A Few of My “Weird Job” Ideas

I am thigh-deep in the job search at the moment, so I’d like to take a moment to write down a few of the weirdest ideas I’ve had as to how to make money doing the least or the most interesting work possible.

Presidential Entertainer: everyone gets a little bored during the workday, and I’m sure the President of the U.S. is no different. So, I propose Mr. Obama hire me to keep things light and refreshing in the War Room. “Mr. President, you’re going to want to have a look at this,” and it’s a video of a cat eating a broccoli calzone and making a gross face. This will make drone strikes way more fun.

Scooby Doo: okay, bear with me on this one. I want to create a GoFundMe to deck out a van like the Mystery Machine and go around solving everyday mysteries. Like, if someone’s cat has gone missing: “Zoinks! I bet it was eaten alive by a wild coyote! This area is known for having a lot of coyotes.”

Refresher: for this professional role, I would basically just chew minty gum all day and breathe on people rich enough to pay me to have a minty breeze around them at all times.

Girl Scout Cookie Salesman: there is nothing I would love more than to prove the merits of capitalism by cornering the girl scout cookie market with slightly discounted prices, thereby ripping the rug out from under the Girl Scouts’ organization and assuming the monopoly. Plus, free Thin Mints.

The Pizza Man: I propose being paid $8 by whomever wants to pay me to put a piece of pizza in their enemy’s slipper and/or dress shoe. This accomplishes a few things: it ruins just one half of an enemy’s footwear, which is extremely frustrating; it ruins a perfectly good piece of pizza that the enemy probably wants to eat but now can’t because it is now foot-flavored; and it comes with a free slice of pizza which you can either eat or put in the other shoe on your own.

Pretzel Time Employee: okay, so this is an actual job that I could totally get, but I don’t think they would let me scream at all the people walking by in the mall that, “IT’S PRETZEL TIME!” and then peg them with cinnamon pretzel bites.

Professional Insulter: I would love to stand on the street and make fun of your friends for $2 a piece. I could make it performance-based too, as in you keep putting dollars into my jar as I continue ripping on your friends and the fact that nobody loves them.

Date Ruiner: are you in the middle of a God-awful date with a wet blanket? Then call me up and order the “Wet-Blanket Special” for just $29.99, where I come over to your table in the restaurant and wring out a wet blanket all over your date. Better yet, order the “Shit Special” for $45 and I will literally shit my pants right next to your date and never leave a two-foot radius next to them until they give up and go home. For the wealthier customers, I offer the “Mastur-dater” package for $79.99. This VIP-level package includes me getting a table where your date will be able to see me staring intently at them, and very obviously masturbating underneath the table while maintaining VERY uncomfortable eye contact. If this isn’t enough, I can pretend to “finish” for an additional $10, and if you guys switch tables, I will do the same for an additional $15 and a basket of bread (in stick form, prefereably) from your table.

The Other Pizza Man: did you really just order a large bacon-pepperoni-and-no-vegetable pizza from Domino’s all for yourself? Do you want to save some face in front of the delivery guy who would otherwise know exactly how much of that pizza is going right into your mouth in front of a TV as soon as he shuts the door? Hire me for just $5.99 to stand behind you when you answer the door to make it look like you’re going to share the pizza. For a slice of the pizza, I will also wear stained sweatpants and a scraggly beard to make you look like royalty.

The Dancer: are we human, or are we dancer? Who the fuck cares when you have a guy like me busting atrocious moves out on the dance floor for you to point out and make fun of to your date? For just $19.99, I’ll even get dressed up like Michael Jackson with the one shiny glove and wear blackface for extra controversy.

Your White Friend: are you an African American man or woman in need of someone to keep the police from harassing/tazing you for no reason? Well, look no further for the whitest friend you could possibly imagine. Trying to impress your boys with your mad rap skills? I’ll wear a bunch of white shit like horn-rimmed glasses and beige turtleneck sweaters for you to rip apart in a rap battle.

Graduating Suma Cum Loudly

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA gotcha!!

I am not graduating with Honors, but I am graduating with all four of my limbs, so I have that going for me.

Confused yet? I am. I’ve been awake for about 34 hours at this point, and I feel so good I’m almost convinced that this is a dream. The only definitive proof I have that this isn’t a dream is the rancid odor of coffee breath making its way up into my nostrils. It’s a pretty good way to wake yourself up via a nice deep gag every few minutes.

I’ve been up so long because I had to write the last two papers of my undergraduate career at Gettysburg College, and time management is probably my 56th best skill. My top three skills? Sure.

1. My “old Jewish woman” accent will knock your matzah balls off

2. Hitting my face on things. Seriously. I ran into a volleyball pole in fifth grade and this one kid in our gym class passed out from the sight of all the blood. I heard later that I basically ruined the class for everyone because they had to listen to the teacher talk about why running around before class starts is a bad idea.

3. Falling asleep in any sort of transportation.

This seems like a good place to start listing weird shit that has happened to me over my last four years in college.

This was our mascot until a few years ago. It’s a bullet, and definitely not a dildo.

Freshman year, I ran down my hallway at 3 AM jumping and punching the styrofoam ceiling tiles the way Mario does in the video game. I also made the “Ding!” noise every time.

Also during freshman year, I caused a scene in our hall (during the day this time). To put it bluntly, I took a massive crap that got stuck on the bowl and simply would not flush. I tried a couple times, and then gave up and left. About an hour later, I stepped outside my dorm room to see every guy in our hall talking excitedly about “It”. Someone blamed it on this kid Gerry who vehemently denied it, but I just acted surprised and let him take the blame.

Sophomore year, I somehow got into a local bar with a fake ID that said I was 26 years old. My roommate ended up bringing home a 37 year old woman with 3 kids, a C-section scar, and a husband in jail. I slept on the Yogibo in our living room.

Ah, I forgot one from freshman year. I went to this fraternity rush event one Thursday night, and got absolutely plastered. I managed to wake up in time for my 8:30 Econ class, and dragged myself across campus with nothing other than a giant-ass water bottle. About fifteen minutes into class, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to just go pass out in my room, and made it as far as the wooden bench just outside the Econ building before passing out on said bench and sleeping in the rain for about a half hour before I mustered up the strength to get back to my room.

A bunch of times throughout college I had a cold and sometimes wouldn’t catch the sneeze in time and a huge snot rocket would land on the floor in the middle of class. I have no idea if anyone noticed or not. It was pretty gross.

Once during junior year, my roommate and I went to McDonald’s to try to “cone” the lady working the drive-thru window. “Coning” is when you order just a cone of vanilla ice cream, and then when they hand you your cone, you just grab a fistful of the ice cream – leaving the cone in their hand – and drive off. As soon as I ordered a cone at the drive-thru speaker, I could hear the skepticism in her voice. When we pulled up to the window, this middle-aged lady peers out, looking utterly pissed off, and goes, “You aren’t going to try to ‘cone’ me, are you?”

“NoooOOOooooo,” I replied. “I don’t even know what ‘coning’ is. What is that?”

When she handed me the cone, I tried to swipe the ice cream right off, but MAN, this lady had some reflexes in those forearms. She yanked it away before I could cone her, and told me, “If you try to do that again, I will throw this ice cream in your car.”

I was like, “…..naaaah. There’s no way you would do that. You’d get in trouble.”

“Oh, really?” She said, cocking her arm back just enough to make me wonder just how much of my car’s interior she could splatter with one cone’s worth of vanilla ice cream.

It was too much. I caved, and accepted my vanilla cone like a little bitch. I don’t even like vanilla ice cream.

Here’s how it should have gone down, if that lady wasn’t such a stickler for serving vanilla cones the way Ronald McDonald told her to.