I work at an ad agency as a copywriter. No, I’m not bragging, I’m making a point here. The typical work-day is 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. - Plus count 1 hour to and from work. I’m not bitching about that. That’s par for the fucking course if you’re working for the man. Wake up, go to work, think, write then do it all again.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
I'm heading to the Adirondacks tomorrow on a bonafide four-day hiking adventure. Usually on my trek to the office, I play a game called BALLING. But, today, as I was trudging to work, I started to glance at people's faces instead of women's asses. Everyone - males, females, kids, black, white, yellow, purple - looked beat down by the man. It was a pathetic sight. Then, all of a sudden, I felt pathetic. Then I thought about the Adirondacks and and was pretty excited to get the fuck out of dodge for a week.
Last night, I was watching this documentary/TV show on Discovery Channel called The Deadliest Catch. It’s about these boating crews dropping traps in the middle of the frigid Alaskan waters. They're attempting to hit the lottery in the form of King Crabs.
It’s a cool show and a brutal show. People die out on those fishing boats.
Then I was thinking about dangerous jobs such as crab fishing, being a cop, firefighter or even an underwater welder. The fact that some people wake up in the morning knowing full well they could die at work today.
For some reason, I think that’s cool.
The most dangerous thing that could happen to me on my way to work is a major car accident. I could also get a wrist injury or carpal tunnel from typing too much, but that’s about it.
You read about people that come into work with a gun and start popping people in the head. BLAM! MOTHER FUCKER. BLAM! MOTHER FUCKER. BLAM! Then they blow their own brains out. Now that would definitely mix it up a little bit not to mention spark at least five weeks of conversations at the coffee machine (we don’t have a water cooler). But it’s just not the same as waking up in 20-degree weather and tossing cages off a boat. Knowing that if you get a rope twisted around your ankle and tossed in those frigid waters - you’re going to come out dead.
When I was dirt, dirt poor (I still am, but I’ve got a little bit of wiggle room) I always flirted with the idea of switching jobs. In a matter of two months I wanted to be an EMT and drive an ambulance around the city. I wanted to be a firefighter (24 hours on. Two days off). I also wanted to be a park ranger (busting pot growers) and I even considered joining the Army Reserves to pay off bills.
Simply put, I wanted to do something exciting. I wanted to be like those fishing dudes out on the boat. I wanted to be a modern-day cowboy.
But before I could actually pursue one of these professions, I got a call for a copywriting position in Columbus. I was hired. It was good money. The job beat being a sports reporter/photographer (Great job. Shitty Pay). And it was a career, sort of.
But now, I just can’t get my mind off of those fishermen on The Deadliest Catch. They wake up, have a cup of coffee, walk out of their cabin and spit obscenities to the ocean. Some of those guys don't really know – or care - how much money they’ll make at the end of the fishing season. (It all depends on the weight of the catch how much they get paid.) They're just working hard hoping they they stay alive one more day to see if they bring in the big haul.
You know what? I’m going to make a TV series called The Deadliest Copywriter.
A crew will follow me around as I wake up, walk my dog, change my daughter's diaper, eat a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich for breakfast, then drive to work to tackle the world of grammar, headline writing and selling products to you, the consumer. Then they’ll follow me home as I go on a run, make some fucking dinner and floss my teeth and get ready for bed.
Yeah man. The Deadliest FUCKING Copywriter.
Now that's fucking cowboy!