Victoria's Secret

There are a bunch of models at work today. Apparently we are putting on a fashion show of some sort (I don't pay much attention to non-number things). As I am the only single person in the office - which fucking sucks, thanks - everyone is in my office telling me about the models. "You should come see the models, they are hot," or "Grab some Rohypnol and go see the models." Here's the thing, models are hot and I love hot girls, but there is a problem. Most models suffer from Make-up Counter Girl Psychosis. They get paid for being hot and wearing clothes, so I can see why they feel that they are in a superior caste. However, if they were to be disfigured in a cotton mill accident (I don't know why, but just follow along here), their primary skill set would be lost. Conversely, myself, and others with actual jobs would not be as financially hurt with the cotton mill accident. After a few months of grueling rehab, I would be back creating beautiful canvasses on an Excel medium and crunching away on my 10-key. I would be a hideous freak, but I could still earn a living.

That being said, there is a group of models that I enjoy. They are called strippers. These models failed in the wearing clothes part of the job, and had to settle for grinding their asses into fat, lonely middle-aged dudes, frat boys, and drunk idiots like my friends (not me, I am pure as driven snow). I know that not all strippers are failed models, but that group is the focus of this dissertation. You see, since they have failed at their dream career, they have shattered spirits. That's where a great guy like me comes in. I can feed off of their despair and eventually, using a weird sort of Ironic Photosynthesis, turn their gut-wrenching sadness into warm, fuzzy good times. I discovered this power of making failed model-strippers feel good about their lives way back when I was 18. That's another story and not worth noting, but I will tell you that failed model-stripper is now a prominent fixture at a Fortune 500 company. Ok, she works at McDonald's, but that's still a Fortune 500 company.

There's really no point to this rambling nonsense, except maybe to say that if you're at my company's fashion show, you've probably not made the big time. I have not seen Giselle or Heidi by the water cooler, so it is safe to say that 95% of you will be in the BentonvilleRogersSpringdaleFayetteville Metroplex for the rest of your lives, so chill out, pick up a book or two and think about where you want to end up in a few years. In an office, or on my lap?