Night Shift

It's no secret that lately I've been sleeping about as well as a rabid chihuahua on speed. So, instead of wasting my nights staring at the ceiling for eight hours straight and barking at the neighbors, I decided to get a second job. And you wouldn't believe all the cool employment opportunities out there for the nocturnally inclined. First, I landed a gig as a late-night host on the Home Shopping Network.

And even though George Foreman Grilles are pretty damn awesome, I learned that it's against company policy to compare their hotness to the iron hinge of Megan Fox's thighs while recording live On-Air. So, upon termination, I decided to check out the less "legal" job market, and tried my hand at pimping.

My pimp hand was as weak as the story plot of Twilight, so I took the next logical step and became a male gigolo.

So, there I was, with a grand total of eight dollars in my pocket, and the bitter taste of shame and bedbugs in my mouth. Yet the search for steady work continued. It led me to the outskirts of town, where a dark and spooky traveling carnival had set up shop.

Eventually the authorities crashed the party and a bunch of nomad hillbillies were apprehended for kidnapping. Look for that tomorrow on the evening news. It sucks. I was kind of good at that job. Anyway, my next foray into night work was a very brief stint as a sex chat partner for you good folks in England, who are queerly awake when us Yanks are supposed to be sleeping.

But since I couldn't understand half the innuendo slang you limeys were using, I evacuated prematurely. And that was it. I gave up my search. Apparently, the working world of the weird is one that I'm clearly unfit for. So I went to the bar and honed the only skill I can practice at all hours of the day: Being a professional wino.

Cheers,

-Brandon

Beer: Fat Tire
Music: Dire Straits