Mildly agoraphobic? Need something to break up the monotony of oil rigging? Brain corroded by the sheet of acid in your pocket when you did the splip-n-slide during rush week? Boy have we got a place for you!
As you take in a breath of fresh spring air, inhaling the decadence of nature, your eyes are drawn to the dew glistening off of the flora scattered about. Bluejays caress your eardrums with their disney-animation-like melody as the sun tips his fedora and winks to you. You start skipping towards a shimmering willow in the distance and notice a rather elegant looking daffodil growing out of the husk of the tree. You pick the flower and put it to your nose as to better behold it's nasal decadance. The daffodil smells suspiciously like aquanet though, and soon afterwards you hear a piercing scream followed by a very staggering blow to your man-meat. This unbearable and most probably sterilizing pain is sobering enough to let you start to catch sight of what is really going on around you. There is a shamwow soaked in ether hanging out of your back pocket and your right hand seems to be clenched around a large clump of sticky female hair. Things are starting to piece themselves together, so you make a quick motion towards your happy rag, but scrunch your already devastated members in the process and start vomiting up what you're sure has to be semen, which begin their evacuation process upon hull breach.
Things are kind of hazy, and you think that this might all be some elaborate ruse the daffodil is putting on, but you remember the following locations (sequentially)
- Subway (the restaurant)
- A police station
-Your parent's house
Your head is pounding and back pocket barren as they (your parents) begin to rain down on you with their seething disapproval and anger.
You raise up a finger to retort and politely tell them that "if this is all because I'm smarter, funnier, cooler, and sexier than you guys, I'm willing to make adjustments."
For some reason the unconditional cooperation and care for their well-being is only further infuriating them. Like total douches, they bring up the time they found you leashed to the patio of an opium den in little Bangcock, with a bleeding rectum and a dollar bill folded into an origami crane stapled to your back.
"You need to make a change!" They both scream.
Quickly your mind starts to scan the available options that don't include going back to the hietzman clinic to be spooned during group therapy by a Sioux Indian Named Kolombo who smells like peroxide and flounder. Maybe you could pawn something of theirs and live as a king amongst junkies from the profits. Then you remember that your parents are 'every day top ramen poor', and you already took your little sister to San Juan to get a piece of that sweet, sweet salt mine slave trade money. Sex work seems like a good choice. Especially since that dude got hired at the bunny ranch. He doesn't even have to suck dick or anything!! Although, There would have to be a strong demographic for a severe cystic acne fetish.
Suddenly, Your brainstorming comes to a quick halt. You realize the answer has been right in front of you (top of the page from you actually) this whole time. "That's right you old chodes!!" you ambitiously exclaim, thinking that your inner dialogue up until this point has been an actual conversation, "I'm going to community college!"
(cue jurassic park theme music)