Ah! Would that I could play Battlefield: 1942 for a living.
Today was another terrible day at the office. First the mail server crashed, then my report didn’t go through, then the sandwich cart guy overturned the bagel rack, and then this afternoon my boss tried to fire himself. I’m serious. He stood up in a meeting and announced, “I’m sick of my crap! When I want something done, I expect myself to do it! From the moment I came in here I had myself pegged as a troublemaker. I heard me, mister -- I’m through! I’m gonna make sure I never work in this industry again!” Then he called security and tried to have himself escorted from the building.
You know what I want?
I want to play Battlefield: 1942 for a living.
I’d come home from work and plop my briefcase on the floor. “Whoo-ee, honey!” I’d say, loosening my tie. “It was a rough day on the server. The Japs had a carrier and some really good pilots. Me and Dennis had to back the tank into a warehouse to avoid the falling bombs. Stevens almost lost the flag, but together we hunkered down and took it back. By the time the Japs were ashore, we’d mined all the bridges, just like we’d planned at the quarterly review.”
Then I’d say, “I gotta tuck in early tonight. Tomorrow I need to come in early because we’re planning to play on Stalingrad and I need to secure the north building.”
I’d hang up my coat, put my feet on the copy table, and click on the history channel, or maybe one of those Discovery Channel specials on modern military hardware. “Gotta study up -- you know, for work,” I’d say.
Then I’d squeeze cheese right out of a can into my mouth.
You know what? I swear -- I would even WORK WEEKENDS! If Battlefield 1942 were my job. It's not. But ... whoa, check it out ... I DO have squeezie cheese! LIVE THE DREAM BABY!
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