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Price gouging? Gas shortages? Power company trucks everywhere? The president is coming to look important for six minutes until he realizes there is no power here and it's hot and smelly? It must be that magical moment that all Floridians love: post-hurricane recovery time! Florida has been Mother Nature's bitch as of recently (New Orleans was just a one night stand), so I have decided to explain to you why this has happened, and what we can do about it.
First off, my hurricane credentials are top floor. I have personally survived about 15 hurricanes over the years. I live in Sunrise, Florida, which is approximately 25 miles north of Miami, about 10 miles east of Ft. Lauderdale. It used to be swampland and part of the world famous Everglades, a magnificent ecosystem unlike any in the world where alligators live side by side with black panthers, peacocks and snakes only found in this part of the world. By next month it will be paved over to become a Wal-Mart Supercenter/Starbucks/Moe's/Native American Gambling Casino and Resort (progress is inevitable). We get a hurricane just about once every two years, and a major one every five years. My backyard has been bent over by such major storms as Andrew, Georges, Michelle, Katrina (before it hit LA/MS it was a category. 1 and plowed over south Florida), and most recently, Wilma.
I've lived on this planet for 21 years, and I have contributed virtually nothing to society (and when I say virtually nothing, what I really mean is absolutely nothing). I'm sick and tired of being a societal burden. My conscience simplify cannot take it anymore. I, the untalented and unfortunate-looking daughter of two overly-introverted people, have finally decided that I shall make my mark in the world. Fortunately, the time is ripe for change-the AIDs epidemic is spreading, Ashley Simpson's music is thriving, and nuclear capabilities are proliferating. The end is obviously near, unless drastic measures are taken. I've thought long and hard about what I can do to change the world. After months and months of deep pondering during commercial breaks, I have finally come up with an idea that I think is deserving of my time and energy.
But let me digress.
There are lots of jobs out there for unassuming, poor, and unabashedly sarcastic teenagers. There is the Salma Hayek of them all (meaning the #1 that owns all the rest), the “assistant at relative’s business making an obscene wage while seeing how many pencils he can keep standing up at once” job, and then there’s the “tears come to his eyes when he realizes that it’s time for another day of being demoralized by the Man” job. Mine was neither, but I’m pretty sure the Man cast an occasional irritated glance my way. I hate that guy.
I was a bagboy at a grocery store. Sure, my official title was “service clerk”, but we all know what a load that is. My job description was vague, meaning “whatever the hell management wanted me to do to satisfy their satanic ambitions”. I bagged groceries, sho’ ‘nuff, but let it be known to the non-baggers of the world that that was far from my only duty. I have, for the convenience of you, the customer, organized these tasks into the following categories:
