Clock Punching

Don't lie to me. You've been wondering, and I can't say I blame you.

What does such an esoteric young man do for a living? Certainly not on the assembly line at the modesty factory, that's for sure. Let us not beat around the bush here. (But let's beat bush lol!!!) This one will be heartfelt, and you'll never want to read another one so mind-numbingly personal again. You can just read everyone else's blog every day for the rest of time.

I have been unemployed since the start of this blog. Is that shameful? Mostly. Almost entirely. It's akin to burning all of the money in your checking account, depositing the ashes into an empty hourglass, and turning it over. The stereotypical "moths in the wallet" routine turns into the moths leaving because they haven't felt the warmth of dolla dolla dolla bills ya'll in ages; on occasion, when I turned out my pockets, they disintegrated and blew away. Whatever. I have been telling lies here for the sake of hyperbole. People do it all the time.

Folks have asked me how I have spent my days as a shiftless vagabond, though I haven't exactly been sucking on the teat of the state just yet, peanut gallery. I will break it down for you, and honestly, it doesn't seem so bad at first glance. I wake up around 9:30 every day, run about three miles, eat breakfast, shower, (I used to) tool around on the Internet and newspaper classifieds looking for any sort of reasonable opportunity, complete any sort of errands or housework designated for me, and after that, the day was basically a free-for-all. In between, I went on a couple of vacations, read a lot of books, and saw a lot of movies. In between that, I went as a hanger-on with other hangers-on to places where anyone else might be hanging on. No wire hangers, though. So really, I have rarely been bored, and yet...

Quite simply, being unemployed sucks. I mean, things never got down to me turning into a Dollar Menunaire, or worse, kicking it with haggard and bloated versions of David Faustino and Jeremy Miller. Are we supposed to know who they are when they appear on those McDonald's commercials? Or is our intelligence being insulted when their names appear at the bottom of the screen, as if to say, "Oh that's who it is. Jesus, he let himself go." Or, additionally, are they that desperate for work? Reality television has all but guaranteed that former child stars and one-hit wonders have an eternal place in posterity. Why don't they just resort to that and stare at Flava Flav's nipples or something? Can I get a what what, Corey Feldman?

Hold on, I think I hear Huey Lewis and the News. There is a bar called Bugsy's (look, tying in old material, it's hip to be up on your continuity) in Old Town Alexandria that had to have been the inspiration for Sports, only dirtier and dingier, as if the Hold Steady themselves had left because the barflies were too scurrilous for their liking. Great place, really. Anyway, as Ellen DeGeneres once titled a book My Point...And I Do Have One, I was getting at something here at some point. Ah, yes, as the Kaiser Chiefs once titled a record...

Basically, employment means new adventures. New chances for people to cough when some secondhand smug gets in their lungs. It means that no longer will I have to consider magnetic ribbons or those inane faux baseballs that look like they're smashing through a car window as legitimate topics of discussion. I don't care how much you like baseball, because for one, you probably know nothing about it. But I'd like to take you up on something. How about I start shattering your back windshield with baseballs, because obviously such a destructive car decoration is alluding to your wildest fantasies. Maybe you have a suction cup fetish. I don't know. Take the stupid thing off your car. However, they are still not as bad as Dale Earnhardt memorial window decals. Would you do the same for a hit man who was killed while on a hit?