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By Jessica Becht
How dare that pinch-nosed harridan behind the Chanel counter scissor through your MasterCard? It was only an innocent lunch-break browse. Now, you must slink back to the office pale-mouthed and blotchy-eyed, all the while wondering if you can live on packets of discount Ramen until next payday.
What's a lady in such straits to do? Why, become a lady of the night, of course. This classic entrepreneurial job offers a most graceful solution to your difficulties. There's no need to feign shock; you've been mistaken for that sort often enough. Why not start getting the respect that members of the oldest profession deserve?
Really, cease your piffling objections. How can you quibble with tax-free wages, flexible hours, and the ability to work from the comfort of your own boudoir? Sexy slug-abeds rejoice! You'll go from downtrodden desk-jockey to respectable runnion in no time.
The wardrobe deemed "somewhat unprofessional" at your last review will certainly do for this new enterprise. Knot that crisp but skimpy white blouse at the midriff and pair it with the skirt that earned you a reprimand. If this look turns out to be less fetching than you hoped, adjust your pricing scale downward.
Now, get started by exploiting your professional contacts. Before telling the boss to see you in hell, use the office equipment to print up business cards and flyers boasting of your expertise in "exotic massage." Slip these to co-workers who have been a little too effusive at office parties.
Now that you've gone professional, it's time to call up those who have sampled your amateur services and request back payments. Send an invoice to any balkers, marking it "For services rendered".
Okay, so maybe you're still deluged by bills and these suggestions haven't helped you build a client base. It's time to seek an entry-level position on the streets. Remember to have an excuse handy in case a member of the vice squad correctly interprets your loitering. Insist that you're waiting for a friend to pick you up and take you to the opera. Or that you're conducting an experiment for your sociology thesis. Or perhaps you are a performance artist and that scabrous bum over there is really a photographer chronicling your brilliance. Just toss out a little argot to stymie the police. Basso Profundo. Control group. Karen Finley. If you are harassed any further, scream that no one understands your art, or science, or whatever.
Don't forget that the real money comes more from blackmail and petty theft than the nitty-gritty rutting around. After a few months of wallet-nicking and epistolatory pursuits, you'll have enough cash to start working your way up the whoreporate ladder. Open your own bawdy house. Attract a high-quality clientele by investing in scarlet lampshades, shag carpeting, leopard-printed upholstery, and several chandeliers.
Now that you're the madam, you may direct your employees from the comfort of a tiger-striped executive chaise lounge. See how easy that was? Thank goodness you had the courage to give up your go-nowhere job and reach for the stars. You've knocked them right out of the sky.
© 2008 Jessica Becht
OTHER HW ARTICLES BY JESSICA BECHT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jessica Becht is currently sweltering in the state of Florida, where she has become quite intimate with election fiascos, hurricanes, and fire ants. When not shielding her alabaster complexion from the sun's brutal rays, she can be found strolling her baby about the neighborhood while silently mocking pink flamingo enthusiasts.