I guess I should tell you a thing or two about what it's like to live in Cuba for you to understand what this means.
Life on la isla is not all bad. Since I'm a bit of a celebrity, mi papa always has a job, no matter how badly he fucks up. Last month, the son of a famous salsa dancer got drunk on his lunch break and beheaded an autistic teenager with the forklift he operates. The next day, he was back on the forklift and the retarded kid's parents were in jail. Castro told me the same goes for me and mi familia. Pretty cool, right?
But then there are the s****y jobs that no one wants to do. This is where Cuba could learn something from America. In your country, my uncle wakes up every Monday and faces the following prospects:
A) Go to his s****y job in the mailroom of an advertising agency where everyone calls him Paco even though his name is Jim.
B) Starve to death.