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fandomhigh2014-05-23 10:04 am
notmysupervisor.livejournal.com) wrote in fandomhigh2014-05-23 10:04 am
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Something something careers or something [Period 1, Friday]
Today when the class met in the Danger Shop (or "mindfuck room," as Cheryl had insisted on continuing to call it), they were met with what appeared to be a large open field with sparse grass, a fairly significant number of RVs, the faint sound of music off in the distance, and lots -- lots -- of people with long hair who smelled sort of earthy.
Welcome to a Grateful Dead concert, kids.
"That weed you smell is just a smell, not the real stuff," Cheryl greeted them. "Before you get excited and try to buy some or run to tell on us or something."
“Totally fake,” Pam agreed, blowing a smoke ring. What? The weed smell was fake, but Pammy brought her own stash. “So we were trying to figure out what the hell else you guys might be qualified for, and I’ll be real honest, there’s not a whole lot out there.”
Look, they went to school here. Clearly academia was not anyone’s strong suit.
"I mean, be glad we're not going with my suggestion," Cheryl told them. She looked around for a moment, expectantly, and then helpfully added, "Test subjects."
Thanks, Cheryl.
"So instead, you're gonna find out what it's like to be the grungiest, dirtiest kind of hippie-turned-groupie: a Deadhead." She gestured behind her, to where one of the existing hobos-slash-music-fans was smoking a joint and apparently reading Tarot.
“Deadhead is not technically an occupation, what with it not paying jack shit, but it’s a full time job for most of these stoners,” said Pam. “And while you save money on not having a house or ever washing your clothes, I mean, you’re probably still paying off the RV, and weed’s not cheap unless you’re smoking the really awful stuff, and at that point why bother?”
Skunk weed really shouldn’t count as weed, you guys. Important life lessons here.
"At least lace it with something." NO, CHERYL. "Anyway. You'll need to fit in, so." She pointed towards a washtub, squirt bottles with liquid dye, and a bunch of white tee-shirts. "Tie-dye some shit. If you don't know how to tie-dye, listen to the fucking words I just used and figure out what tie-dying is. It's in the name."
(There were directions posted over there, all the same.)
"Once you have your little outfit together, figure out your occupation. Are you going to sell weed? How about do card tricks? Maybe you'll just couch-surf? Come up with a reasonable way to survive while following a dirty band around the country -- which, by the way, means you have to have some income for concert tickets -- and share with the class."
“Offer to align people’s auras,” Pam offered. “Or make really ugly jewelry out of rubber bands and shit. Use your imagination!”
The world was your oyster, kids. So long as those oysters were stoned at a Grateful Dead concert.
Welcome to a Grateful Dead concert, kids.
"That weed you smell is just a smell, not the real stuff," Cheryl greeted them. "Before you get excited and try to buy some or run to tell on us or something."
“Totally fake,” Pam agreed, blowing a smoke ring. What? The weed smell was fake, but Pammy brought her own stash. “So we were trying to figure out what the hell else you guys might be qualified for, and I’ll be real honest, there’s not a whole lot out there.”
Look, they went to school here. Clearly academia was not anyone’s strong suit.
"I mean, be glad we're not going with my suggestion," Cheryl told them. She looked around for a moment, expectantly, and then helpfully added, "Test subjects."
Thanks, Cheryl.
"So instead, you're gonna find out what it's like to be the grungiest, dirtiest kind of hippie-turned-groupie: a Deadhead." She gestured behind her, to where one of the existing hobos-slash-music-fans was smoking a joint and apparently reading Tarot.
“Deadhead is not technically an occupation, what with it not paying jack shit, but it’s a full time job for most of these stoners,” said Pam. “And while you save money on not having a house or ever washing your clothes, I mean, you’re probably still paying off the RV, and weed’s not cheap unless you’re smoking the really awful stuff, and at that point why bother?”
Skunk weed really shouldn’t count as weed, you guys. Important life lessons here.
"At least lace it with something." NO, CHERYL. "Anyway. You'll need to fit in, so." She pointed towards a washtub, squirt bottles with liquid dye, and a bunch of white tee-shirts. "Tie-dye some shit. If you don't know how to tie-dye, listen to the fucking words I just used and figure out what tie-dying is. It's in the name."
(There were directions posted over there, all the same.)
"Once you have your little outfit together, figure out your occupation. Are you going to sell weed? How about do card tricks? Maybe you'll just couch-surf? Come up with a reasonable way to survive while following a dirty band around the country -- which, by the way, means you have to have some income for concert tickets -- and share with the class."
“Offer to align people’s auras,” Pam offered. “Or make really ugly jewelry out of rubber bands and shit. Use your imagination!”
The world was your oyster, kids. So long as those oysters were stoned at a Grateful Dead concert.
Re: Tell us about your Deadhead career! [05/23]