All my life, I’ve focused on literary stardom, fantasizing about the day my unique voice will rise above the din of mundane existence to inspire humanity through the written word. I’ve toiled in non-profit organizations, hoping the fruits of my labor will make significant change in the lives of the world’s most underserved populations. But I think I’ve finally discovered my calling.
I’m going to be a cocktail waitress.
Obviously, this is the crème de la crème of occupations, considering all the fantastically desirable women who do it and the caliber of men enchanted by them.
Tiger Woods’ main mistress? Cocktail waitress. Most of George Clooney’s girlfriends? Cocktail waitresses. Matt Damon’s wife? Three words: Cock. Tail. Waitress.
Just imagine – ungodly amounts of fame, truckloads of wealth, a hot Swedish wife who bore him a family of cute little Tiger cubs. Tiger Woods has all of this and he risked it just to bone a cocktail waitress. Those chicks must really be rad.
Some of my best memories hark back to my own days in a bar. In college, I served drinks at a club in Boston where all of us waitresses were constantly hit on by the performers and celebrities who frequented the joint. Now we get together every so often to reminisce about the good times, like having our asses pinched by three dudes in one night. Being informed by a comedian’s body guard our “company” is requested in the green room. Getting asked by a B-list actor if he can do body shots off us ten seconds after he checks in with his wife. Man, those were the days.
Tiger’s waitress was from Los Angeles, but what guy would settle down with some wannabe reality TV star? Those ladies have no sophistication or discretion. Send a dirty text to one of them on a Saturday night and a man’s just begging to be in the Enquirer come Monday.
Ask me, Vegas is the ticket. Ever notice how often famous dudes get busted there? Even one of Tiger’s alleged booty calls works in the city. Vegas is where the hottest, wealthiest, most successful men in the universe go to completely debauch themselves. In Vegas, you get to help A-list actors cheat on their A-list actress girlfriends, and multi-million dollar athletes ruin their game by snorting coke off strippers’ bellies. Any gal hoping to achieve her professional and romantic goals should totally hightail it to Vegas. What better way to see Cupid launch his arrow than having a guy like Clooney puke Limoncello shots onto your tray. Score.
So my dream now is to work at some swank casino in Vegas. I’ll serve someone like LeBron James in the VIP lounge or our eyes will meet over the neon blare of a slot machine. Not only will he fall head over heels in love and offer to pay off my student loans, but he’ll marry me and take me back to his mansion where I can focus on less significant goals like, I dunno, writing a book.
My only fear is I no longer have it in me. What if I can’t carry a tray of drinks anymore? What if I can no longer add? I heard a rumor that in order to land a job at Hooters, a gal’s breasts have to be big enough to hold a pencil in the crease between her boob and her ribcage. And here I’ve been concentrating on writing with pencils. What a dope.
I’m sure I’ll figure it out once I get to Vegas and meet my man. Of course, since LeBron is famous and rich, he’ll undoubtedly cheat on me. No worries though. I’ll just beat him with a golf club.