I’m an unemployed drunk who sits around all day looking like a fool with his pants on the ground a hard-working, charming individual who would be a tremendous asset to anyone bold enough to employ me. Until I meet that courageous person, whom I shall share many an expensive drink and occasional cigarillo with on the company tab, as well as entertain with endless mostly harmless office pranks involving cling wrap, I have to entertain myself with this blog hunt around on the interwebs for potential jobs.
This can be a very entertaining, if not occasionally suicide-inducing, experience. By way of example, take this fantastic opportunity for growing rich extremely slowly: a website where people in more affluent regions of the world outsource work they don’t want to do to the great unwashed — a virtual marketplace where soap is irrelevant. The idea was popularised by Timothy Ferriss of The 4-Hour Workweek fame. It definitely has its merits. Except when independent contractors like me with an internet connection and the ability to string a coherent sentence together are expected to work for much less than they would if they lived next door to their online employer. But they live elsewhere in a more dubious geographic location. Cape Town, for instance.
The rationale is that the people doing the crap work from the Philipines or wherever are actually earning a tidy sum of money when converted into their crap currency. Great for them. I need to earn more than a few dollars a day if I want to keep up my drug habit feed my cat.
I did see a job on this particular website the other day that especially piqued my interest — I was even tempted, for a brief but insane moment, to offer my services. For free. The dude posting the job is apparently too busy to hook himself up with internet dates. He wants someone to do this on his behalf. To write about how charming and wonderful he is and why his potential dates would be absolute fucking morons not to hook up with him — when he has a spare moment, of course. And he’ll pay a spectacular fee of around $4 per successful hook up — to the copywriter, not the date.
I’m sure I could make this idiot sound more or less like Mel Gibson Brad Pitt. Something like this:
“Hi, my name is Frederick. My mom calls me Frik. Frikkie when she’s pissed. Not that I live at home anymore. I make lots of money. I have my own place. Which I would like to show you. I would like to spend some of my cash on you. What say we hook up when I have a spare night. Next year work for you? I’m not implying that you are a prostitute. I just don’t have time to write a whole lot of bullshit about myself and convince you that I am Mel Gibson’s equal. I would love to treat you to a lovely dinner and then invite you home to my big house to look at my tiny woodpecker. And other pecker. He’s a rare midget species. The woodpecker. I look forward to meeting you when I have the time. Yours in hope, Frikkie.”
Frikkie would get so many happy endings. Possibly. Thanks to my convincing copywriting skills. He may actually have to outsource some of the action to me. So he can get back to work. It’s a win-win situation.