Predator Press
[LOBO]
Having seen all four “Raiders” movies now, I feel more than qualified to follow in the footsteps of the great Doctor Jones and enter the fast-paced and lucrative sexy field of
Archeology.
But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to circumvent the lack of academic accolades with prospective employers. I think they had their doubts I could kick the crap out of six guys while hopping back and forth between vehicles speeding through a dense jungle -even
after seeing the Honorary White Belt
Grand Master Futon gave me.
Despite the lofty credentials, much-lauded Harvard University immediately balked at the opportunity to even
tenure me: being tenured at Harvard University, it turns out, is a potential subsequent function of me actually
teaching at Harvard University.
Blah, blah.
“I’ll have no part of dealing with screaming brats,” I inform the interviewer. “Dammit, I’m a
scientist."
“How about an online class?” says the guy looking down his nose into a thick book. “We're starting a course in Private Investigation this August.”
“Great,” I says. “I’ll take it. How long until my tenure starts?”
“Sir, I have serious doubts you have any knowledge of this field whatsoever.”
“Sure I do,” I insist.
“You are prepared to instruct people to conduct criminal investigations via intercooperation between various law enforcement agencies?”
“The world should be wiped clean of criminal scourge.”
“-while occasionally working underground with criminals to collect information?”
“I totally hate cops.”
He leans back in his chair. “So what exactly
do you know about private investigation?”
“Licensed private investigators get to carry guns. And that’s always cool. You can use guns to shoot people.”
“And you want to shoot people?”
“Oh God no,” I says. “I just want to fit in when I go to Denny’s.”
“I seriously doubt you possess the guile to work in undercover operations.”
“Well, I fooled you with that resume,” I point out. “Hell that thing is chocked
full of lies.”
“Like what?”
“Like what
isn’t?”
“So your name isn’t Indiana Einstein?”
“Not even close,” I says smuggly.
“Well what is it then? We would need to put something on the checks.”
Now I had a plan for if the interview was going
poorly: I was going to say my name was
Don Lewis. But my intuition told me I had this hoity-toity Harvard University geek wrapped around my finger.
Attempting to avoid the obvious trap, I start looking around the spacious office for ideas. I see a framed Michelangelo Fresco, a Thomas Wolfe book … absolutely nothing useful.
Finally my eyes fell on his coffee cup.
“Joe,” I blurt. “Joe, eh,
Joseph.”
The interviewer’s eyebrows furrow. “Huh,” he says. “We have an opening in
Mayan Hieroglyphic Writing. That would be a little closer to your desired field than private investigation. You can read Mayan hieroglyphics, correct?”
"Pre or Postclassic?"
"Late Preclassic."
“I
love Preclassic Mayan hieroglyphics. Some nights I can’t put ‘em down at all ... see these dark circles under my eyes? I just finished a version of
War and Peace written in Preclassic Mayan hieroglyphics.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I thought it was a bit wordy and pedantic. But the part where the giant turtle bites the heads off of those snowmen makes me cry every time.”
