|
|
To be a baker is to have the ultimate dream job . As far back as I can remember, I've always wanted to be a baker. Bakers are the shit. To be a baker is to have the ultimate dream job. Just think about it - who hates the baker? Republicans love bakers: bakers are hard-working Americans. Democrats love bakers: they're a shining example of small business. Young people love bakers because they love sweets. Old people love bakers because they love baking. Bakers are the shit . Pacifists love bakers because pacifists are vegetarians and pastries don't have meat. Militants love bakers - just look at what cops do in the morning. Bakers are the shit . Hot people love bakers because bakers are sexy. Ugly people, well, who the fuck cares what ugly people think? Bakers are the shit . Skinny people love bakers because they can indulge in tasty food and not worry about getting fat. Fat people love bakers because fat people hate themselves. Bakers are the shit . But most importantly, Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, loves bakers because Jesus loves people who don't piss other people off. Now that it's established that bakers are the shit , let us look at other potential dream jobs: The Secret AgentTo be a secret agent means that you get an awesome code name and an assistant to make you high-tech gadgets that are only useful in very specific situations that always manage to occur half an hour before the movie ends. You get to penetrate countries. You get to penetrate women. You get to boink hot Russian women with sexy Russian accents. You get to boink hot French women with sexy French accents. You get to boink Japanese schoolgirls that just... giggle and squeal a lot. There may come a time when you fuck up and get caught. Your government will deny any knowledge of you. Hence or otherwise, at the peak of your career, you will have done so much penetrating that your government considers you a liability and kills you. Honestly, the allure of being a secret agent is that you get to serve your country, travel the world, do super-cool top secret shit, and boink foreign chicks. But nobody will know. And if anyone does know, then you're fucked. And when you're at your 10th high school reunion and your friends ask you what you do, what can you say? What's the point of being cool if there's nobody to show off to? You may tell me that I'm being very conceited, but face it - I'm right. The Doctor, the Accountant, and the LawyerStop kidding yourself - you didn't really want to be any of these three when you were young. You're just letting your Jewish mother do the thinking for you again. You're such a disappointment to your mother. The FiremanIf you were forced to take on a permanent career on the morning of September 12th, 2001, your best bet would have been a fireman. The towelheads had just made a whole bunch of job openings available, nobody else was going to apply to be a fireman, and the employers were desperate. You could have negotiated your employment to your own terms. Life would have been sweet. A few years down the line, there will be an apartment building on fire and with one remaining victim trapped inside: a hot Brazilian lingerie model on the 36th floor, Apt. #25/37. All the other firefighters will be too pussy to go into the burning building, but you have balls of steel. You penetrate that burning building to save the hot Brazilian lingerie model. Fuck, the elevators are shot so you take the stairs. You start getting tired; legs sore, breathing heavy - but you can't give up now: her life is depending on you. You find her in her bedroom, but her arms and legs are pinned under some debris. You have nothing to grab a hold on to. You can't pull her out by her hair or else you'll break her neck. The only other option you have is to drag her out by grabbing onto her sensual, heaving bosom - the most beautiful set titties you've ever laid eyes upon. As soon as you drag her out, you find out that she had been blocking some opening and you cause yourself a backdraft. The flames leap out at you but you're unharmed because of the suit you're wearing. But the hot Brazilian lingerie model's clothes are on fire. You tear off her clothes and to prevent further injury from burns, you grab a nearby bottle of liquid (which happens to be her bottle of lubricant) to pour onto her perfectly bronzed skin. Your gloves are covered in wood splinters from knocking down doors, so you must take them off. Then you rub her down with lubricant, paying special attention to her sensual titties since they are now bruised from all that tugging you did earlier. Then you see that the debris has broken both her left leg and right forearm. Everything's on fire so you can't fashion her a tourniquet... or can you? You realize that her right leg and left forearm can be used as braces but there's no cord to make your improvised brace. Having no choice, you take off your red suspenders to bind her limbs together, and your pants fall off. In the midst of all this sensual excitement, heat, sweat, nakedness, and lubricant, you pop yourself a raging boner. It's natural; you're only human. As you're carrying her down the stairs, one of the steps gives out after decades of termite infestation. You fall flat on your back and hit your head. You pass out. She trips, falls, and lands right on your massive boner. She tries to get up, but since she's bound and covered in lubricant, her feet can't get any traction. She slips and lands right back down on your cock. She repeats this process multiple times, but to no avail. This continuous up-down motion on your dick wakes you up eventually, precisely two and half seconds before you spray a biblical load of semen into her. The fact of the matter is that you didn't force the hot Brazilian lingerie model to have sex with you after you fondled her, tore off her clothes, covered her in lubricant, and bound her arms and legs together. It was entirely an outcome of extreme circumstances. Last I checked, accidental sex does not count as rape. Finally, the two of you make it out of the building at the same time the six o'clock news crew arrives. In every living room across America, people are simultaneously opening up their TV dinners and witnessing you, caught with your pants at your ankles, carrying a battered woman with bruised titties and presumably, with some vaginal tearing as a direct result of your well-endowed penis. Later that evening, the hot Brazilian lingerie model charges you with sexual assault and you're fired. You lose your pension. When you finally get home, you find all your clothes and belongings strewn across your neatly trimmed front lawn - your wife is divorcing you because you just cheated on her. As such, the conditions of your settlement hardly work out in your favor. Now you're homeless. Two months later, the hot Brazilian lingerie model tells you that she's pregnant with your baby and that she doesn't believe in abortions. And so begins 18 years of child support The last of your days are spent rotting away in a retirement home with no pension and no money because 97% of your social security check goes towards paying your legal fees and so many other debts. That's what you get for being a fireman. . The Star Athlete in the Sport of ______Two words: DRUG TESTING. The Professional Racecar DriverThere are two possible scenarios: In scenario #1, you race in American circuits. Your fan base is a multitude of toothless, inbred rednecks. My oh my, the pickings are slim. Scenario #2: you race in European circuits, where racing is not only a serious, respected, sport, but is supported by hot people. Try as you might though, Michael Schumacher will always beat you and make more money than you. What you're left with are the sloppy seconds after dear old Mike is done giving them facials. The Servant of GodYou fucking pedophile, you. The SoldierOh, so you want to serve your country. Everybody loves a patriotic American. But after your basic training, you're thrown into the battlefield; on the front lines if you're a minority. At some point, the enemy is shooting at you. In order to defend yourself, you blow his head off. You kill him dead. Yes, that guy was trying to kill you, and you had to kill him first. Yes, he's probably a douchebag and a wife-beater. But the battered wife at home didn't do shit to you. And while she probably didn't appreciate being slapped around disciplined every night, she still needs her hubby's paycheck to live. Now she has no money. She's thrown out into the street, forced to suck American dicks for the next four or five years of her life, in order to raise her seven children. Now you're the douchebag. The President King Ruthless Dictator of _______Yeah, right. The VeterinarianAt some point in every boy's life, he'll have to scoop up dog shit. Dog shit is nasty. And despite that plastic bag barrier between your fingers and the steaming pile of feces, you can still feel its texture, its warmth, and... face it - you're scooping up dog shit. And for the ladies (if it hasn't already happened), there will come a day when you either pilfer some of your dowry or find yourself a man with low self-esteem, and you get yourself an $800 pair of Jimmy Choo's. Look at you, strolling down Madison Avenue, feeling and looking like God's gift to men. You catch the darting glares of other women as they walk past you, staring at your high heels, but you don't care. Not only are your shoes better than theirs, but your Fendi handbag is much more expensive than the botched rhinoplasty on their faces. You decide that the streets of the Upper East Side don't deserve to be stepped on by your Jimmy Choo's. You step out onto the corner and hail a cab. Some car whizzes by, too close to the curb, and splashes some mud in your direction. You back up to avoid getting sprayed on, and you plant your left Jimmy Choo right smack into a pile of steaming dog shit. Mind you, this isn't some regular dog shit; this is some explosive diarrhea dog shit. You lose all traction. During your attempt to regain balance, your right heel gets caught in a crack in the sidewalk, and the heel snaps right off. Now your $800 pair of high heels smell bad and are broken - they're worthless. You take off your heels and curse God and Jesus for ruining what had been the best day of your life. At that same precise moment, a burgundy 1987 Cadillac El Dorado (with 19 inch gold rims) carrying five devoutly religious black sharecroppers, passes by. Now, these men have had a long, hard day at work, picking cotton for 12 straight hours. They are in no mood to hear you scream their Lord and Savior's name in vain. A lesson in humility must be taught. They grab you, drag you into the alley behind the Barney's, rip off your Dolce & Gabbana 2-piece, and proceed to gangbang you. And to think, none of this would have happened if it wasn't for some very irresponsible dog. Why the fuck would you want to be veterinarian now? About 73 minutes later, the five black sharecroppers decide that they have fulfilled their daily quota of black-on-white crime and leave you. And as you sit there, battered, naked, barefoot, and contemplating your inevitable and very near future of endless psychotherapy sessions and gonorrhea, one of the black men turns around and says to you, “hey, we found your shoes by the curb. Just so you know, they're ugly and they smell like dog shit.” Bakers don't get gangbanged by black sharecroppers.
Written by Dinah Cheshire |
