From the lowly potato massager who toils in the dark recesses of a stone dungeon to the wealthy potato baron counting his stacks of thousand dollar bills in an executive office overlooking the peak of Mount Everest, everyone comes across problems in the workplace. Sometimes it's a coworker that only seems to bathe in cheap cologne, or a twenty-five cent tip in the form of five mysteriously sticky nickels.
Ignoring these minor quibbles to get through the daily grind is easy enough, but what if I told you that every job is connected to a very specific number that - once considered - would never leave the forefront of your mind? That simply knowing what this number signifies would be enough to eat away at your very very soul until you found a new line of work or pressed your face into a paper shredder?
Sounds crazy? Read on, but don't say I didn't warn you.
The number you'd rather not know: How much money you'd save if your auto insurance covered those neighborhood kids and their rocks.
Movie End-Credit Designer
The number you'd rather not know: Of the miniscule subset of people who actually stay in the theater to watch your work in its entirety, the percent that are only sitting because (a) their leg fell asleep or (b) they got a boner.
The number you'd rather not know: How many people look at a perfectly clean floor and think to themselves, "I hate whoever is responsible for maintaining this immaculate walking surface".
The number you'd rather not know: How many hours you have until the PCP wears off, leaving you with no option but to call your parents and tell them you blew this semester's tuition on leather clothing, two tons of lumber, and an industrial pencil sharpener.
Closed Caption Typist
The number you'd rather not know: How many deaf people just turn the CC off and leave their televisions on as background sight while they pay bills or goof around on the computer.
The number you'd rather not know: How many of your creations will be given as gifts to people who really have no use for guns, then collect dust in closets and storage units, never to be used as instruments of death.
The number you'd rather not know: How many naive families really expect Santa Claus to come crawling down the chimney you just cleaned on Christmas Eve, when the lazy fatass just uses magic to teleport from the rooftop to the living room.
Space Shuttle Commander
The number you'd rather not know: Which number in the countdown you have to wait for before pressing the "Launch" button.
The number you'd rather not know: Understanding that jazz isn't about the notes you do play, but the notes you don't play, how many orders of magnitude better you'd be if you had never picked up an instrument at all.
The number you'd rather not know: How many people will needlessly die of cancer because you just had to be a big man and capture that wiener dog with the glasses and lab coat as he exited the library.
Small Town Mayor
The number you'd rather not know: The number of young men that will give their lives on your behalf in this horrific campaign before the dust settles and your town is finally the last one standing.
The number you'd rather not know: On a scale from 1 to 10, how totally gross brains are.
The number you'd rather not know: How many houses have been paid for by Epic Movie, Date Movie and Meet The Spartans.
Air Traffic Controller
The number you'd rather not know: The number of birds, bats, and flying insects that are in the air right now doing god knows what without any radio guidance.
The number you'd rather not know: How many days it will take for someone to notice that your Tom Cruise-like juggling act is an elaborate ruse to distract people from the fact that you can't read the bottle labels.
The number you'd rather not know: How much more money you could be making if you took condoms out of the process. Damn your unwavering commitment to your morals.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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