Monday, January 18, 2010

Atypical Antipsychotics: Keeping People Like Me Out On The Streets

I don't give a flying fuck about football except so far as it effects me, which generally is never, unless the Vikings are in the playoffs which generally is never, but today I can say that I am smack-my-ass thrilled with the Minnesota victory over Dallas yesterday.

Because this means my life, for the next week anyway, will be just *that* much better. Co-workers will be cheery and helpful. Strangers will be more polite and friendly. Most importantly, Gray will not spend the week moping, which means I'm off-duty so far as the Must Distract Distraught Boyfriend With Pity Sex sex goes.

The downside to having the Vikings in the playoffs is that Gray takes every Sunday off of work to sit in his newly-dubbed Man Cave and watch the game. And every other football game. Ever. All of them. All the time. He's keeps to himself down there in the basement, it's just that I'm used to having Sundays all to myself for homework and masturbating and stuff. He's distracting.

I caught bits and pieces of the action yesterday and all those beer commercials gave me an idea that is both practical and entrepreneurial. (I cannot even explain the extent to which I just had to spellcheck "entrepreneurial.")

I am going to get companies to sponsor me for just living my life.

Can't you just see it?

"This blow job brought to you in party by Bounty. Bounty, the quilted quicker picker upper."

"Making dinner: sponsored by Charles Shaw Cabernet."

"This episode of getting out of bed in the morning was made possible by Celexa."

I could make a fucking killing just by walking around doing my thing. And if "my thing" changes from one day to the next, all the better! More sponsors! More money! And I'd raking in the royalties because I'd have to get a slice of the pie every time anyone else did any of those things.

I could get paid for other people taking shits.

Paint my car like a vagina and I'll be a mobile advertisement for K-Y. Have some custom Red Dog beer unitards whipped up and I'll be a walking advertisement for teenage pregnancy. My shoes could sell Karate lessons. My boobs could be a "before" shot for a plastic surgeon. Every time I fart, I could do a 30 second spot for Beano. Or Taco Bell.

I might as well be MADE of money.

And if Wal-Mart tattoos it's logo up my thigh? Well, then of course I'd have to cut off my leg. But think of the revenue possibilities doing Rascal ads!