I Will Have A New Job Soon

Long time readers of this site will undoubtedly remember Ray LaHood, Secretary of Transportation and most definitely not the type of person that would ass-fuck coma patients. In short, while ol’ Ray was fucking around, doing nothing more than managing 58,000 employees and torturing small woodland creatures [citation needed], I was doing all the heavy lifting for him, coming up with not one, but two ideas that would revolutionize transportation as we know it: The 5-Yellow stop light, and replacing all the roads with a moving sidewalk that had bar service. Well, I am happy to report that Ray LaHood has given in to the inevitable, and will be stepping down as Secretary of Transportation, clearing the way for yours truly to claim the position.

Now, I understand that there are certain technicalities that need to be taken care of before I can get to work, the most important of which is alerting President Obama to the fact that I exist. (In fact, if you were to write him an email and suggest that he appoint me, I certainly wouldn’t stop you. But, uh, just don’t tell him I told you to. The Secret Service has a file on me.) But I’m going to go ahead and assume that my brilliant, revolutionary, and patent-pending ideas will win the day and I will soon be moving to Washington D.C.

Of course, as excited as I am about the prospect, I can’t help but have some concerns. The salary is acceptable (a shade under $200K), but I’m not too crazy about the location. Remember, D.C. used to be known as the Murder Capital of the US. (That title is now held by Olathe, Kansas. At least that’s what I’m telling everyone until the Olathe Bureau of Tourism gets me that suitcase full of unmarked twenties that I’ve been asking for.) Plus, I’d have to work alongside politicians, which is one of the three danger signs of a bad job you look for in a job posting:

• Invulnerability to fire not necessary, but preferred.
• Job duties include sponge bathing Chastity Bono.
• Must be willing to work with politicians

It’s important that you know what you’re getting into when you accept a job offer.

Delores never understood why Denny’s insisted that this was part of her job. She just figured that for $1.43 an hour, she wasn’t being paid to understand anything.

I also worry about how I’d fit in as a member of the President’s cabinet. (To do: Check to make sure I won’t be expected to work in an actual cabinet.) I mean, if I were the Secretary of Defense, I sure as hell wouldn’t take any shit from the Secretary of Transportation, a guy whose job duties include “being aware of the existence of station wagons”. Face it, the Department of Transportation isn’t one of the glamour agencies, like the CIA, or the Department of Defense, or even the Department of Ninjas, which, now that I think of it, I may have hallucinated.

That’s not to say that I wouldn’t wield enormous power. Woe to the unlucky person who crosses the Secretary of Transportation and winds up with “road improvements” in his neighborhood for the remainder of the century. Growing up in Chicagoland, I know this all too well. You’d be driving to work one day and you’d see a large orange sign with the words, “To serve you better” on it, and you instantly knew you were fucked. This is how the Secretary of Transportation lets you know that you have displeased him. “To serve you better, the Department of Transportation announces that it will destroy and then rebuild the Dan Ryan Expressway for kicks. Please plan on using an alternate route until the year 3024.” All because a Chicago cop ticketed the Secretary for driving without pants.

Now I know that it’s tempting to abuse your power once in office, so I want to assure you right off the bat that I will yield to this temptation almost immediately.

The Secretary of Transportation (me): Listen, I don’t care if it was ordered from my room, I’m not paying for an in-room viewing of Good Will Humping, and besides, what kind of porno cuts away before the money shot like that? Either that comes off the bill, or you’ll have a parking lot full of cement mixers before dawn. Also, your concierge informed me that she’d be able to help me dispose of a few bodies…

Walk softly but carry a big road grader, that’s my motto.

Road grader diplomacy. You don’t like it? You can kiss goodbye to being able to back out of your fucking driveway, asshole.

Now I know what you’re thinking to yourself. You’re thinking, “Greg, do you have any new ideas that would revolutionize transportation?” You bet your ass I do. Loads of them! I’ve got revolutionary ideas like like Macauley Culkin has scabies. For instance, you know how at Disneyland you can buy a Line Jumper pass that allows you to go to the front of the line, earning the hatred of everyone else in line and possibly getting you shivved in Space Mountain? We should have that for drivers. You pay $100 a month, and you’re allowed to blow through red lights at will.

Another great idea: As I mentioned, I hail from the Chicagoland area, and I know all too well how difficult it can be to find a parking space when you need one. Henceforth, Indiana will be paved and will serve as Illinois’ parking lot. Current residents of Indiana can either serve as parking lot attendants or relocate to Kentucky, or any other state of equal hillbilliness.

Finally, I will be allowed to mount a bazooka on what I assume will be my DoT-provided Lamborghini.

So get ready for a new dawn in transportation, people. I will soon be in charge, and we will all be better off because of it, as long as you stay out of Olathe, Kansas. Seriously, don’t go to Olathe. You wouldn’t last a day.

Confidential to “Mayor” in “Olathe”: Unmarked, non-consecutive twenties, please.