricacies and biographies of wine still fascinate. I actually went so far as to find a school that teaches aspiring sommeliers, The Wine School of Philadelphia. You just know they have a rockin' graduation party.

-Angelina and Brad's Seventh Child. As I write this, Angelina Jolie is pregnant with twins, her fifth and sixth children. If I could find a way for she and Brad Pitt to make me their seventh, I'd be set for life. My mommy and daddy would be gazillionaires, as well as humanitarians and Goodwill peace ambassadors. I have no qualms about shamelessly fabricating a tortured past: my Arctic village was burned to the ground by a drunken Mrs. Claus when I was just a child, and I've been subsisting on seal blubber and polar bear milk ever since. Adopt me, Brangelina!

In closing, if anyone knows where I can pick up applications for any of these jobs, please email me. I am an expert multi-tasker with solid references. I look forward to hearing from you soon. Thank you for your time.