- The Diary of Mitch R. Singer
- Hanging with the Goon
- The Consummate Politician Apologizes
- Rating the WWE's Roster by Their Stench
- The Esteemed Critic's Multiple Sentence Reviews
- Conan Brothers' Q&A
- Theme Park Mistress
- Hillsdale Paranormal Society
- Writer's Block
- Select Farmers Only Profiles
Thursday, January 7, 2016
What the Hell Are You Doing with Your Life?
Alright. Listen here, son. We've had it up to here with your shenanigans. It's time to settle down and finally pick a career. Your mother and I are tired of waiting for you to do something with your life. You can't be a professional video game player, no matter what they do in Korea. We're not in Korea, son. This is America, and you need to work for a living.
Your job at the Kentucky Fried Chicken is not what I'm talking about. I didn't put you through college on 40,000 dollars a year to see you put chicken in buckets. Surely your degree in Star Wars anthropology is worth something. Have you applied at a museum lately? No? I didn't think so. This is that lack of ambition your mother and I were talking about. You have to want something, son. You have to want it bad enough to work for it. When I was your age, that something was your future. One day, you'll feel the same.
And that brings us to another item on the agenda. Your romantic situation. Living in our basement isn't going to find you a wife. The internet is not a nice place to meet people, either. Your mother suggested church, but I know that's out of the question, and besides, I haven't seen someone your age at church in probably twenty years. I'd rather you go out and hit the bars than sit on your ass in the basement playing Call of Booty. Masturbation is not a healthy habit. You don't acquire any experience, is what I'm saying.
Where is your zest for life, son? What happened? Your mother coddled you too much. I was surprised you didn't turn into a homosexual. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Shave that beard, though. It looks like a patch of pubic hair migrated from your crotch and attached itself to your face. Successful men do not have beards like yours. Hobos do. Crazy people. Street people. Do you want to live out on the street? If we kicked you out, would you exert enough energy to not descend into a life of drugs and handjobs? I just don't know at this point.
Here is a stack of applications. I want you to fill them out and then return them. The basement life is over. Call of Booty is done. Welcome to the real world. No, I don't mean that goddamn show.