I tell people what I do, and they always go wide-eyed like it’s some kinda dream job. Yeah, as if. Try sweating under forty pounds of fur and fiberglas while some dipstick in a chicken suit pounds you with a rubber mallet and then get back to me.
Don’t get me wrong; it’s not all bad. The hours are convenient. Beer’s half price. Sometimes I put on the head and drive around, y’know, just to mess with people. But seriously, if you’d told me I’d be doing this, I’d have shown up more in college.
“This is a photo bomb with my boston terrier Porkchop,” writes Katherine M.