Today I was cold-calling companies in the phone book, looking for possible graphic design openings. One such company was called "Rapid Response Marketing." Nobody answered the phone. I thought that was pretty ironic.

More want ads that make me wonder:

Bridal Sales
For lonely men who have the money.

Firearms Description Writer
When you've absolutely got to kill every motherfucker in the room, accept no substitute.

Family Worker
Don't let anyone tell you that being in a family isn't a job.

The auto service station was sketchy. Offering state inspections seemed like a ploy to lure you in, like getting a free set of steak knives for ordering a shoddy kitchen appliance that would juice “Anything!”

Of course, it wouldn’t have been a proper state inspection if they didn’t find something wrong. This time it was the tires, the two rear tires. Both were worn out, or so they told me; if I knew any less about cars I wouldn’t even be able to find the rear tires. And, like all good repair shops, the parts and the tires had to be picked up from somewhere else. This further proves my theory that car parts exist in a strange parallel dimension that can be accessed only by sending order forms.

So I spent a good chunk of the afternoon waiting for one of the station employees to pick up the tires and parts from a place across “Town.” (There seemed to be a linguistic misunderstanding where “Town” actually meant “State”).

It wasn’t too long (though it seemed longer) before the tires arrived and work began.

Suddenly there was shouting coming from the mechanics. I looked over to see the van rolling out of the garage. “Good,” I first thought, “They’re finished.”

Then I saw one of the mechanics run up alongside the van. That’s when I realized no one was driving it. My van was rolling out of the garage, towards the street, on its own. A second mechanic followed behind the van, trying not to drop the tail light, attached by a few wires, which he held in his hands.

With speed and skill, the first mechanic whipped open the door and hit the brakes. There was a collective sigh of relief and then, from everyone but me, a few laughs.

I only would have laughed if it got wrecked.

My dad got me that book called, "What Color is Your Parachute?" It's about
being unemployed, job hunting, and getting your dream job. It's sparked a
few ideas for job hunting, but it's really inspired thoughts about other
books.

"What Color Was Your Underwear?" For dealing with crippling fear of job interviews.

"Was That The Plane That Just Exploded?" For job hunters who have no fallback
plan.

“What Color Will I Be After I Smack Into the Ground?” For pessimistic job hunters.

"Did You Even Pack Your Parachute?" For job hunters who have a bad memory.

Use the comments section to post your own ideas too!

God: “Jon, this is God speaking.”

Jon: “Wow! God! What’s up?”

God: “There is a great rain coming, I want you to build a mighty ark and gather the animals of the earth.”

Jon: “Whoa, whoa. How am I going to manage that?”

God: “You will succeed with my blessing.”

Jon: “Oh, man.”

Time passes.

God: “Jon, how’s it going?”

Jon: “Not great, it’s starting to rain and I’ve only finished half the ark and gathered two possums and a rabid squirrel… wow, it’s really pouring now. I must finish the ark before it’s too late!”

The rain stops.

Jon: "What? It stopped."

God: “Snicker, snicker.”

Jon: “Hey, wait a minute, didn’t you make a covenant promising you’d never flood the Earth again?”

God: “HA HA! SUCKER!”

Jon: “God is cruel.”

I wore shorts to work for the first time today. Any spark of a possibility that any of my co-workers finds me attractive was probably extinguished at the sight of my hairy chicken legs. Seriously, it was like a two-for-one sale at a dirty KFC.

Not that I mind. I make it a personal rule never to date anyone at work. Well, that’s not so much a “rule,” as an “observation.” It’s nice to say that you won’t, but it’s really just an excuse because you can’t. That’s probably why I’m not cut out for upper management; it would be waaaay to easy for anyone below me to sleep their way up the ladder. I would be kind of a corporate slut.

When I stepped out of the batting cage last night I looked at Chris and said, “Damn, I suck. It’s a wonder I didn’t hurt myself.” When I woke up this morning, I realized that I had.

I’m not sure of the medical term for it, but in a nutshell, I seem to have pulled my ass muscle. My left butt cheek aches like a mother. And, going to the bathroom has become a very delicate procedure. I think that’s as much as anyone wants to know.

P.S. Happy Mother’s Day!