This is a story all about how my life got turned upside-down. Except, seriously, a dealer once turned me upside-down ‘cause he thought I was holding out on my earnings. Let me start from the beginning.
On Why This Can Land You Any Job/Plane You Want
Four score and seven years ago…Belgium’s SABENA Airlines was created.
Let that be the first lesson you learn…using Wikipedia for a good opener will result in completely irrelevant, useless, and non-sequitur facts. What follows is a tale that offers insight, foresight, hindsight, and Turkish delight for all you kids that never figured out how you want to spend your employment days before your future prospects, your future, and your prospects start looking bleak. Whether you want to land a job in medicine, law, beekeeping, eye-popping, or lap-topping*, the following is an enlightening story of how I made it big. Apply it to your life as you see fit. If there are any tears rolling down your cheeks as you read this…refrigerate the onions next time…and please, Oprah can wait while you’re learning how to whoop ass.
* this job pays really well but only has a night shift; nap accordingly.
Back When I thought Planes were doves raped by BigBird.
So I started off a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit. And I really wasn’t going anywhere. But ever since I was four years old, when my mom worked as a fake audience member for sitcoms (she did a good job guffawing) and my dad worked as an associate director for the sitcom (he held the signs telling my mom when to guffaw)…I knew my dream job would be an awesome combination of those two…a policeman. They were the coolest guys on the block: they had the lapel pins, big stomachs infertile women would die for, and manliness fertile women would kill for. They were cubicle workers whose cubicles had four wheels and badass rims. Sometimes. But before I delve into my admiration for this white-collar profession- cleverly hidden by a blue collar – I should curb my enthusiasm and discuss how I got off the wrong track to a Gothic hell-hole in central New Jersey focused on gustatory seclusion and verdant festivity- and instead, landed a nice, steady job on the streets of Michigan.
Back When my Hero Tiger Woods was only a golf player
One day, I was doing my homework in a dark, creepy alley. It’s a great study space. Nobody wants to bother you because they think you have rabies, and if you close your eyes real tight the garbage almost feels like a couch. Anyway, this guy comes down one day and asks me if I want to pursue crime in this Nigerian accent. I told him “yes” in Nigerian, which is the sound a quail makes when it’s excited by a mate, or the sound Dick Cheney makes when he’s excited about the quail, or the sound Monica Lewinsky makes when she’s excited by the…you get the idea, pattern recognition. Little did I know he wasn’t talking about tracking criminals. He took me down to his den where I met the big guns…and the big guns…and the big guns (this last one doesn’t have any particular significance or alternative meaning…but if you could find one, you are by all means welcome to place it). And just like that, I was in the gun-banging business.
That Epiphany Moment where I realized, among other things, there’s money to be made in Silly-Bandz
Anyway, I’ll cut to the chase. But after donning their traditional silk feathered hats tightly round my head, and taking part in some real field work (I mugged an old granny for her mug…really, my boss said it had sentimental value), I came to appreciate this job. It struck me- not just a drug dealer’s bullet- that this was the real deal. I was always on the move, and how many cops end up in jail? They’re always stuck outside it, peering over at the robbers sleeping soundly as they’re forced to keep awake. Who’s really getting punished? Think hard about it. You’ll realize carrying guns for Big Shot is wholly enriching.
The part where you realize these headlines are largely irrelevant to what you’re reading
Shooting people, stealing cars, eating caviar (those are the good nights when fellow workers get caught/shot and we have extra money to split among whoever’s left- we call the principle “No leftovers for the leftovers.”) – this was my new, improved life. I’ve shown up in Time Magazine, the Chicago Tribune, and some of the most vaunted Most Wanted lists. The hard-working diligence these ruffians exude embodies the ethos of the American marketplace- job cuts/cut jobs, sucking (it) up, firing at will, and headhunting. And here I am. In the limelight, the spotlight, and sometimes even, the helicopter light.
So in short, follow the rule of thumb out here in the urban jungle:
When you see you’ve got a shot, take it. And get the fuck out of there.
– Kash Rajagopal ’14