TRAVIS GOOF's CALLING Episode 8

[Ace]

Well, aren't you going to get it?


But then, Travis, having a bum wheel but time to burn decided to map out his life's ambition as soon as he could locate it.  He considered a number of professions:

Constable On Patrol.  But then, he saw how it affected others in a position of power, especially as they got all bossy and would lock up stray Illinoisians at the slightest whiff of malfeasance and would try to balance a Big Mac let alone the milkshake and thank goodness he doesn't smoke too, I hope.  He'd wind up pulling himself over, with all that going on.

Hot Rod builder; maybe locate a nice old Chevy he could chop and channel and soup up and add Lake pipes and a tonneau cover and knock offs and a 4 barrel Holley and Hurst on the floor and tach on the wheel and other car terms.

Chat Room Administrator:  this one especially intrigued young Travis, as it seems a simple occupation.  Mostly, wait until someone poasts something like "Help Me!  Please!  Now??!"  and then pose questions until the victim either gets worn out and leaves or figures it out for himself, such as
"What system are you using?" "State your system requirements" "Tell us what was on the invoice, when you bought the thing" "What did you do, just before it did, that?"  "What color is putty, anyway?"  "What operating system are you using"  "Did you try removing the hard drive and give it a good firm shake?" "Are you sure you didn't insert the memory upside down?" "Are your LEDs on?"  "Flip your jumpers and call back later".  But, then he noticed you had to know a bunch of computer terms and stuff, plus you didn't have liability insurance if the writer forgot to ground his cat while working within the case.  

Also, since there are already 237 chatroom administrators on duty, here, it's not like there's a big labor market demand.

Graphic Artist; Travis found himself skilled in poasting gigantic Ozzy photos and Geddy Lee photos, of which some confused the two.  Finding those objectionable, he has sought to minimize his art poastings, settling on small but discrete mini-pics and amusing odes.  

Jester; only an idiot would want to be a jester, what with the stupid bell-festooned livery and ribald joviality and angst-ridden self-loathing and missionary zeal in eradicating the plague that is the panda.  I mean, it's a lot of work for no pay.  Not having too keen an interest on acquiring mishapen yet strange twitching stars, or the constant effort needed to keep up with a variety of topics in a variety of ways, always performing in a highly professional and startlingly impressive manner of delivery, Travis wondered aloud if he really had what it takes to be a Top Notch Jester.  He said:

"I wonder, do I really have what it takes to be a Top Notch Jester...?"

To which, he figured, "no."  

And so, after 40 days in the wilderness that is his mind and just as many birthdays celebrated, Travis finally decided on his Dream Job.  What, he wondered, could possibly involve the sleight of hand and ill-timed gibs and jabs of the Jester, with my deep love of celebrating my arrival into the world..?  What oh what could I do, to combine those two yearnings, disparate though they may be??  And then, in a flash of recognition if not a shooting pain in his leg, he had it.  The Combo Platter of all hopes, and ambition.  He said (again, to himself, since nobody else was listening):

"I Shall Become A Birthday Party Clown."

Only then, could he fulfill his love of birthday parties and also partake of a career entertaining and scaring strangers.  He'd have his cake, and eat it too, and maybe smash some in the face of anyone who got too close while he was performing...  He'd bring laughter, and mirth, and his own style of unusual footwear and Ozz-like eyeshadow into the proceedings.  He'd be the synergy of all his prior leanings, and yearnings.  He'd shift his paradigm, instead of a Chevy.  He'd become the artist in his art.  Sure, he'd still be a Canadian with a strange fondness for overblown power trios with a screechy singer, but at least he wouldn't be alone. Or, a loon.

He couldn't wait to goof this up.

Ace; dang, which episode was this.. 8?  Criminy, what happened to one.  How long does this dang thing go?  He's gotta be like 42 years old in it, by now.