Original humor & comedy articles daily weblog

If I Were a Real Blogger… Maybe I’d Do Less Memes

Hey, all.

So, I got nothing tonight. Nada. Zilch. An Olsen twin breakfast. Zippo.

But never fear, for the Bed and Breakfast Man has come to my rescue. Perhaps I should explain.

You see, it seems there’s this new (or old; how the hell should I know what the kiddies are up to these days?) meme is making the rounds, and good old B&B Man has been kind enough to tag me ‘it’ on this one. Here’s how I’m told it works:

The meme is to pick five of the professions below and finish the sentence.

If I could be a dog trainer…

Now, supposedly, I’m supposed to answer the questions, and then ‘tag’ some other people to carry on the torch, and get them the rules, and make sure they understand, and help out with details and suggestions and all of that jazz.

Yeah. Donkey winkies, I say to that. I don’t have that kind of time over here. So, what I will do is let you know that you’re more than welcome to take up the cause, and find five questions you like, answer them on your own site, and follow the rules better than I have. Don’t do as I do, folks; do as I… well, not as I say, either, really. I’m not telling you to do much of anything. Do whatever you want, pretty much. That’s how we roll here at Chez Charlie.

Meanwhile, though, I will answer a few of these questions. And I’ll provide a happy little link to Bed & Breakfast Man‘s most entertaining set of answers. But I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s activities out there — hey, I can barely manage to live my own life — but this looks like fun, so I’m jumping in. Lemme know if you do the same, and I’ll stop by and leave you nice comments. How’s that for commitment, eh?

And now, on to the questions:

If I could be a chef…

…then that’d just be fricking bad. I’m a horrible cook, peoiple. If I were a chef, we’d have lawsuits and stomach pumps and a botulism epidemic on our hands. People would be throwing chopped-off fingers into the chili for seasoning purposes. It wouldn’t be pretty.

I suppose, if I were theoretically going to go down this road, I’d have to only offer food that I knew I could reasonably safely make. Which is to say, nothing involving a stove or oven of any kind. Or a ‘food processor’ — if it’s not already mushy or squishy enough, then giving me a machine to make it so isn’t gonna help anyone. And don’t get me started on blenders. Those are just little ceiling fans in a can, people. And that’s how messes get made, not how dinner gets cooked. Not in my house.

So, that doesn’t leave a whole lot of culinary wiggle room. In my restaurant, you can have shit that can be microwaved, or shit that comes straight from a box, or shit that comes out of the fridge. That’s about it. So my menu might have… I don’t know, cereal on it. I could probably manage that. Fruit, maybe, so long as you’re not one of those fancypants bastards who wants it ‘cut’, or ‘washed’, or ‘fresh’. Pickle slices — I could whip those up for you, out of a jar. Ice cubes are always refreshing. Or a nice big plate of salad dressing; that’s good over the cereal, too, from what I understand. Sort of a mix ‘n’ match thing going on, there.

Yeah, maybe this one wasn’t such a good idea. Hell, I might as well have said, ‘If I could be a studly porn star…‘ I know just about as much about that as I do about cooking. And actually, even a little bit more — at least in bed, I know what to do with the spatula. Freaky.

If I could be a psychologist…

…well, then, I wouldn’t need to blog any more, would I? Honestly, is this little endeavor anything besides free online primal scream therapy? We should all have a nice cry and group hug after one of my posts, I’ve always thought. Hell, I owe it to you, for putting you through this.

Honestly, though, being a head doctor might be fun. And then I could slowly, steadily turn the human race into more my kind of crowd:

‘What’s that? You’re strong and independent and ready to milk life for whatever you can get? Oh, no, no, no… that’s all wrong!

No, you’ve got to sit meekly by while other people — say, psychologists, just for instance — reap the rewards that life has to offer. Your personality is far more suited to washing cars — like mine — or making food — because I don’t know how — or frankly, just freely giving money to people you know. Honestly, I think you should give fifty bucks to the next person you see outside this room — no, scratch that, why wait so long! — just give me the fifty and see how much better that makes you feel. And breathe out and touch your inner child, and all that other crap while you’re at it. You know the drill.‘

Yeah, this’d be much better than being a chef — I still wouldn’t know what the hell I was doing, and people might eventually get sick and hurl, but I’d have a lot more fun with it. Plus, once you’re in someone’s head like that, you just might get ’em to show you their boobs. It’s like being a dentist! Bonus!

If I could be an athlete…

…I wouldn’t be in any sport with a ‘roid controversy, that’s for sure. I mean, sure, I might need the damned things to compete — my best years are well behind me, people, and they weren’t all that great to begin with. And I’m all about unfair advantages, too — I’d slip my coworkers a bunch of mickeys and pose them like bondage-flavored Barbies in the coper room, if I thought it would move me up the line for a promotion.

(But, of course, it wouldn’t. Besides the fact that the boss might like that sort of lewd and tawdry display from the boys and girls around the joint, I’m pretty sure I’m alraady at the top of my particular ‘career ladder’. It had one rung, really, is all. More of a ‘career block of wood’ than a ladder, when you get right down to it.

On the other hand, there is a bright side. The only way I can get demoted to a more demeaning, mindless job is if the shredder goes on the fritz. Or someone steals the toilet brush. Again. Man, was that an uncomfortable Friday afternoon. Three weeks later, I still smelled like asparagus. Ick.)

Anyway, though, I could never take steroids. Let’s just say that I’m well aware of the side effects, and my penis doesn’t need to be any smaller, thank you. What’s the point of being able to hit a curveball, if you need an umpire and a bullpen coach to find your ‘knuckleballs’? No, thanks.

So, what, then? What sort of sport would fit into my fabulous, rock-star lifestyle? Bowling, maybe, but that’s an awful lot of heavy lifting. Chess would work, if I had the brains for it — and if it were really a ‘sport’, as opposed to just ‘another way for my wife to prove she’s smarter than I am’. I still don’t think the little horsie guys move the way she says, either — that’s fucking weird.

Ooh, I got it. I know the sport I could parlay into a kick-ass career, with endorsements and tourney wins and victory laps and everything: beer pong. Oh, yeah. You guys know this one — ping-pong, with cups of beer on each corner of the table. The ball goes in one of your cups, you drink. Otherwise, you pong it up, until one of you wins or ralphs all over the table.

(And dry heaves don’t count — that’s what we beer pongers call a ‘throat fault’.

Yeah, there you go. Take that and run with it, sickos. ‘Throat fault’. You can thank me later.)

Yep, beer pong is the way to go, definitely. Now there’s a sport I can get behind!

If I could be a llama rider…

…I’d probably wonder what the hell I was doing, and how I was making a damned living at it. Honestly — what the hell?

Really, think about it — everything else on this list is a profession of some sort. Doctor, lawyer, professor, everything except the ‘married to’ one, I suppose.

(Unless you’re my wife, in which case being married is a full-time job. With no paychecks, no sick days, and no hazard pay, either. Although you do get a parking spot, and you get cookies for working overtime. And you get to be the boss, though it’s really in title only. There’s only one other employee, and he won’t listen, is completely incompetent, and slobbers on his paychecks. Not exactly ‘management training’ experience; I’ll give you that.)

Anyway, what the hell kind of career is ‘llama rider’? I’d have given you ‘llama rancher’, maybe, or even ‘llama wrangler’. Perhaps even ‘seedy Grand Canyon tour guide who happens to ride a llama as part of the job’. Fine.

But is there really a job out there that can best be described as simply ‘llama rider’? Am I missing some subtle — but, in the end, terribly, deeply disturbing — sexual euphemism here? Is ‘riding the llama’ some sort of code for a depraved sexual act involving shearers, or Alpaca sweaters, or a randy Argentinian? Are there people out there ‘doing it ungulate-style’?

(And no, I’m not sure exactly what that means, really. Except that it might involve being on all fours and chewing a cud of some kind. I’m not sure how such a fetish would get started, frankly. Maybe some horndog’s granny was gumming her applesauce and wearing her llama-skin shawl some evening, and crawled into the floor to find a lost contact lens, and he had a vision. ‘Furry old lip-smacking porn for all!,’ maybe he said.

Look, it’s a theory, is all. A working theory. You got a better one?)

At any rate, I suppose I’m not exactly sure what I’d do as a ‘llama rider’, really, but I’m thinking I’d probably be exceptionally damned poor, unless there was some gimmick involved that I haven’t thought of. Maybe if the llama is really big, or really small — or rabid, maybe, I don’t know — then people would pay to see the crazy man ride the llama. Or ‘ride’ the ‘llama’ — that’s a sick, twisted idea up there, but somehow, it seems like more of a moneymaker, you know?

And suddenly, I’m hungry for applesauce. Saddle up, grandma!

If I could be a world famous blogger…

Wait, what — I’m not?

You mean I’ve been slinging this ridiculous drivel for, like, three people this whole time? And none of them are reading it in that ‘ooh, how compelling — this writing really speaks to me and touches me in places I had no idea were so ticklish and boy I bet he’s kind of cute and I should send him pictures of my panties‘ kind of way that I’d always imagined?

Okay, okay — so do they at least read it in a ‘well, this is a bit odd, but he’s really interesting and mysterious, and I’ll pore over his archives until we feel like soulmates, and I’ll get his name tattooed on my inner thigh and never tell anyone, but I’m sure he’ll just know, somehow, and we’ll always have that‘ kind of way?

Or how about a ‘I don’t really get any of this, but it’s still strangely compelling, and I might think about reading it in a lacy teddy someday with Barry While CDs playing in the background, only I wish he’d stop mentioning ‘grandma porn’ because it’s really killing my horny” sort of way?

No? None of those? You say it’s more an ‘Ooh, look — a horrible train wreck, and I really wish I could turn away from the suffering and horror and gore, but I’m strangely compelled to look, and maybe this is the punishment my mother said I would get someday when she caught me touching myself as a small child‘ kind of thing. Ah. I see.

Well, hell. At least people are reading, right? Why should I be the only miserable one? ‘Cause it’s no picnic writing this nonsense, let me tell you. But I just can’t seem to stop — it’s probably because I touched myself as a small child, too. See, we’re not so different, you and I. Why, it’s getting harder and harder to tell where your disapproving disgust starts, and my shameful embarrassment ends. It’s like senior prom, all over again. Yippee!

All right — that’s enough for now. You kids have a happy Hump Day. I’ll catch you on the other side. Peacicles.