Movies have given me an unrealistic idea of what to expect out of possible career paths.
You battle Evil T-Rex — no, really, T-Rex was so evil he even got nominated for Best Villain at the 1994 MTV Movie Awards — and save a couple of white kids from getting lost in an amusement park. You’re also really good at climbing trees, wearing aviator sunglasses, using seatbelts incorrectly, and never smiling. You carry around a real dinosaur claw with you at all times, just in case you need to threaten fat kids who make disrespectful jokes about dinosaurs. Only you’re allowed to do that.
From what I’ve gathered, being a paleontologist actually has nothing to do with dinosaurs at all. It just only involves squinting a lot, wearing brimmed hats, and constantly poking at piles of dirt with the tools of a dental hygienist.
Small Town Sheriff
You get to battle Evil Shark — no, really, Evil Shark is so evil, he is the only animal to be named on AFI’s 100 Years…100 Heroes and Villains list. Your one and only friend is a nerdy marine biologist who is 90% beard, but you also get to become frenemies with an absolutely insane sea captain who is constantly drunk and only might speak English. One night, as you hunt Evil Shark on a leaky boat, the sea captain tells you that Evil Shark killed his best friend during World War II — or at least that’s what you think he told you. It could have been anything, really. In the end, you make Evil Shark explode. By shooting him with a gun.
This is an actual call log taken from the “Sheriff’s Report” section of a small town newspaper.
You get to battle Evil Meteorologist Dr. Jonas Miller — who is not on anyone’s Villains list anywhere ever — and outrun tornadoes every single day. You drive a truck, which is just butch enough to be independent and sexy but not definitively lesbian, and have lots of sexually-charged fights with your ex-husband. Also, you can’t die. No matter what happens, you just cannot die. You literally get eaten by a tornado, and live.
You are currently best known for shitting your pants in the White House.
You get to sing for a bunch of gay guys in top-hats who sing and dance in unison, people constantly give you diamonds for no reason, and your waist is — at most — 23 inches wide (because you’re dying of TB). You live in an elephant-shaped-castle-windmill-thing, and even though there are whispers that you make out with people for money, mostly you just sing duets with them while it rains glitter.
You get a reality TV show.
You live your whole life knowing your main purpose: love. You spend every day with your best friends and playing make believe with Andy, the boy who loves and takes care of all of you! Sure, you and your friends have lighthearted romances here and there while Andy’s at school, but when it comes down to it, you’re all non-functional smooth plastic down there. Life is simple.
When Andy gets infected with Scarlet Fever, you’re suddenly considered a germ sack and sentenced to life in the nursery with an aging porn star named Skin Horse.