Why I Should Quit My Job

Why I Should Quit My Job

(Because it could prove to have irreparable damage to my sex
life)

By Michael Lawrence

Okay. There is a big problem in my life and it needs to be fixed
promptly, this very instant, pronto, quickly, extremely soon, and RIGHT
NOW. What is this big problem, you might be asking yourself. Well, I'm
going tell you, Mr. Impatient Pants. Hold your horses (if you don't
have horses, then find something else to hold onto.)

I need to quit my job because it could prove to have irreparable damage
to my sex life. Yes! You heard me correctly (which would be strange
because I am not reading this to you). My job could result in me never
getting married thus never having sex for my entire life! (And I can't
rely on my extremely-developed pectoral muscles to seduce women because
they're so squishy.) This is bad. You know it. I know it. And you
probably don't care. But I care! And I am writing this paper! So if you
don't like it, then go read one of your stupid magazines. Go ahead. See
if I give a crap.

All right, so I bet you're asking yourself, what my job is. Well, I say
quit asking yourself these kind of questions because that's just weird.
Plato didn't get anywhere asking himself stupid questions like: "I
wonder what some future college guy's job is going to be." So, get with
it.

I suppose I should tell you what my job is because it is kind of
pertinent to this paper. I work at a deli delivering food to people who
are too lazy to get off their tushes and get it for themselves. It's
also important that you know that I have worked there for almost four
months, and I am incredibly bored with it.

My dad lets me drive around his stick shift BMW for this job (if you
think I'm bragging, then you're right). Now, I bet you're thinking:
"How in high heaven could a college student EVER get bored driving a
BMW with a frickin' stick shift while getting PAID to do it?" And I
say, if you don't stop asking yourself questions, I'm going to punch
your lights out. Now I bet you're thinking: "If he punches my lights
out without turning it off first, this stupid college student is going
to get electrocuted or something." And I say, oh.

In any case, it doesn't matter how I got bored with my job &;#8230;
all it matters is that I got bored. So, what should you do when you get
bored with something? Well, the smart person would say: "Stop whatever
your doing right now!" And I'd say to this smart person that he misused
the word "your" in that sentence, and I'll have to take away all his
high-falootin' college degrees that idiots such as himself like to
blindly flaunt around.

Well, of course, like a complete idiot, I didn't stop what I was doing.
Rather, I found something interesting to do WHILE I was extremely bored
trying to look for lazy people's houses. So, after about a month of
this extreme boredom, I bought a CD player and some CD's to accompany
me in my extremely tedious adventures. And, thankfully, listening to
these quality CD's made my job, I thought, not nearly as boring as it
used to be. Oh, but how I was na?ve then. You see, simply listening to
them wasn't enough.

When people tell you that using marijuana won't lead you to using
cocaine, tell them to stick it up their nose. Because it does. (Better
yet, tell them to stick it up my nose.) If listening to the CD's is
like marijuana, then tapping your fingers on the steering wheel is like
cocaine.

I'm serious! Before, I was perfectly content just LISTENING to the
music, but then, I had to start TAPPING MY FINGERS.

Now, I bet you're asking yourself: "What on Earth is so bad about
TAPPING FINGERS?" And I say this is the third time I've warned you
about asking yourself questions. If you do it in the middle of MY paper
again, you're going to start hearing from my attorney (a hedgehog named
Greg).

It's not the simple action of tapping my fingers that bothers me. It's
just that it led me to do something a lot worse. (Like Viagra!) I
started lip-syncing to it. Yes! Before I was a delivery driver, I used
to gawk at those utter fools who'd lip-sync to their crummy music. I
used to point my finger and LAUGH at people who did such ridiculous,
stupid things. And then I started doing it! Oh woe!

Does it stop there? For the love of everything that's good, DOES IT
STOP THERE?!!

I bet you're saying to yourself: "Oh I hope so. I want to stop reading
this and get back to one of my stupid magazines." And I say: "Who's
stopping you, stupid head."

It doesn't stop there! No sir! Then I had to start actually SINGING -
physically opening my mouth and letting actual sounds come out - with
the music. Not only is it a complete and utter waste of my vocal
chords, it proves to me that I do not have the ability to properly use
them. Last week, when I turned off the motor in the middle of "The
Yellow Submarine" I listened to myself sing for a moment and found out
that I had absolutely no clue what I was doing.

Here is part of the actual lyrics to "The Yellow Submarine"

And our friends are all on board

Many more of them live next door

And the band begins to play

We all live in our yellow submarine,

Yellow submarine, yellow submarine

We all live in our yellow submarine,

Yellow submarine, yellow submarine

And here is what I was singing:

Anar bens r'all a goar

&;#8230; noruvem li ne'for

Anna ban bein - toupee

Bar bar dabar BAR BAR BAR BAR bar
bar bar bar BAR BAR BAR BAR

Bum bum bum,

We yall live inna yella submari,

Yella submari, yella submari

We yall live inna yella submari,

Yella submari, yellow submari

I should have known to quit this stupid job then and there, but what
can I say? I was a moron.

"But what of my sex life?" you strategically decide not to ask
yourself. What on earth does this have anything to do with my sex
life?

Would I shock you too much to tell you that singing with the music is
not the height of my problem? Yeah. Bet you don't want to go off and
read that stupid magazine now! I actually started dancing to it. YIKES!
By that, I don't mean that I started pulling over on the roadside to
tango, but I did start gripping onto the steering wheel while hopping
up and down on my seat like a moron. And no, I don't wait until
nightfall or when no one's watching before I start doing it. It's where
ever I go. Going past private residencies, plowing through busy
streets, sitting at stoplights &;#8230; you name it! I'll be
gripping my steering wheel, insanely hopping up and down, and
inaccurately singing songs like a total putz! I mean, this is so bad
that I have yet to witness somebody ELSE doing it. When you've reached
such a point, you're into some serious trouble.

I didn't even notice the seriousness of it until I was hopping at a
stoplight one day when I happened to look over on the next lane. Who
did I see? A gorgeous young woman. And she wasn't seductively licking
her lips, offering me her phone number, or even smiling, either. She
was staring at me, squinting; her eyebrows were tilted at such an angle
that said: "What the hell kind of medicine is this guy on, and why the
hell isn't he taking it?" In other words, she thought I was an inane
goofball - definitely somebody she would not want to have her children
with. Even worse, there probably aren't a lot of guys who would want
their children's mother to have eyebrows with the capability of
speaking. So, I am being rejected by the rejected. And that's bad,
folks. Real bad.

All right, so I'm talking about destiny here. Serendipity. What if the
woman who would be my future wife &;#8230; the light of my life
&;#8230; the cooker of my pies &;#8230; were to happen to look
over at a stoplight and see me hopping up and down like mad? When we
would have had that magical first encounter together, she would instead
think to herself: "Hey. Isn't that that guy I saw the other day hopping
in his car seat?" and then head for the nearest ladies room. We would
never meet. We would never marry. She would never clean out my bank
account. And I would never get to experience one of her rotten pies.
That is EXACTLY what scares me.

Of course, serendipity could prove to work in a different mysterious
way and I spot a young lady who is also hopping in her seat at a
stoplight. We exchange romantic glances with each other, and, through
sheer fate, we would meet again in a coffee shop. We would start
chatting with each other, do a little flirting, and find out that we
actually have a lot in common&;#8230;

But I why would I want to be around such an idiot?