Finally, after a life time of trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up (I'm 25 - you'd think I would have figured it out before now) I have stumbled across the perfect career for myself.
Mom, I'm going to be a Russian mobster.
Last Saturday, I saw a movie called Eastern Promises. Not the best name for a movie, granted, but it was still pretty kick-ass. It's about the Russian brand of organized crime running amok in London, England. (Not London, Ontario obviously; running amok is typically frowned upon by most Canadians as just plain impolite). I would write a thoughtful, intelligent review on the movie but I am so pumped about my new career choice that I fear my objectivity could be called in to question.
Ever since seeing the Godfather, I always thought the life of organized crime would be a fun and exciting career move. Unfortunately, I do not look Italian. Anyone who has ever seen my pale white ass knows this. For a while, I considered stage makeup as a suitable alternative to my poor choice of genetics but once the other mobsters find out it becomes a huge issue and, trust me, even once you apologize you will still never live it down.
But hey, Russians are pale white bastards too. And they are just as crooked and violent as any other mob! What a perfect fit. Now I just need to perfect the accent and the cold, lifeless Siberian stare.
Which is what I have been doing for the past couple of days, that is to say when I'm not pulling dustpans out from underneath my girlfriend's car. Whenever someone asks me a question, I do a little shrug, curl up the left side of my upper lip and respond in my best low, gravelly Russian accent, "Da, da," which I can only assume is Russian for "Fuck you, I could kill you right now if I wanted." I don't speak Russian. Yet.
I walk the streets at night in a black suit that I bought at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. Not exactly high class custom tailoring, but I gotta start somewhere. I don't want to commit any real crimes yet, because I don't think I have enough money or connections to bribe the cops, so I just imagine them. In my imagination, I have extorted $3 million from various barbers across the city, smuggled countless duffel bags full of heroine into the city and brutally killed seventy ethnic Chechens and Ukrainians with an assortment of knives, icepicks, metal pipes, exotic handguns and once with a MiG-33.
I'd say I'm off to a pretty good start.
Then again, I've never been a big fan of Russian food. Beets have never really done it for me, and I cringe at the thought of eating fish eggs. I wonder if eating that would be a part of the hazing ritual. Also, whenever I drink Vodka I am always overcome with the desire to tell embarrassing sexual stories about myself to complete strangers.
I may need to rethink this a little bit. I guess for now I'll just keep writing drivel and see where it leads me.