No Money, No Problems

Being unemployed over the past month and a half has been one phenomenal ride in the suburban ghetto, thanks for asking. In fact, I couldn’t be happier to have lost my job in global interest rate sales, working the equivalent of half-days for a competitively generous salary and equally astonishing year-end bonus. Really, who needs that? The 5:23am train was becoming a nuisance, perhaps even more than my mandated bedtime which guaranteed the exclusion of “Curb Your Enthusiasm” reruns. Sure, the commuter rail was comfortable enough for the bleary-eyed briefcase mafia, but the ratio of pant-sagging construction heroes (happiest guys in the world) to iniquitous white collar pencil-pushers (sad-sack cogs in the wheel of economic virility) was stacked in favor of the former.

Moreover, who knew that the same wackbags from the Department of Motor Vehicles hung out at the county labor office? Translation: normal people don’t drive, and they clearly don’t collect unemployment. Except me, I do both. Thankfully, my wife has a decent gig in graphic design, which helps to offset the glacial drop in income. In fact, to save some change I’ve begun shoveling and mowing in defiance of the Green Card Cavalry (aka the Immigrant Alliance aka The Rio Grande Rangers), blazing across yards while scowling at the cojones of the last white man to clumsily wield an electric hedge trimmer.