PAUL E. AMOREE
Special to the Lampoon
I used to be like any other American dude: I drank my ketchup every day like a good boy. I fired my assault rifle into the air seven times a day — that’s two more than the five times mandated for every American citizen. Then, like every other American, I’d go home, make myself a beer float (it’s just a beer with a bunch of ice cream in it) and hunker down to watch 90 to 120 minutes of pornography.
But then something changed. You might say I grew up. It all started one day when I took a look at the world around me, and then at my beloved pornography. To this day I don’t know why, but it was like a veil was lifted from my eyes. I could see clearly, and I knew that something did not match up. Pornography was a fiction: there was simply no way that there were anywhere near that many delivery jobs in this area.
I mean, think about it — unless you’re in a seriously metropolitan area, the odds that you’re going to find more than, like, five pizza places vying for the same customers are just astronomical. It’s just not going to be profitable for these kinds of businesses to all try the same thing in the same area.
Look, I’m not trying to say there aren’t delivery jobs. There definitely are. I just think some attention should be drawn to the unrealistic portrayal of the abundance of delivery jobs that pornography gives young men. They’re out there, and when a young man gets his first delivery job, it can be healthy and fulfilling, but if he’s been led astray by a seductive (but ultimately hollow) vision of the good times, fast living and easy pickings of the delivery business, he’s going to have a bad time.