Girl on the Brink: Surviving Desperate Times with Desperate Measures

As the ranks of the unemployed grow and America’s dress habits deteriorate, I ask, How can you tell the employed from the unemployed?

Answer: By their asses. I believe that a person’s ass defines their profession. You’ve seen the chicks in office lobbies, the type that say, “Excuse me. May I help you? You need to sign in.”

They have fat asses. Half the time I see them noshing or watching TV, if they’re so lucky to have one, while they watch out for strangers trying to bypass them as they head straight for the elevators. I’ve always been impressed that they know who needs to sign in and who doesn’t.

So who’s got good asses? Think model. Model’s can’t have fat asses, unless they model for Lane Bryant or the Big & Tall Men store.

Other employed people with great asses are personal trainers and gay guys who workout, but I’m not sure the gay guys work. They just look like they do. I also think car mechanics and appliance men have good asses. Mechanics need to scoot themselves under cars, and they wouldn’t fit if they had a big ass because that would mean they also had a beer gut, and how would they fit under a Prius?

Appliance guys are on the go—fixing that broken pipe, wheeling in a washer or installing a light fixture. They’ve got their asses under control.

Same thing for construction workers and roofers. Couldn’t see a fat-ass Mexican tumbling off shingles and landing in the holly bush. Aye carumba!

Hey, I’m not racist. Do you see anyone else other than a José or Jorge shingling roofs, unless, of course, it’s the guys from Appalachia in West Virginia? You know, the ones with the missing teeth. Someone should tell them about fluorinated water in them thar’ hills.

If you flow over your airline seat, you probably would like to pen it in. On the Oxygen channel, you can enter—and win cash as long as it shrinks—Dance Your A** Off, a show that mixes dance and diet.

As for my ass, it has recently been resculpted, thanks to my personal trainer and ardent workouts on my own. Now, if I could just afford another shot of Botox I’d be all set for another six months!