Jobs Disguised as Jobs

Steve Jobs said, "Stay hungry, stay foolish." (www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/answer-sheet/post/steve-jobs-told-students-stay-hungry-stay-foolish/2011/10/05/gIQA1qVjOL_blog.html)

I certainly try to stay hungry, but there are so many chicken wings out there that know my name. They call out to me with their greasy, stentorian voices. To ignore them would be animal cruelty, rather like depriving the Kardashian's of the attention they so crave to hang on the liminal of relevance.

Steve got it half wrong. But, he also got it half right.

Staying foolish…now there's a task I'm built for. Like the cheetah, built for short bursts of speed, or the Dingo – natural born baby eater.

Or the La-z-boy reclining chair, built for comfort and watching t.v.

Perhaps the more apt comparison is the Dung Beetle, built to lift 1,141 times its weight – in dung. That's ten outhouses from our cottage stacked one on top of the other. Which is scarier – me carrying that much dung or me going downtown in my dungarees?

I will play the fool, Mr. Jobs. This is why, instead of asking people for a job, I am going to create my own job. Only they won't be "Job" jobs. They will be jobs disguised as "Jobs". No, not Steve Jobs. Okay, stop confusing me.

I've created a few jobs for myself that sound incredibly impressive in pixels, and require no skill whatsoever.

Disguised Job #1: Mud Spatter Expert
You would be dazzled by the amount of useful information I can glean from your suspiciously average looking mud spatter on your everyday car.

Immediately upon beginning my mud reading, I can tell the make and model of the car. True, the car is in front of me anyway, but I can tell this info way faster than you, the spatter dilettante.

Through careful re-enacting of the car's movements, using strings and Jedi magic, I can tell how fast it was going, how deep the puddle was, and the name of the blonde sitting beside you.

A thorough analysis, required in more serious cases, has often brought forth startling results, such as how many Timbits were consumed within 100 km of the puddle that day, and I even found the Virgin Mary image on the rear-fender mud spatter of a hearse cum house painting truck.

I am in hush-hush talks to star in an HBO production called Paulster, about a serial killer who works as a mud spatter expert for the local mechanic. My targets are people who fix their own cars, via Youtube, NOT the mechanic. After I cut up my victims, I send their family, as per the mechanic's practice, a bill for labour and body parts. The labour is always what gets them.

I am surrounded by co-workers who, whenever they pass me, exclaim, "the Paulster", in a Rob Schneider SNL-type voice.

The producers preferred that the show be called Dickster, because it fit more closely my personality. I didn't laugh.

Disguised Job #2: Dock Spider-Man
Most super heroes have it all wrong. They are too pretty, work too hard, don't drink enough alcohol, wear silly colourful costumes while trying to be introspective and take themselves far too seriously. Not Dock Spider-Man.

The best thing about being Dock Spider-Man is the dock part. Because that's where you'll find me all summer. My eight legs splayed over the sides of a chaise lounge, munching on lightly sea-salted dragon fly chips and rubbing SPF 50 on my fangs.

If you're drowning, I'm there. I don't actually save you, though. You won't learn anything that way. I throw you a damn lifejacket. Do it yourself. Don't be stupid next time. It's a teaching moment. Instead of super heroes saving everyone's ass, they should employ the power of "don't be stupid next time."

Disguised Job #3: Righter
Society is full of writers. Everyone and their dog thinks they can write. Blogs abound, peddling presumably profound prose.

What society really needs is more Righters. Few things feel better than finding yourself in an argument and being right. After hurling invective and skillfully using ad hominem attacks, the last thing you want is to end up on the wrong side of an argument. That's where I come in.

I have a wealth of experience being right about things. You are a husband, arguing with your wife. She is slowly wearing you down with her one-two punch of emotional incoherence and irrational exuberance.  Your titanium man-shell begins to crack. You consider, for a fleeting moment, that you might be wrong. I'll be there to back you up.

"You are right! Quinoa and kale salad does not belong with chicken wings and beer. You have every right to be mad. Let it out. Take the truck for a spin through the mud. Go get some dock time."

"My job here is done."