Son of a Motherless Goat

Alright, first things first: a monumental, earth-shattering shoutout to my two (yes, two!) incredibly dedicated subscribers, who also happen to be my favorite couple in the entire known universe. You two are the wind beneath my digital wings! And speaking of equally profound matters, Mrs. Quackenbush, I hope your pillow is always warm on both sides, and also, you can absolutely suck a colossal bag of dicks. Because I'm still processing that first day of kindergarten when you looked me dead in the eye and declared, 'Oh, you. You will amount to nothing but a faint, unpleasant odor in this wretched life!' Well, look at me now! I have subscribers!

Alright, hold the phone, stop the presses, because we have a crisis of epic, hilarious proportions brewing! The universe, in its infinite, baffling wisdom, has decided to... offer me a job. To which I can only exclaim: You magnificent, infuriating, Son Of A Descendant Of A Llama With A Serious Attitude Problem! For those just joining the glorious train wreck, this is the same company that casually floated $65,000 clams. My response, delivered with the nonchalant air of someone asking for extra hot sauce, was, '$80,000 scratch, or I'm taking my talents to a slightly less prestigious (but equally clam-filled) sandbox.' I genuinely thought that would be the mic drop, the 'don't call us, we'll definitely not call you' moment. I practically dared them to hire me.

BUT NO! They just upped it to $70,000 Wongas, sent an official employment email (complete with fancy corporate jargon, no less!), and the actual 'boss man' called me directly! This, mind you, is AFTER I went in there last week and performed what I can only describe as an aggressively self-sabotaging interview. I was dropping red flags like confetti at a parade, and I swear, I am not making any of these up – I actually asked them, with a straight face and probably a mischievous glint in my eye:

'Is this job... fun?' (Because priorities, people! Life's too short for unfun clams.) 'Can I get two screens? Because one just feels so... single-minded and economically unsound given the Wongas involved.'

'If there's a meeting, do I have to physically return to the office?" And then, my pièce de résistance, during a walking tour: I looked the boss dead in the eye – whose face was slowly morphing from 'professional interest' to 'I think I just saw a unicorn driving a unicycle while eating clam fritters' – and I hit him with: 'What do I wear?' Before he could even process that existential query, I pointed directly at his business casual equivalent of a warm glass of milk. and added: 'Can I wear what you have on?'

I was so utterly convinced I'd not only not get the job but possibly be escorted out by security and added to some kind of 'do not hire anywhere on Earth' database. I fully expected them to ghost me faster than a cheap clam buffet. And yet, Son of a Rusty Spoon here we are.

Well, I've truly outdone myself in the pursuit of employment, meticulously ensuring that absolutely nothing interfered with my rigorous sleep schedule. My dedication to uninterrupted slumber has been truly inspiring, if I do say so myself. This, of course, has landed me in a pickle so profoundly picklish, it requires immediate attention. Luckily, I have a plan.

When I was, shall we say, unceremoniously escorted from my previous hellhole of a job (the details are still hazy, but involve security guards and a vague scent of betrayal), my first, utterly instinctive response was to flee to France. No, really. France. And you might want to sit down for this next bit: my traveling companion, Her Majesty (who has far more patience than I deserve), and I are headed to Ireland next Tuesday.

Being a proud half-Irish specimen, I'm anticipating quite the homecoming at Dublin's airport. I've heard rumors – very credible rumors, mind you – that a welcoming committee consisting of three virgins will be presented to me. This, apparently, is in recognition of my decades of unwavering, almost scientific commitment to ensuring I am consistently either magnificently inebriated or valiantly hung over.