Oh hello, thank you for visiting me, the lonely old troll living under this bridge. Normally I would offer you some refreshments from this decrepit trunk of Dunk-A-Roos and Hi-C Ecto Coolers, but I’m going to cut straight to the chase. You see, one of my many gifts is that I can see the future. And…what’s your name? Matt? Really? No, it’s fine, you’re just my third Matt this month. Matt, your destiny is to become an accountant.
Listen, this will not be an easy job. Accountants are often sneered at and thought of as boring, tame people with incredibly girthy and knotty branches up their bums. Your neighbors will taunt and jeer as you make your way to work.
“Hey Accountant,” they’ll yell, “are you going to count today? Hey! How high can you count?”
Pay no heed to these fools, these mere mortals. You know that Gerry says he’s an entrepreneur but really, he just walks his girlfriend’s mom’s dogs. The only thing he has to look forward to each day is picking up dog shit. And you know he holds each dookie for a moment too long, savoring its warmth through the plastic bag before reluctantly tossing it. Fuck Gerry.
Accounting is an honorable job, making sure people know how much money they have. That’s important. Believe me, as a bridge troll I manage the troll tolls for every bridge in this goddamn county. That’s what I call passive income.
Write that down, you’ll need to know that.
Listen, what was your name again? Matt? Great, listen Matt, being an accountant isn’t all about money, eating tuna sandwiches in the breakroom, and getting picked last for the company dodgeball team. As an accountant, you could blend in with a fucking wall and therefore you are truly free. You may have to grind your dick in a corporate machine from 9-5, but come 5:01, you can do whatever the fuck you want for the next fourteen hours.
Once you clock out, you’ll drive your Toyota Yaris right over to TGI Fridays. It’s only Tuesday, but you don’t give a fuck, you have a 401K matched to 4%. At the bar, there’ll be a hot blonde with a bowl cut slurping on the remnants of a frozen strawberry margarita. You’ll sidle over and say, “I count things all day long and I can tell you’re one drink short. What’s your name?”
She’ll laugh and say, “Sheri. You smell like an accountant. I eat accountants for breakfast.” She’ll run her tongue over her lips, lubricating them with a thick layer of saliva.
You’ll quiver, unfamiliar with this strong wave of desire emanating from your loins but ready and willing to surrender to it.
“What do you do?” you’ll ask, waving your credit card at the bartender, ordering another round.
“I’m the head of human resources,” she’ll say. You’ll ask her if she likes it.
“I tell people if they’ve been naughty or nice and it’s none of your fucking business if I like it. You got it, sweet cheeks? Now knock back this drink and let’s take this back to my Honda CRV.”
In that moment, you wouldn’t care if she told you to get into a trash can. She takes you back to her condo and pushes you into her walk-in closet.
“Ok slick lips, count my shoes. Out loud,” she’ll demand.
You’ll barely contain your excitement as you begin to audit her closet while she sits on the bed and chugs Bud Light.
“One,” you’ll say.
“No!” she’ll scream, “count and then tell me what kind they are.”
“One, Skechers Relaxed Fit Sweet Jams,” you’ll say.
“Good, now smell them,” she’ll say.
You’ll tilt the shoe to fit the opening over your nose and mouth and inhale deeply. It will reek of advanced decomposition and coat your lungs like a fungus.
You’ll love it.
The next day at work, your co-worker, Luke, will say, “Hey Mike, you look tired. Wild night?”
“Yeah,” you’ll say, “I had a private code of conduct training. And it’s Matt, you fucking dingus.”
The next night you and Sheri will rendezvous again. This time she’ll tie you to the bed and project a PowerPoint slide onto the ceiling.
“Alright, knubby nipples,” she’ll say, “I’m going to walk you through your health insurance options and then I’m going to quiz you. If you get a question wrong, I’ll go into the other room and watch an episode of American Pickers alone.
You’ll whimper.
“If you get it right,” she’ll say, “I’ll give you ten lashes.
“Oh Sheri,” you’ll moan, “I would do anything for you, you gorgeous human resources goddess.”
“I know,” she’ll say.
Anyway, good luck with the accountant career. Thank you for supporting your local troll. That’ll be fifty bucks, please.