Daft

Andrew Sichel

After being told by many a teacher that “college is not for everyone,” I started to lose hope of being the first person in my family with a college education. But then my guidance counselor gave me hope. She said I should apply to the University of Phoenix Online. I later went up to my teachers and told them how wrong they were about me not going to a university. I could tell they had trouble swallowing that big slice of humble pie that I shoved down their throats.

            A few days after talking to my guidance counselor, Mrs. Daft, I had an epiphany. Maybe I should skip college and go straight into the work force. Finding a profession was my new mission and I was going to find my dream job. So I went back to Mrs. Daft and consulted her. She thought I had a great idea and decided to help me on my search by conducting a personality test.

Mrs. Daft’s first test was a toughy. I had to pick which door certain objects were behind and then I would be rewarded with a cookie. I guess that was an IQ test. I think I did pretty well because I sure ate a lot of cookies. The second test was painful. I was hooked up to an electric generator and was shocked for no reason. All I remember about that exam was Mrs. Daft laughing at me, that cruel witch. The last test involved peeing in a cup. It turns out that Mrs. Daft thought I was on something but the results turned out negative. Little does she know that I like to eat lead paint chips in my spare time.

After all of the examinations, my guidance counselor was able to determine what jobs would suit me best. I was waiting for Mrs. Daft to tell me I should be an astronaut, a brain surgeon, maybe even an Eskimo. Instead, she told me I should join a chain gang, become a professional bum, or start my own gang. Now Mrs. Daft is not the brightest tool in the shed, the sharpest crayon in the box, nor the brainiest brain in the jar of brains; but these careers that she suggested to me were the bestest jobs I had ever come across.

The first job I decided to try was chain gang member. I was forced to pick up trash along some road in Alabama. All the guys were singing songs together and they were really good. I tried singing along but all of the other convicts told me to keep my mouth shut. They threatened to stick a shiv in my voice box so I could never hurt their ears ever again. I think they were just jealous. Maybe if they could beat box as well as I could then they wouldn’t be “all up in my grill” (that’s jail vernacular for a confrontation). Feeling unwanted, I made a run for it one day. Unfortunately, the dogs caught me and I received many lashes. I later confessed that chain ganging sucked and so they had to let me go.

The next occupation I tried was professional hobo. I quickly adjusted to the new lifestyle and found it fun. I never had to bathe, go to school, or eat my vegetables. I begged for cash and earned a thousand dollars a day. Ironically, vagabonds make more money than people with steady jobs. Everyday I ate baked beans and passed a lot of gas. To my dismay, the growing pile of money that I was collecting was getting too large and so I had to stop hoboing. Maybe when I lose all my cash on lottery tickets, I’ll come back to be a homeless man again.

The last job that I experienced was head of a gang and boy was that fun. First I needed to find a good place for starting a posse. I decided to have it in California because as we are all aware, “California knows how to party.” Next, I needed to come up with a good name and I ended up calling my gang the Pussy Cats. No one would mess with us, we scratch. Lastly, I had to recruit members into my crew. It turns out that all the youngsters in Cali. want to join a gang. I got so many recruits that I had to make cuts. I was able to eliminate half the recruits by making the guys eat ten saltines in one minute with no water. Some people think that’s a little harsh but I just say I graduated from the school of Hard Knox and I don’t want any weenies in my gang. After I separated the gangsters from the wangsters, I finally had a crew of some hard-nosed SOB’s.

With the Pussy Cats gaining respect on the streets of Los Angeles, I was able to run the Mary Jane trade, the rock candy industry, and the coke business. I was making so much dough by selling to the kids. The younger the customers, the more they were willing to pay. But then the candy stores were getting upset. CVS, Walgreen’s, and Shaw’s wanted my tush in a sling. They put a bounty on my head and that’s when I had to get out of the west coast. I lost my job as a gangster and my dream of trafficking all of the candy in North America.

 After losing all of the jobs that Mrs. Daft suggested to me, I was in a rut. I did not know what I was going to do after graduation. And that is when it hit me. I was going to do what I love and enjoy best in addition to getting paid for it. That is why I became a house painter. Now I can eat all the paint chips I want without having to search for them. In the end, I am pleased with my new profession and that isn’t the paint chips talking.