The Perfect Job

It's nearly impossible to find a non-porn position let alone 'dream job' on Craigslist, however, the following posting passed through my inbox from, Ms. Brown, a friend and active internet skimmer:

Henchmen/Henchwoman Needed 6 Month Contract

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Reply to: job-1001746799@craigslist.org ^[?]
Date: 2009-01-21, 12:49PM EST

I've been trying to think of ways to spice up my life. I'm 35 years old, happily married with two kids and I have a good job in insurance. But somethings missing. I feel like I'm old before my time. I need to inject some excitement into my daily routine through my arm before its too late. I need a challenge, something to get the adrenaline pumping again. An addiction would be nice, but, in short, I need a nemesis. I'm willing to pay $350 up front and $350 after six months for you services as an arch enemy. Nothing crazy. Steal my parking space, knock my coffee over, trip me when I'm running to catch the Go train and occasionally whisper in my ear, "Ahha, we meet again". That kind of thing. Just keep me on my toes. Complacency will be the death of me. You need to have an evil streak and be blessed with innate guile and cunning. You should also be adept at inconspicuous pursuit. Evil laugh preferred. Send me a photo and a brief explanation why you would be a good nemesis.

British accent preferred.

But of course, I had to respond! It has been a life long dream to work as a 1960's Chaos vs. Control Bizarro Agent 99 type! Here goes:

Dear Sir:

I'm writing in response to your advertisement (read: ad-VER-tis-ment) on Craigslist regarding your need to fill the position of a Henchperson. Currently, I am employed by the television industry which has given me years of experience in trickery, falsehoods, and overall money grubbing evil. However, I wish to find a position that enacts less challenging tasks.

To highlight my experience, I wish to inform you that I'm well versed in foreign accents including your desired British, but also Russian and Japanese; which in my opinion is the trifecta of Nemesis dialects. My past adversaries are now either dead to me or legitimately dead*. Also, I enjoy wearing black. Other attributes include my mastery of disguise, my dreadful mean streak. I also have access to a private jet, and my spare bedroom often doubles as a secret lair.

In the line of Henchery, laughter is truly the key to performing duties with expertise and I believe mine is not a chuckle nor a titter, but a splendid robust cackle of wretched blood-curdling mirth.

Common Words & Phrases in My Vernacular:

• Drat!
• Curses!
• You'll pay for this, insert enemy name here!
• I will end you!
• You'll live to regret this!
  

This part-time bodes well with my schedule (read: shed-jule) and the salary works well with my current financial needs. Please contact me immediately (read: imm-e-djiatly) to discuss how my previous experience and interest fits as your personal nemesis. I look forward to mucking up your income tax, draining the petrol from your vehicle, delivering mild food poisoning, and much much more.

Yours Very Sincerely,

Ms. Sweeney

*More of column A than column B


I am currently awaiting my offer for this position.

Stumble It!

Tickets Hea!

What is it about retail in this country? If you buy an ugly shirt and 6 months later realize it's ugly shirt, unworn, collecting dust in the back of your closet, then you can return it with no questions asked.

Don't get me wrong, I love this ridiculous feature in American consumerism. It truly aids my "What-Was-I-Thinking-I-Can't-Afford-This" afterthought, or the "Who-The-Hell-Do-I-Think-I-Am-Trying-To-Fit-Into-A-Size-Six" retrospect.

I understand the customer relations concept of 'no sale is final' but why doesn't it extend to all aspects of retail? The disallowance of buyer's remorse when purchasing concert tickets, for example, is like planning a wedding; it's kind of expensive and impossible to predict months in advance if your ticket holding buddy will actually show up. Case in point, last night's presentation of The Swell Season featuring the stars of the movie "Once" at Radio City Music Hall.

My friend Rachele ordered four tickets months in advance for her and her gentleman friend and another couple. Yet days prior, everyone bailed for seemingly valid reasons. However, she was stuck with $250 worth of tickets and no one to accompany her.
I took her up on the offer for an extra ticket and we planned to try our hand at scalping the remaining two.

Now, scalping a ticket, I've learned, is a cut-throat profession. We noted the style of dress and demeanor of the average scalper: baggy sports sweatshirt, a backpack of some kind, poor dental health, and a gleam in the eye that says, "I may have a switchblade in my pocket." Passers by viewed Rachele and I as a couple of jokesters as we stood innocently under the façade of Radio City mimicking the professionals by quietly uttering, "tickets here... tickets?"

We kept at it for a good 15 minutes before we got a bite; an older man approached us for the sale. We bartered for about 30 seconds before aforementioned pro-scalpers hovered over our near-transaction and offered the gentleman seats at half price. Clearly, we had missed the mark in haggling and face-value was no longer an option.

We continued repeating our "tickets, tickets here" mantra for another 20 minutes. But, not unlike a contestant bidding "One Dollar!" on the Price Is Right, each possible prize was swiped away with a better offer from the greasy pros. Over and over, they'd swarm in close bullying nervous old men into buying their tickets. Eventually, Rachele hit her breaking point. In all the years I've known her, I've never witnessed her become angry, but suddenly she let out an ear piercing, "Dude!" The scalper and I both jumped. "I'd like to get rid of these fucking tickets," she continued, "so if you would back the fuck off, that'd be great!"

He backed off alright, and so did our bait.

In the end, she ended up eating the cost of the tickets and we passed through the doors of Radio City feeling defeated for not completing our misdemeanor task. We walked away thinking about the real scalpers and their rotting molars and stained sports sweatshirts... which reminds me, I have an ugly shirt I need to return.

Stumble It!

The Trouble with Brazil

Maybe it's just the booze and self-consciousness talking, but I think this is a mistake*:

This is called a "mono-kini". Pardon me, but whatever happened to the already torturous bi-kini? According to the most recent Victoria's Secret catalog, nothing says fun in the sun quite like a roll of scotch tape and a nail gun to hold up the brand new bottle of Wite-Out that you accidentally spilled all over yourself.

And furthermore, is this pose necessary?



*Same goes for sweatpants that read "juicy" on the rump... and not because it's blatantly trashy, but because it reminds me of diarrhea.

Stumble It!

Roswell Revisited

Okay, it's true, I question her species. And my curiosity grows more and more as seemingly unrelated news stories keep popping up. Recently, sightings of space crafts have been reported over parts of Texas with bright moving lights. Surely, her privately owned spaceship transporting her to Vegas for the Caesar's Palace show can hold off on checking the electrical and pyrotechnics until they land?

And note her long lustrous locks: peel it away from her scalp and she'd look exactly the same as other certain celebrities who hail from "afar". Case in point, according to tv.com, she's an avid fan of "Deal or No Deal" and up until that show started airing, I was pretty sure Howie Mandel was human as well!

Remember the late 90's? What song was drilled into the minds of millions?? Was it perhaps... Near, far, wherever you are? Exactly how far Ms. Dion? Perhaps as far as the forty-ninth moon of Jupiter curiously named Cyllene!

Honestly, what is her appeal? Just because her dad ::cough:: I mean husband is the Arab-Canadian version of Rob Reiner doesn't mean she has a sense of humor.


Yet her relationship with long time hubby René Angelil will aid her preparation in the calculated and covert domination of Earth. The translation from her mother tongue must be tedious, however her ability to simulate the idea of love into English lyrics intrigues me. Platinum hit soundtrack ballads for "Up Close & Personal," "Sleepless In Seattle," "Titanic" reveal her plot! Clearly, her target is American romance films, thus creating a false sense of the warm and fuzzies for her soon to be very captive audiences!

Well, you can't hide in plain sight forever! I'm on to you, honey!

Stumble It!

Bureaucracy Bred

Well, what a load off! All this time I thought you could bring your homemade TNT onto the George Washington Bridge without any documentation! Phew!

Stumble It!

P.You.

A man in a bar once told me, "to be a true New Yorker is to know when to hold your breath." This kind of Confucius comment really struck a chord in me and I'm reminded of this man, who ironically smelled of lager and cigarettes, every time I mistakenly breathe when I shouldn't.

But how can a gal such as myself transform from a slack-jawed small town mouth-breather into a true and sophisticated New Yorker if men insist on marinating themselves in nostril scorching scents like Polo or Cool Water? Biologically speaking, if I practiced this preaching, I would have been dead twenty minutes after the gent uttered it.

Perhaps my nose is overly sensitive, but it seems when forced into small shared spaces -- office cubicles, bus shelters, ATM vestibules, cabs, elevators -- I'm more often than not, held aromatically hostage by the over powering snout rapist who douses himself in his eau de toilette. And products emerging like American Idol's cologne spray hardly help the situation! Grown men reeking of the musky shame and citrus disappointment only a network reality talent cologne can provide.

Worse yet, body sprays cropping up through every drug store caters to the man who wishes not to shower but simply overpower their sweat stench with the contents of an aerosol can with the distinctive scent of a date rape and a general equivalency diploma.

Aquaman by Rochas, which retails for $12.95, boasts "a fresh marine scent, masculine and sporty." I gather this description alludes to the smell of an aquarium or militarily speaking, machismo republicanism and blood shed. But, I could be wrong.

The intrusion of these overpowering smells almost make me embrace the scent of good old fashioned B.O. But alas, there is light at the end of the schnoz. Jacob Beach, an unscented man of New York City proclaims, "I prefer the scent of clean skin and soap!" Why aren't there more men who wake up in the morning, shower, and leave it at that? I promise, a few spritzes of Acqua Di Gio will only hurt man's Operation: Get Laid. Because sometimes, there really is nothing like the smell of... nothing. Until then, I guess I'll just hold my breath.

Stumble It!

The Root Beer Challenge

My good friend Patrick and I discussed the possibilities of perhaps drinking one's weight in root beer, a beverage offered for free here at my current workplace. Pat, a factotum of sorts, asked me if the available soda was diet or regular, informing me that regular cola uses sugar which has a higher density than the sugar substitute used in diet soft drinks.

Just as we were creating a formula to determine how many 8oz. styrofoam cups of regular root beer would equal a hundred and forty some odd pounds of woman, a biker looking gentleman wearing blue coveralls approached my desk. He introduced himself as Russ in a low mumbled voice and his visit was to inform me that my seat is moving to a different floor. He looked as though he had done time, displaying tattoos that looked homemade in all visible places even his earlobes. He wore a graying beard with a handlebar mustache and bulky silver rings in the shape of eagles and skulls on each finger.

Russ handed me some empty boxes and told me to just pack up the small stuff and he'd pick the heavy stuff up later. I confessed to him I wasn't sure where the ON button on my Mac was, but not to worry, I could shut down the computer without any trouble before it needed transporting.

Just as our conversation wrapped up, I felt provoked to stop him and ask, "say, Russ? Do you think I can drink my weight in root beer?" And without skipping a beat as though he was experienced in such a challenge he replied, "No, Sarah, you'll throw up first."

Stumble It!