My idea of hard work is driving my fat SUV and yelling at people from my cell phone, while chugging Star Bucks and eating Big Macs. After work I'll stop at Wal Mart to buy cheap underwear made by third-world school kids because the company my dad worked for found cheap labor there and the savings were passed on to my fat ass.

On Sunday I'll plop my fat ass on the couch, drink too much beer, eat too many wings and cheese stuffed pizza crust. I'll flip through the football channels with lightning speed. If a friend is over, we'll recall our days of grid iron glory and then talk about the war on terror and why George Bush is like the Clint Eastwood character, Rowdy Yates from the old TV series, Raw Hide.

On Monday I'll get my fat ass out of bed, go to work, and learn that my self important job was just shipped to Costa Rica.

"What the hell?" I think.

So I'll pick up a case of bud and head down to the lake to do some fishing. On the way home I'll run over the neighbors cat (by accident), but I won't let anyone know about it. They'd likely think I ran over the cat because I was drunk and they'd try to slap a cat equivalent charge of manslaughter on me. So I'll throw the dead cat in the back of my SUV.

By 9:30 that evening, and only after attending the neighborhood vigil for the missing cat, I'll let my wife know about the cat and my job. I won't know what she's crying about, but Monday night football is on and the unemployment benefits are good for six months.