6 Common Expressions That Should Be Real Careers
Old expressions are great. If language had hair, expressions would be the mullets, imbuing conversation with flair whilst simultaneously offering a place of mutual understanding. Not everyone needs a mullet, but everyone understands a mullet.
Now, some of these great phrases simply belong in the common sentence ... as pepper on the linguistic chicken sandwich. But others are straining to tear loose and evolve into something so much more. Some deserve to be a reality. Hell, I'd go as far as saying that some deserve to be an entire career. No, seriously, imagine getting paid to be ...
The Bearer Of Bad News
Anyone else not enjoy confrontation? Or just having to say things to people that you'd rather not say? Or just having to say things to people, like, at all?
Well, I have bad news for you: Whatever vocation, social setup, or family circle you find yourself in, you will inevitably be forced to deliver a whopping pile of emotional devastation into someone else's lap. It's unavoidable. At some point you will have to address your partner's raging bad breath. There will come a time when you must admit to your sister that you ruined her hair straightener because you tried to make a panini with it. Whatever the situation, you will eventually have to pull your pants down and take a steaming dump on someone's day.
But imagine if you could hire a freelance Bearer Of Bad News. Or, as a business, have one on retainer. Someone professionally trained to wreak psychological desolation with the grace and savoir faire of a prima assoluta. Any time. Anywhere. No more awkward silence as you respectfully let the employee you just sacked weep their spleen out through their eyes. No more guilt-ridden evenings or sleepless nights wondering if the entire world hates you.
Because they do. They totally do.
But not if you hire The Bearer Of Bad News. Now the world hates him. And that's OK, because it's his job. He's fine with being hated, and that's why they pay him the big bucks. He swoops in, drops his turd bomb of disappointment, and then rides away on his apocalyptic steed. Then you get to play the heroic role of sympathizer as you shake your head disapprovingly and say, "Ugh. That fuckin' guy, huh? What an asshole." It's money well spent.
So you're minding your own business one day, practicing karate in your front yard. Out of the blue, an impossibly sexy human person sidles up to you as if they're on rollerblades. Sexy rollerblades. Before you can fumble out your typically pathetic greeting, a card is thrust into your hands. Then they're gone, with just a whisper caught in their wake, begging you to follow. Before instantly obliging, you decide to check the card. It's an invitation to a party! Best. Day. Ever.
That is until you arrive, dressed in your best karate gi, and realize you don't know ONE SINGLE FUCKER IN THE PLACE.
It's a universal paradigm of awkwardness: being left stranded with a stranger, much less a group of them, and trying not to drown. There is little more terrifying than the blank expanse your mind usually presents you with in this scenario. Aside from, perhaps, Locked-in Syndrome or having Tobey Maguire's face.
But at the precise moment you start to shit your pants, a faint breeze -- warm, hopeful -- whips around you. And you know it's going to be okay. Because that sexy roller-skating human person forked out for an Icebreaker, a social demi-god who's weaving in and out of the crowd, breaking Embarrassment's back like the social incarnation of Bane.
Before you know it, you have three new best friends and a shameless lover.
Of course, this job role was previously obsolete, you know, in the days prior to Facebook and mandatory personal space. But in today's social climate, where small talk is considered a mild form of assault, we desperately need The Icebreaker. I know I'd pay damn good money for one.
Let's be honest: The majority, if not entirety, of humanity is looking for authenticity, honesty, courage. Or at least we say we are. Drop some brutal honesty and courage in a board meeting about your boss's stupid pet project, and your ass will be signing up for human drug trials to pay your rent.
Thank Jesus for the Devil's Advocate. With them around, when your boss asks the team's opinion in a company restructure strategy meeting, instead of you agreeing that his dog would make a great new mailroom director, the Devil's Advocate would put a sudden halt to that shit.
They would sniff the bull out of every terrible idea, the no in every innovation, the feck in every "cost effective." Hell, they could tell how many hours you slept by the cadence of your morning greeting. In other words, the Devil's Advocate would be every business analyst's wet dream.
Imagine being able to actually communicate how you really felt about management's new dumbshit proposals. Imagine being able to antagonize them with no lashback whatsoever. Imagine being able to correct that anus of a colleague who misquotes Star Wars every single fucking morning.
It's important to note, however, that this isn't essentially face-to-face trolling, or Twitter. There are rules, akin to that finely calibrated, classic idea of "honor among thieves." Any challenge, criticism, or antagonism leveled by a Devil's Advocate must follow a very simple code: it must always be to encourage positive change. It would be that or a dramatic increase in workplace fatalities.
Knight In Shining Armor
Goddammit, how cool would this be? Imagine casually wandering down the street to find a genuine Knight In Shining Armor standing on the corner, awaiting his moment. Then, in a glorious coalescence of fate and destiny, you trip on a carelessly discarded KFC Fillet Tower Meal and stumble into the road. Frozen in fear and undeniable melodrama, you see car headlights coming for you and embrace your end.
But no! Creaking and grinding like your grandfather at your sister's third wedding, the Knight In Shining Armor, suddenly, inexplicably astride a horse, charges in to pull you clear.
They could be everywhere: opening doors, helping you find your library book, assisting with your bags as you struggle down the road, catching your dog that's pulled a Forrest Gump into the horizon.
But here's the kicker: His services are exclusive to those of a female persuasion. If you are male, the above illustration does not apply to you. The Knight In Shining Armor would watch, unflinching, as you were reduced to a smattering of limbs and organs by the car, then turn calmly to assist an old lady in crossing the road over your corpse.
In an age where chivalry is considered demeaning and people more and more only look out for themselves, perhaps the Knights In Shining Armor could lead us into better times. Or, at the very least, do their best to ensure a population cull.
The Drama Queen
In the U.K. and U.S. (and probably everywhere else, let's face it), teen depression is worse than it's been for years. It's a good job, then, that we have pastoral support in schools. Over here in the U.K., that amounts to teachers being kind and air-rubbing kid's backs. But you savvy Yanks have Guidance Counselors, who ensure there is no obstruction to a student's success by helping with issues at school or home.
But today, little Cynthia Path-Etique is upset. She just checked her lunch and her mum made her ham sandwiches instead of peanut butter, which she specifically said she didn't want!
Her cause for concern falls way below the radar of the mighty Guidance Counselor and thus goes unnoticed. She is in a land of devilry, exposed to the crippling powers of self-entitlement and Entirely Superfluous Life Issues (ESLI). Who will come to her aid?
Enter the Drama Queen, stage left! Swooping in with all the flamboyance of a sweacock (correct, that is a peacock-swan crossbreed) wearing a sparkling dress and covered in glitter. No grief is too small for the Drama Queen, no wet lettuce too sodden, no selfie too morbid. Their turf is The Pathetic and The Mundane, their tools are Dim-Witted Understanding and Empathetic Superficiality, and their ways are Entirely Obtuse.
You have a beef with your best friend because he bought the jacket you told him you were saving up for? Your sister is talking trash about you behind your back? Tell it to the Drama Queen. She will hear your case and settle the dispute under no uncertain terms. Her word is final, and her judgment is just.
One word of advice, though: Never get her in the same room with the Prom Queen. They'll make Game Of Thrones look like My Little Pony.
The Backseat Driver
Ever had one of those supernaturally long journeys? Where you've been sitting so long that the bones in your arse have literally cut through your muscles and are touching the seat? Where your eyes defy physics and transform into the heaviest matter known to humankind? Where gunning for those approaching headlights suddenly seems like the greatest idea ever conceived? Sounds like you need a Backseat Driver, fully licensed to take over upon your command, or at their own professional discretion.
The opportunities are plenty: You're a terrible city driver? You can't parallel park for shit? You're too busy daydreaming to notice unimportant distractions like pedestrians? You don't know where you're going? You're blind? You're in the middle of a meteor strike and the world is literally falling apart around you? Get a Backseat Driver.
No, seriously, I could do this all day: Got a text? No problem. Ever try to eat a Big Mac while steering? It's impossible without wearing half of it. Road head is now perfectly legal. Well ... no, not really, but at least it's safe with a Backseat Driver to take over.
It feels like the natural progression from satellite navigation. In a world where we type an address on a screen and obey whatever the hell we're told, not really knowing where we're going or what we're doing, why not take it one step further and just hand over the reins of the entire vehicle? Maybe in the future we'll even have artificial Backseat Drivers! And then we'll all be well and truly fucked.
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