Jack is a twenty-two year old party boy that can't hold down a job to save his life. He curses, he gambles, he drinks excessively and his best friend Barry is no better. He has two weeks to find a job before his father kicks him out of the house once-and-for-all and even though he's heard that before, this time he actually believes it. Will Jack land a job or will he get drunk instead?
When I was five years old I wanted to be a magician. Then I realized that magicians were just gay men with strange hobbies so I put down the wand and I stopped feeding my rabbit. It died a week later. His name was Charles and I made him disappear. Everybody liked magic before they found out how gay it was. Except Criss Angel of course. I guess he never got that memo. Or he did get the memo and he just chose to ignore it. Either way I don’t care. We aren’t here to talk about Criss Angel.
When I turned eight I watched my first house burn to the ground and I thought about becoming a firefighter. It was beautiful. If you’ve never stood next to someone while all their possessions went up in smoke I highly suggest that you try it sometime. But I can’t be a firefighter. I’m not risking my life trying to rescue an eight hundred pound woman that can’t escape a burning building because she’s too fat to stand up out of bed. No thank you.
Around my tenth birthday I started playing baseball and I actually thought that I had a chance of making it to the pros. I played everyday for two or three months even. I couldn’t get enough of it. Then I found out that a baseball season lasts nine months.
At fourteen I began listening to rap music and I started writing “dope” rhymes in hopes of becoming the next white rap superstar. I bought baggier jeans and I started wearing my hat to the side.
That lasted for about two weeks.
At fifteen I wanted to become an architect and design skyscrapers and small cities. But not any architect, an “ill-ass” architect.
I was still listening to rap music.
At sixteen I took an interest in cooking and I considered opening my own restaurant. But that came to an abrupt end one morning when I burned down my friend’s kitchen while cooking him an omelet. It was a Western.
Seventeen years gave me enough wisdom to realize that I was setting my goals a little too high and I took my first job at a local supermarket and after three weeks of bagging groceries and scanning coupons for ten cents off of kitty litter I came to the conclusion that working just wasn’t something that I wanted to do and I quit a few days later.
I was still in high school at the time so I begin selling pot to all of my classmates. Everyone I knew at the time smoked pot so I figured it would be a safe way at making some quick cash. Boy was I wrong; and after smoking all of my potential profit in less than a week I was yet again forced to re-think my strategy.
At eighteen my father finally broke down and bought me my first car. It was a real piece of shit but it was my piece of shit. The only stipulation was that I had to pay for my own insurance; which meant holding down a job for more than three weeks. I reluctantly promised and my love of driving and fast food converged shortly after when I landed a job delivering Chinese food two towns over. At last, a job I didn’t completely hate. I got to drive around all day smoking cigarettes and listening to rap music; it was heavenly.