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CALLING SIGNALS |
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 The current executive director of THE SEXUAL RECOVERY INSTITUTE monitors the recovery of clients after watching them engage in sexual activity. |
Who wouldn't like one of these unchallenging jobs?
of TheColumnists.com
There it was on the TV screen: The Sexual Recovery Institute.
The what? I looked again and read the title of the guy talking:
Executive Director of the Sexual Recovery Institute.
Four words came to me: I want that job.
I couldn’t hear the guy talking, but the topic was clear. He was prattling on about Eliot Spitzer’s whoring. Probably breaking down why the Guv got it on with chicks besides his wife.
And no doubt saying that at the SRI, he would set poor Spitzer straight.
You can picture how the Sexual Recovery Institute functions. Husbands come in with smirks after their wives drop them off. The Executive Director tells the dudes to quit screwing around--then cracks up all the way to the vault.
I’ve heard of scams: Clinton tag-teaming with Jesse Jackson amid Monica. Fired coaches saying they’re quitting to spend time with their families. Carlos Mencia purporting to be funny.
But nothing touches the SRI for what it really stands for: Sham Ruse Illusion. What, you’re having too much sex? Sign right here, pay up and we’ll get those visions of knockouts out of your head.
I’m in the wrong business.
Which got me thinking of the next-best jobs on the globe:
Clemson football coach. Kick back. Let the players produce 9-3 records. Don’t worry about them attending class. This is one school where no one expects academic excellence. No one even knows it exists; it’s in South Carolina. You can coast for decades.
Chief of staff to an ex-president. Simply a breeze. When Jimmy Carter builds a house, you relax in the yard. When George H.W. Bush faints on a golf course, you answer press questions. When Bill Clinton carouses, you nap outside the hotel door. What’s their job? Nothing. So is yours.
Left fielder for the Los Angeles Dodgers. What’s there to do? Catch rare balls between gazes at babes and palm trees. Collect a couple of hits. Pretend to run out ground balls. All while catching the sharpest tan in baseball.
Vice president. No wonder Mitt Romney wants to join John McCain’s ticket. Talk about perks: limo, Air Force Two, staff awaiting your finger snaps. And at what price? Zero. No pressure. No decisions. Wait, here’s one: speak at the Chamber of Commerce or Hall of Fame? Give me the baseball crowd.
PR chief of the Houston
Rockets. Put your legs up, take a nap.
Nobody
cares about this team. Proof? These guys have won 22 straight
games.
Twenty-two! That's within a few treys and dunks of the Lakers’
33-gamer
of three decades ago--the longest winning streak in sports history.
And
how do the Rockets stand out? Not at all. Their only superstar,
Yao
Ming, is out with a broken foot. OK, they have Tracy McGrady.
But
really, this team walks through the door, and no one in your
office
could name a player. So much for your press releases. Don’t
bother.
Pope.
You’re god on earth. The masses wait forever to see you.
Meet the stars, and they kiss your hand. So many aides hang around,
you put Eddie Murphy to shame. And the handouts! Free travel
all over the planet. Five-star hotels. OK, no babes--publicly.
Just call Spitzer, and he’ll set you up.
©2008 by Bucky Fox. The illustration is from IMSI's Master
Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506,
USA. This column first posted March 17, 2008.
*You can visit Bucky Fox's website at www.BuckyFox.com
<http://www.BuckyFox.com>*
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