What If....
When I'm not too busy eating sunflower seeds, or watching Felicity reruns, I like to spend my spare time appraising the sorry state of my life.
I try to imagine what my life might be like had I, just once since 1975, fully applied myself to what was asked of me. These moments of self-analyzing reverie are made that much more difficult when I arrive at the conclusion--after about four seconds of contemplation--that all of the blame for my pitiable plight can be placed entirely on--you guessed it!--me.
What if I had not taken the easy way out during my college years?? What if I'd decided to actually use the powerful brain God gave me, instead of being more than satisfied earning average grades in blowoff classes, conserving my cerebral energy and presumably stockpiling my brain cells to use on more noble tasks (drinking inexpensive beer and refereeing poorly-played intramural football games are two that immediately come to mind).
For starters, rather than the Communications degree which I now possess, I would have earned a B.B.A., which would be framed and prominently featured on my wall. Or perhaps I would have a earned a Political Science degree, enrolling in challenging and thought-provoking courses that would have prepared me for law school, from which I would have earned another degree, which would be not only framed but also positioned directly above my oversized leather office chair.
With my hard-earned Juris Doctor diploma would have come a myriad of different (and enviable) life scenarios, not the least of which would be the quadrupling of my current teacher's salary. This marvelous (though entirely deserved) influx of capital would put my current daily deeds to shame:
As a high-dollar lawyer, I would enjoy a breathtaking view of the Dallas skyline (or even better- Fort Worth, where folks are nicer) from my firm's 24th-story perch. My secretary would be too young and wear short skirts, and my corner office would have mahogany to spare.
"Hey girls, can you put on another pot of coffee? And while you're at it, my hamstrings are feeling kinda tight, could ya'll work on that, too?? Thanks...."
My lawfirm's galas and awards banquets would be the envy of the Metroplex: swank black-tie soirees where the tenderloin is always succulent and the escorts' dresses are always low-cut.
Hobnobbing with bigwigs and beautiful women would be a normal part of my life, and my "Top 100 Lawyer" photo would be in Texas Monthly more often than Kinky Freidman's.
A short commute from my Fort Worth highrise would bring me to the South Arlington mansion which I'd call home. Greeting me (with plunging neckline) at the door would be my gorgeous trophy wife, who would not need to work, but who works at the neighborhood arts-and-crafts store anyway, if only because she truly enjoys how the employee smock tends to enhance her already well-enhanced bosom. Trophy wife and I would retire every night to my solid oak sleigh bed, the two of us falling asleep only after embarking on our nightly 90 minutes of "humina-humina."
With just a liiiiiiittle bit of effort, my Saturday nights could have looked like this...
As it is, this is all I ever see at the end of a long night out...
Oh, what just the tiniest speck of self-motivation would have gained me!!
My career in law would afford me a small army of mexican boys to tend to my lawn, a middle-aged black woman to clean my mansion twice a week, and an underage asian girl to do my nails every Saturday ("for ten dollar more you get happy ending...").
My decoration dame and I would enjoy the best seats in the arena at Mavericks games, while the rest of the overweight rank-and-file crane their necks just to get a glimpse of me and my trophy girl.
"...You can't see the game?? Tough luck pal; looks like you gotta stand up!"But noooooo, I had to be lazy! I never did graduate from law school, and now I'm paying a stiff price:
My apartment is no bigger than a 1-car garage, and I see one roach for every dollar I pay in rent. The closest I ever get to a sleighbed occurs as I walk past Crate and Barrel on Knox Street (and am discouraged from entering the store by the looks of disdain I receive from the haughty gay salesmen). I tend to my own fingernails--chewing them off and smoothing them down with the dull metal file that is connected to the nail clipper. And the only awards ceremony at my job consists of me handing out homemade Perfect Attendance certificates to three out of my 16 students ( "...Mr. G, that's all we get?!?" )
Yes, that's all you get, you little sh*t!!
Now go do your homework and hope you don't end up like me...
posted by Paul G @ 12:13 PM
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