A familiar scene: two unemployed bums in a '97 Saturn adorned with Boston Celtics propaganda cruising through Southern California, 90's hip-hop playing through the tinny speakers and a longing for adventure in their hearts. ML had spent three months living the dream, cycling through Eastern Europe but now finds himself damn lucky to have a job going door-to-door harassing innocent citizens to fill out and turn in their goddamn census forms. CRS had spent a year wandering around all over hell and part of Arizona looking for a bright, cheery future without fluorescent lights and cubicles and failing. Dissillusioned, bored, and restless, our duo decides to delay the inevitable return to dreaded "normalcy" by doing what they know best: riding their beat up bikes through desert wastelands for days on end.
"You know, it would really bring magic back into the season...a definite step up from all the goddamn commercial bullshit. Ask anybody: one of the greatest tragedies of anyone's life is the discovery that Santa Claus is just a crock of shit." ML, always daydreaming of the perfect job that will never exist, is in the midst of a reverie about dream jobs. Going around the world, delivering toys to deserving children, may be rewarding. The logistics would be a nightmare, but with enough manpower, it just could work.
I chimed in with my dream job: Indonesian Pirate. An Outside Magazine interview with a self-proclaimed "Gentleman of Opportunity" and proud warrior of the seas piqued my curiosity. It has everything I'm looking for: flexibility, a high hourly wage, adventure travel, and plenty of time off. The parties in Dubai sounded like a swell time too. ML agreed, saying "yeah, and if you got all high-minded about it, you can almost justify it as a Robin-Hood type enterprise". "I guess that means I'll have to lay off the coke and hookers."
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