The marketing game, that is. Granted, I’m marketing hot dogs and beers these days instead of billion dollar product launches from multinational conglomerates, but it’s good to have my foot back in the door nonetheless.
In fact, I’m at work right now. Which is to say, I’m at a baseball stadium. Not one that you’ve heard of; the local team is quadruple-A at best, and that’s on a good day. I’m not even sure you can call this dump a ‘stadium.’ What’s the term for something that’s an amalgam of an industrial park and a cow pasture? Whatever it is, that’s where I’m at. And I’m drunk.
What? Wouldn’t you be? Give me a break, you teetotaling sadists. It’s something like 102 degrees out here and I’m schlepping half a card table laden with food and beverages around my neck. As if that wasn’t bad enough, my customer base is exclusively comprised of people with nothing better to do in the middle of a weekday than pay money to watch a team with less talent than your average high school locker room. You do the math. I did, and (x + y)/a – minimum wage = drunk.
Alright, time to head back out before my boss catches me. He already docked my pay for what he called an “excessive constitutional” earlier today, and I’ll be goddamned if he’s going to get another red cent out of me. Blessings of Jesus upon you.