July 12, 2013 by The Friday Facts
Important Note: Hello. There is a possibility that you may have clicked on this post, read it, and wondered what the fuck was going on. This is almost definitely because, in a fit of passion, I accidentally clicked ‘Publish’ while the post was in draft form and not even close to being ready to go live. This is embarrassing for me. They really should have a warning for that shit. Anyway, if you saw this post in draft form, please contact me so that I can issue cyanide capsule which you can ingest, forget everything you saw, and then die. That is all.
You may have heard a thing or two about the costly nature of babies. Nappies, food, clothes, it all adds up. And daycare, if you need to use it, is so hilariously expensive it’s as though the entire industry was set up by the comic equivalent of Christo; an elaborate practical joke played on society by a maverick genius whose point no one can quite work out.
To be honest though, aside from daycare, you can generally wear all of this. It’s the loss of an income that’s the killer. In our case, the missus and me pulled in almost the exact same amount; her, slightly more. Think about this for a minute: imagine having your household income sliced in half in one fell swoop, and then throwing in some significant extra expenses to boot. It’s amazing that anyone has babies at all.
So dire a point has our financial situation reached on occasion that, in a bid to find extra cash, I’ve had to reach into the memory bank and try and recall some of the tricks I used to turn way back when I was a broke-ass student.
I looked for shrapnel down the back of the couch, but the 35c that I found can’t buy you shit these days. I tried stealing petty cash from my housemates, but that strategy fell flat when I realised that one of them is ten months old and the other one is on my payroll (I guess that’s robbing peter to pay peter?). I thought about rolling down to the local pub and sponging off the regulars, but that was a dead end because they only pay you in beer. And besides, any regulars from my student days who are still regulars now are likely to be deeply troubled individuals. And also broke as fuck. The only other student strategy I could think of was pimping my body – and my dignity – off to medical science, and I can’t very well do that. Or can I……
A friend has just moved to New York for her partner’s job. Seeing this as a good chance for a new career for herself, she turned to craigslist.com.
Seriously, have you ever looked at the job listing section of this site? I have, and this is what I have to say about it: fucken hell. That is all.
I didn’t find a job as a guinea pig for unhinged science experiments. Instead I found something far, far worse. Or better, depending on how you look at it.
Firstly a note to feminists: Women have it tough, right? Not enough career opportunities? Well, if the patriarchal canon has been so spectacularly successful at stacking the classifieds to man-favour, then perhaps you’d like to volunteer to help me draft my application for these ones:
- “Big Booty Bitches” for a music video (the payment is “Famous on Youtube and in the Music Industry”)
- Ladies to offer up their feet for sniffing by the job ad poster
- “Fantasy assistant”, whose role it is to “ease the stress on the business”
- “IT Girl” (finally, the two sexiest things on the planet – hot girls and IT – together as one. For expressions of interest, call this guy)
- “Hot Twin Bodyguard/Assassins“. To be fair, I’m not sure if this even specifies that you need to be female, but I’m pretty sure the “Billionaire” who posted this ad is not thinking of the Madden twins. The fact that he mentions that a “certain underground left-wing society is targeting me and my vast wealth” doesn’t necessarily confirm that it’s Malcolm Turnbull…..necessarily.
- “Admin – with cleavage”. It’s just getting boring now.
At this point, I have a confession to make: most of the Craigslist ads I just mentioned came from me Googling “stupidest Craiglist job ads of all time”, or some other such gentle sweep of poetic wordsmithery. That’s kind of cheating, I admit it. But when I went there proper, the first ad I genuinely came across was for writers. Writers of romance (Update: this link will probably lead you to a dead end. That’s because the ad it originally linked to has apparently been pulled now. I’m not clever enough to say anything else right now but, suffice to say, it ruins the next bit of my blog. Mah, who cares. This was a dud entry anyway). Hey, I’m a writer!
I’m a romantic! So let’s do this.
So. Penning online dating profiles for people who are too retarded to do it for themselves. Can I do this? Remember, the fist rule of dating is ‘be yourself’. The second rule of dating is, apparently, that if you can’t be yourself you should pay someone to be yourself for you. If I’m being totally honest, the sample profile they give in the ad isn’t half bad. But if I was considering writing an online dating profile for someone, and if I agreed to meet them to discuss it, and if they turned up looking like this, I’m not sure if I could sell that shit to a potential mate.
As far as the rest of the Craigslist ads are concerned, they went something like this:
In case your doubting the authenticity of this, the fact that he’s spelt ‘assistante’ that way suggests that he may have just returned from a trip to the middle ages, where they put ‘e’ on the ende of everything.
Personal Assistant … to naturalists
I really don’t want to talk about this. I don’t even want to think about this. But I’ll tell you one thing, this gives me the perfect opportunity to dust of what I consider to be one of the greatest quotes I’ve ever heard in all my born days. It came from Vice Magazine. One of their journalists went ‘undercover’ at a nudist camp (is that even possible?) and wrote of his experience. Anyway, here’s how that played out:
“This one Auntie Nudist had the most massive minge I have ever seen. It undulated in the wind like a wide bed of steel-grey sea grass undiscovered by dugongs, sea turtles, or anything else that might have checked its growth. The late afternoon sun filtered through this gunmetal muff and cast the shadow of a giant snowflake on my thigh.”
Fuck you, Wordworth!
I fear that I’m instantly disqualified from this one by virtue of the fact that I can’t actually play an instrument. Shame. Because music is such a passion of mine. But it wasn’t until I read this particular job ad that I was reminded of my status as a faggot ass pussy and for that, I am eternally grateful to our friend.
Make your baby work for you
These get-rich-quick ideas are all well and good, but it was somewhere around my 7th hour of Craigslist surfing that it suddenly occurred to me that the true answer had been sitting right in front of me the whole time, shitting itself. It was the baby that got me into this financial clusterfuck so, goddam it, why not make the baby get me out of it?
A mate at work was asking me about Sonny whilst simultaneously regaling me with tales of the woeful state of his love life. Then he paused, cocked his head and dropped this poser: “So is it true what they say? Does having a baby really make you sexier to girls?”
Men have been speaking in hushed tones about this phenomenon for as long as I can remember. Women swoon, the legend goes, when they see a man with a baby. They stop you in the street so they can coo over your bundle of joy whilst simultaneously ripping your food-and-barf-stained clothes from your body with their eyes.
I have to confess, I’m yet to experience this first hand. Maybe it’s because I don’t get out alone with Sonny enough. Maybe it’s because I just haven’t been perved on by the right girl yet. Maybe it’s because I’m the seediest looking character in one of the seediest neighbourhoods in Melbourne; at least according to my wife, anyhow.
Either way, I felt I had little to offer my lovelorn friend, until he threw a tantalising prospect into the ring. What if, he said, I was to start up a kind of reverse-babysitting type business whereby I would basically rent out my child to single men – stick with me here – so that they could take him on dates with the express aim of impressing girls with their sexy (and completely fraudulent) responsible, growny-uppy, manly-man thing that apparently gives girls a total wide-on!
The idea would be that the guy would use Sonny to woo this lady friend, get a shag, and then return Sonny home at the end of the night, safe and sound, and give us lots of money. Meanwhile, the missus and me will have had a well earned night off.
Given the stakes, I don’t think it would be unreasonable for us to charge upwards of $60 an hour. That way it would add an element of urgency to the courting process.
It’s almost impossible to see how this strategy could fail.
I guess there are issues, though, that might need to be considered. For starters, let’s not be under any illusion that this is a rouse. The fact that a man thinking in 24 hour cycles is using our child to dupe a woman who’s thinking in 24 year cycles would not be lost on me. Morality doesn’t come into it when you gots to get paid.
Then there’s this: a guy – any guy – whose primary focus is getting his end wet may not bring his A-game to the looking-after-my-child part of the equation. Adding to this is the question of when this ‘baby sitting’ stint actually ends? Does our hero return the baby once it’s official that he’s getting sex? Because sometimes it’s never official until you’re actually lying in bed naked together (even then, there are still exceptions to the rule). Also, it’s totally not cool if my friend thinks he’s a lock, drops the baby back to me, and then turns up on my doorstep two hours later sheepishly explaining that he may have been a mite premature in his assessment of the situation and could he please have the baby back for an hour, three hours tops. Not cool.
Also on the ‘not cool’ list would be:
- Leaving my first born alone in the McKiddieland balls while my friend and his newly acquired beau grab a quarter pounder and McFlurry; or
- Cloaking Sonny at a nightclub (“Ticket # Blue 49 – Armani slim fit muscle windbreaker?” “Er… No. Caucasian male in a bonds onesie with Winnie the Pooh print.”). I will not – repeat, will not – have my baby cloaked.
Second thoughts, this is a dead end. First thing Monday I’m going to march straight up to my mate at work and tell him that he is no longer permitted to use my child to nail some booty. Case closed.
To be honest, I’m glad we had this discussion. The fact is, having nutted out all of these hair-brained, get-rich-quick schemes, I feel no closer so solving my new family’s financial woes than I did before. On the flip side, however, I do feel a teensy bit closer to all of those 80s/90s sitcom characters that always seemed to have a new hair-brained get-rich-quick schemes. Oddly enough, that gives me comfort. See you next time. I have no fucking idea what I’m going to blog about.