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Danehy

Tom is considering some new gigs before he gets on the Social Security gravy train

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I got something in the mail the other day that said that in a few years, I'll be eligible to receive Social Security benefits. That came as quite a surprise because, if you listen to the toothless hillbillies who show up to Donald Trump white-power rallies, there is no such thing as a government program that actually works.

The fact that I am even known to the Social Security Administration probably shatters the myth held by several long-time readers who sincerely believe that I am a kept man, living off the labors of my long-suffering wife. Yeah, well, as it turns out, y'all can suck it.

Now, my wife does work, but she does so because she wants to. This is the 21st century and all. To be fair, there may well have been a brief time in the late 1980s when she was simultaneously barefoot and pregnant.

As for me, I've worked lot and lots of different jobs over the years, including several for which I was paid in American currency. Back when I was a stay-at-home father, I pieced together a patchwork of jobs around my wife's schedule so that our kids wouldn't go to day care or have babysitters. I got pretty good at it, to the point that my wife would tell me that I had 10 mini-jobs that added up to half a career.

Some of the jobs are big-time; others, not so much. For example, as I've mentioned recently, I run the scoreboard at Amphi High varsity football games. Three-and-a-half to four hours in a press box with temperatures that have actually reached 105 degrees. Then, like magic, a couple weeks later, I get a check in the mail for (after taxes) an amount in the high-$20 range. And there are five home games per year, so you do the math.

I've been thinking that I should pick up a couple extra jobs to add to that gub'mint cheese nest-egg that I've been building up all these years. Like Liam Neeson said, I have a particular set of skills, and there are some jobs I've been keeping my eye on.

First off, I think I'll become a consultant who gets paid to find new superintendents for school districts. That's got to be the gig of all time. Just think about it. You've got the Tucson Unified School District Board, which is the board that serves as the standard for all other such boards in America. They hire some guy to be their superintendent, but then, after a little while, they decide that he doesn't match their blouse, so they dump him.

They name some other guy to be the interim Superintendent while they conduct a search for a permanent replacement. They spend thousands and thousands of dollars on consultant fees and when the process is all over...they remove the "interim" tag. So, apparently, these "consultants" look through a bunch of resumes, pick out a few that appear to have interesting stuff in them (including one from a woman who got chased out of her last job), then hand them over to the Board and go laughing all the way to the bank. I could do that.

Heck, I could have made that recommendation for half the amount that they paid to other consultants. All that remains now is to come up with a catchy name for my new endeavor. I've already got my slogan: I can do next-to-nothing for next-to-nothing.

Maybe I could stay involved with the media. I could be the next White House Press Secretary. Judging by the current one, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, there are only three requirements for the job. You have to:

1. Look like you work at WalMart ... and do a whole lot of shopping there, too.

2. Have a 1970s hairstyle. And

3. When asked a question you don't like, be able to make a face like you just ate a gas-station burrito and it's about to attempt an escape.

Did anybody else wince when the White House named the replacement for Anthony Scaramucci? The new White House Communications Director (and the person to whom the aforementioned Huckabee Sanders will report to) is named Hope Hicks.

Some punchlines are just too easy.

I could be Pima County Supervisor Ally Miller's whiteness consultant and maybe nudge her into the 20th century. (Apparently, the 21st century would be asking too much.) I could explain to her that Pat Boone did not have the first hit record of "Good Golly Miss Molly." I would explain that it was actually a Negro guy. (I'd leave out any mention of Little Richard's sexual orientation. That would send her screaming into the street.)

As time would go by, I would break it to her that The Beatles did not write "Twist and Shout" and the "The Brady Bunch" was not a documentary, but rather a sitcom. I think slowly she would come around to realizing what a dumbass she is.

On the old TV show "Scrubs," there used to be a black guy who got hired to walk around at doctors' conventions. He would approach people, snap his fingers, point at the people and say, "Bust a move!" I could do that around Miller's office, but I'd have to dial down the hipness factor. Snap my fingers, point, and say, "You Light Up My Life."

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