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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 simply because they're bouncy.) 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, why don't you find yourself a BRAIN ... or, better yet, A LIFE?

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 frickin' 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 ... 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 flaunt around and pretend they're important. I might also have to expose his toupee to the world.

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 to heaven above, listening to these quality CD's didn't make my job, I thought, nearly as bad as it used to be. Oh, but how I was nave.

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. 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 pizza, DOES IT STOP THERE?!!

I bet you're saying to yourself: "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 with the music, that is physically opening my mouth and letting actual sounds come out! 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
... 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 in fear that I might insult you. 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 pull over on the roadside and tango. Rather, I started gripping onto the steering wheel while hopping up and down on my seat like a complete and utter 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 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, I have yet to witness somebody else doing this type of thing yet in a car. When you've reached such a point, you know you're into some serious mental troubles.

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 smiling, seductively licking her lips, or offering me her phone number, 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 inane - definitely somebody she would not want to have her children with.

All right, so I'm talking about destiny here. Serendipity. What if the woman who would be my future wife the light of my life the cooker of my pies 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...

But I why would I want to marry an idiot?

This is copyright by Michael Lawrence. He is very rad.