I Still Jerk Off Manually

June 12, 2010 at 9:24 AM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
  Well, I finally did it.  I killed my fuckin car.  I mean, I got a second job.
  I talked to my friend the Dude last week at bowling, and between our discourse on Vietnam, I mentioned that yeah, I was looking for a job.  On a weekday.
  He said he knows a guy.  He could get me a phone number by three o’clock.  With nail polish.  There are ways.  Believe me, you don’t want to know.
  I call up the man, and we arrange for a drop.  I brought the ringer.  My dirty laundry.  The whites, dude.
  I take a meeting with the man, and was prepared to give him notes on his cycle.  He offered me a drink, but they had no milk, or even non-dairy creamer.  He asks me some questions.  "Are you employed, sir?" and, "What makes a man, Mister Lebowski?"  At the end he said, "Do you have your references?"
  "That, and a pair of testicles."
  He said that he needed to review the details, that there were still some other people he needed to talk to, like the nihilists.  My references looked good, but he was taken aback when I told that fucking Kraut that I sure as shit don’t roll on Shabbas!
  He said, "I recommend you do what your parents did:  Get a job!"  He also wanted to know why I used so many curse words.  I asked him why he treated objects like women, man.
  I left, with my drink in a to-go cup.  There’s a beverage here, man.  I drove home listening to Credence.
  There were a lot of threads in my head, a lot of ins and outs, and it made me think, so I called him up and told him that, in order to make the drop, I’d be willing to work on Shabbas, even though there is 4000 years of beautiful tradition at stake, from Moses to Sandy Kofax.
  Several days passed, and I bowled and what-have-you, and ate at the In and Out Burger.  Finally, some news:
  "Phone’s ringing, dude."
  "Thanks, Donny."  It was the man.  The man said her life was in my hands.
  "Man, come on, don’t say that."
  "If you take this job, her life is in your hands."
  "So, I got the job, then?"
  "Well, dude, we just don’t know."
  "Far out, man.  Far fucking out."  My buddies did not die face down in the mud in East Asia for nothing.  Apparently he did check my references.  "He’s a good man, and thorough."
  I have to go in yet for my orientation.  Should be a pushover.
  I waited to make sure I had a job before I got car insurance…yeah, the Dude had been rollin bareback for a while, and what did I get for it?  They pissed on my fucking rug.  But I made a call, in the parlance of our times, and Jackie Treehorn hooked me up.  It’s a better deal than when I was dealing with the nihilists.  That must be exhausting.
  But, sometimes you eat the bear, and well, sometimes, the bear eats you.
  I thought my career had been winding down, so this was good news.  Although I may need to talk with my accountant, to see if this bumps me up to a higher tax bracket.  So I filled out the papers.  Work papers.  "What business are you in?"  I’m unemployed.
  So, the dude got the job.  I got to keep the rug, plus they gave the
dude a beeper.  The meeting went okay.  The old man said I could take any rug in the house.
  My special lady friend Detroit was excited to hear of my recently acquired position.  She said, "I’ll suck your cock for a thousand dollars."

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