the other day i was on the phone with my dad, and he was asking me about my job search.  i told him that i haven’t really been able to find anything good: most places want people with more experience, more programming knowledge, more education, more not-having-a-criminal-record, and so forth.

“maybe it’s time to lower your standards a bit,” he said.

“i know,” i said.  “but truthfully, i’d rather cut off my own hands than take another job where i have to sit in front of a computer all day.”

“well–“

“hey, do you think i could sell them?  my cut-off hands, i mean.  like, on the black market?  that’d get me some money.”

“you’re not helping.”

“or my spleen!  do i need my spleen?  i could sell that.”