The real world: I don’t want to think about that hell, but I have to be prepared for my infamous first job. I hate to work because I pretty much don’t like anyone or anything. So to ease some of my future pain, I’ve researched some super cool jobs.

Video Game Tester. Sure, I’ll live in my parents’ house until I’m 30 and, sure, I probably won’t get laid again until they elect the next pope. And sure, I’ll eventually have a face as pale as my butt, but think about it — video games nonstop. This might be the testosterone talking here, but there ain’t nothing like killing orcs, driving a Ferrari and watching Britney Spears shake that thing in the super cool game Dance Beat all in a day’s work.

The Best Consultant Ever. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, “Vox is going to choose something shallow like a gynecologist.” Well, I am insulted. I don’t have the patience to unwrap a Fruit Roll-Up (and all that sticky, annoying plastic wrap) let alone 15 years of medical school and a lifetime of looking at vaginas. It sounds good in theory, but let me tell you, it ain’t always a walk in the park. So I chose something that involves children: a lactation consultant. Got a breastfeeding question? Need breastfeeding help? I’ll be the man for you. I’ll show you how to milk like the best of ’em.

Ninja. WAAAAHPAHHH ohhhhhhhh sheee hwaaaaa, PAH! Need I say more?

Diamondback Columnist. Sure, communicating with the masses about my false comedic ego and sexy biceps is fun and all, but I get paid $11 a column — that’s not enough to even pay for my Pixie Stix addiction. A man can’t survive on $11 alone. He just can’t! Hint, hint.

Your Hero. Yup, you read me. I heart you, so let’s run away together (for a monetary fee).

Stripper. There is no greater feeling in the world than having a Benjamin in the crack of your G-string. Believe me. Plus, I get to have a catchy name such as Agent Vox, defender of a woman’s right to get lap dances whenever she feels the need.

The Next Jane Goodall. I could play with monkeys all day. Chimps? Golden tamarin? She plays with them all. The chimps of Gombe accepted her as a part of their family. She is one of them. I don’t even get that sort of human acceptance. This is my dream! Oh, and all that rain forest and animal preservation stuff is cool, too.

University Professor. That’s right, I’d love to become one. This job would open so many — hahaha, ahh, whew! I almost kept a straight face for that one. Why would I want to get $11,000 stay around in this craphole just to slowly watch my ass get bigger with the 200 tortilla places in a mile radius? I’d rather have a drunk make-out session with university President Dan Mote — or a rotting donkey corpse.

Supermodel. I just want it to be official. I’m tired of walking around in public for free. It’s about damned time I got paid for it.

Mopie the Gorilla. If you don’t know already, you heathen, Mopie is a 500-pound beast of a gorilla at the National Zoo. Every time I go to the zoo, I see him and feel bad. People watch his every move. When Mopie takes a crap, 300 kids watch, screaming. When Mopie is sad, 300 kids watch, picking their noses. When Mopie feels like killing a small animal or human, he has to see and hear 300 little bastards putting their grubby, sticky hands and mouths on the thick glass, making monkey noises. The man needs a break, and I am just the gorilla to give it to him. I’m not shy — I’ll do anything in front of those people, including throwing poo at them. And I even look the role: I’m hairily Greek, and I have the biceps of a god.

Beware, folks, because whatever I end up doing, I will become famous. And it won’t be because I streaked in front of the queen of England. But, then again, everybody has to start somewhere.

Andrew Voxakis is a senior English major. He can be reached at Voxphotography@yahoo.com.