With unemployment in the UK standing at a [insert the current shockingly high number]%, I propose that the youth of today need a role model. As a disillusioned for the purposes of this post, somewhat immobile, alcohol dependant, armchair politician, I need to look to a visionary figure to show me the path of righteousness. To erect my business mind; to titillate my entrepreneurial skills; to arouse my confidence and to stimulate more motivational innuendo from my infantile mind.
A perfect* poster boy for grabbing the bull by the horns is a Mr Essam Ahmed Eid – an Egyptian living in America who grew thoroughly tired of his working life at a boring old casino. If there’s one thing films have taught me about working in such establishments, it’s that only down on their luck female employees – that are probably also young, single mothers who work (reluctantly) in the sex industry – who stroll around Blackjack tables are luckily given a $50,000 chip from an already wealthy playboy who’s just won big. What’s a man to do? Why, start his own business of course!
Promote your strengths and talents! Give the people what they need! Make the market your own! Set up a hitman for hire website! Wait. What? (For the love of all things hilarious, look at the screen shot. There’s a recruitment link!)
Sadly, Eid’s venture may have been defeated by The Man but put your left hand into a fist and raise your arms, motherfuckers. We shall not be restricted! I have come up with five other types of dot-com businesses that I believe, nay – KNOW – will be more successful than the invention of toilet paper. All I need is you and a business bank account to make it happen.
Lots of people are on waiting lists for bits of body and if I needed an organ, which judging by the amount of gin I’ve packed away in my life – is pretty bloody likely, I would have no idea where to turn or who to ask. Absolutely no idea what dodgy alleyway in my area is the one to walk down to bump into Big Tony and trade my best Pogs for a liver. Akin to a dating website or a swap shop, but up your deets and asking price and voilà. Maybe get an auction going on. Fuse the best parts of eBay and Match.com. They make money… we’ll make money.
Pesky Negros coming over and taking yo’ jobs? Sick of your newsagent only selling Polish bread? Hate the way your new neighbour Carlos is looking at your wife? Lynchings R Us offer a nationwide service whereby we come to your area with all the mobile tools and extra outraged crowd members to bring a lynching to your frustratingly multi-cultural neighbourhood. You provide the foreigns, we’ll provide the death. Soundtrack included.
I’ll tell you more about this and send you a welcome pack after you’ve wired the £350 start up fee to me.
Oh man, don’t you just hate it when you fall pregnant unexpectedly? And doesn’t it just suck when you find yourself living in Ireland and nothing from having been raped to the touch-and-go physical safety of the mother is enough for Dr O’Connor to grant you an abortion? That is just the worst. I don’t know how many Vera Drake’s (who?) are floating around but maybe we could get a FreeAd’s type situation on the go. Offered: COATHANGER PRACTITIONER. Wanted: TO NOT BE PREGNANT.
Probably by virtue of not being a paedophile, I have no idea how you get all these molesting rings on the go. Who starts it? Do you just really casually start dropping little signs that you might be interested in kids into conversation a few times a week?
Mike: Whoa, boy. This episode of Lizzie McGuire is pretty cool. I’d like her to ride me all the way to heaven and back. KNOWWHATTAMEAN?
Dave: What? Dude, she’s like nine.
Mike: No! Really? I thought she looked at least, like, eleven.
Mike: Sixteen. I meant she looked sixteen.
Dave: Yeah, bro.
Surely there must be an easier way? Why, yes! Yes there is!**
So… Ms Meaden? Debs? You in, babycakes?
*Apart from the killing and that.
**Seriously, I’m totally joking.