It's been a grueling six months of unemployment, reader. Without much money coming in, I've only been able to survive by digging discarded food out of a Kentucky Fried Chicken dumpster. One time I ate an entire plate of hobo semen before realizing it wasn't coleslaw.
However, my dedication has finally paid off. I've been hired for a full-time job, one that actually matters. In the past, I've worked as a reporter, construction worker, production assistant, rabbi, data entry technician, cook, cashier, Georgia senator, telemarketer, site representative, receptionist, John Goodman impersonator, blood donor, plasma donor, semen donor, political campaign worker, and fluffer. But other than the fluffer job, none of them were really important. If Viagra hadn't put all fluffers out of work eight years ago, I'd probably still be doing that.
Luckily, I've got a new job now, one that I believe is even more important in the grand scheme of life. I've been hired by Janice Dickinson's modeling agency to shave her back hair. She has an unruly mane of back hair, like a thick Persian rug. Many have tried to tame it, but after 51 years of failure, experts have determined that it cannot be combed or styled, only destroyed.
So that's my job. Each day I take a machete and cut through the thicker zones of Dickinson's back hair, and then churn the rest off with a lawnmower. It's not easy work. The many fibers of Dickinson's back hair are clumped together with various fluids she rolls around in during a normal day. These fluids include but are not limited to semen, castor oil, urine, saline, Botox runoff, animal feces, and Astroglide.
My job is gross, but I can deal with disgusting work. The truly difficult part is dealing with Dickinson herself. After half a century of plastic surgery and beauty product overuse, she's more of a dangerous lab animal than an actual person. In order to cut her massive tufts of back hair, and the corresponding pope chops under her armpits, her agency hires two zookeepers to distract Dickinson and threaten her with powerful tasers so I can sneak up behind her with my barber supplies. But like an angry gorilla that's been in captivity its entire life, she knows all our tricks. She's pounced on me more than a few times, forcing zookeepers to shoot her with a tranquilizer dart. I owe my life to the fact that she only weighs 80 pounds, allowing the powerful sedative to take effect instantly.
Once Dickinson's back hair is removed, we wipe the dried snot and drool off her face and give her something shiny to make her forget all about the incident. Thirty minutes later she's back to normal, happily snorting blow and spreading her legs for any man who can afford to lease a BMW.
It's a thankless job, and sadly, I doubt I'll ever get the recognition I deserve for my work. The next time Dickinson pays someone to write an autobiography for her, my name will probably never be mentioned. The next time Dickinson does an interview where she sells her arrogance more than whatever project she's working on, she'll probably neglect to mention why her shoulders aren't hairy. Alas, I knew what I was signing up for from the start, so I shouldn't complain. With luck, after a year of this hell, I can move on to become a pube trimmer for Barbara Walters, followed by my dream job as a nipple tweaker for Elisha Cuthbert.
Until then, if anyone would like a thick winter coat made from Dickinson's back hair, or one of Dickinson's used tampons to catalogue her many unidentified venereal diseases, just drop me a line. The only people with a sweeter hookup than me are Jon Lovitz and Sylvester Stallone.
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