Special Report -- I had to take a second job. There's no need to review the nation's leading economic indicators—the price of pasta has nearly doubled in two months. Those weasel bastards in Washington only say "recession" when they're talking about each other's hairlines. Big juju in that word, I guess.
It's pretty rough that one has to live in a dual-income household just to make ends meet. My wife took the kids and left me, so I'm kind of hosed in the financial resources department. The upside is I don't have to hear all of that constant whining about "nutritious food", "proper health care", or "bail money."
My freelance writing pays well enough, I suppose, although my other interests tend to cause extra fiscal stress. My investigative research and extended surveillance cost real money! The expense is hard to bear but I'm not going to show my hand before I have collected and compiled all of my data. Sure, I may have jumped the gun back in '99 and '03, and even once earlier this year—when I present my case this time it will be for real.
The idea of living on Coffee-Mate, ketchup, and saltines yet spending $250 per case for survivalist twenty-year-shelf-life beef stew seems reasonable enough. When Armageddon draws nigh, I'll be fully provisioned with delicious botulism-resistant foodstuffs. A time will come when stragglers like you beg me to sell a can—at any price. Your cost per 24 oz. container: one virgin daughter.
I sit on my ass all day and write hedge trimmer instruction manuals, industrial Material Safety Data Sheets, and greeting cards, but at night I'm a Democratic Party superdelegate. It's an awesome second job. I go to meetings and caucuses and whatnot, argue about Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama for a while, and then I'm home by 10:30PM. There are beverages and snacks. Even when the weather is warm, I still wear a jacket so I can load up on packets of sugar and non-dairy creamer.
The pay is not that great. Okay, there's no pay at all. The hook is that I have a potential opportunity to peddle my influence or perhaps even sell my vote. What do I care? It doesn't matter who's the sheriff when the Four Horsemen ride into town, although I suppose if Dick Cheney had a functioning heart—organic or metaphorical—and became president it might affect how quickly the end comes.
I'm not the kind of person who looks for a quick buck. I understand the importance of planting seeds or hidden microphones and letting Nature take its course. Sometimes you have to act strategically, other times tactically. If I can hang in there until the Democratic National Convention in Denver on August 25, I'll be golden.
Here's a greeting card I wrote last night:
I don't know why I sent you this card
when all I really think about
is driving over to your house
and punching you in the neck.
I can't believe I get paid for this.
