Dear Secret Service:

I’ve been thinking of going into your line of work, but a cursory tour of YouTube delivers some pretty frightening stuff. Guns that fire thousands of rounds a minute. Shoulder fired rockets that could pluck a plane from the sky with a touch of a button. There are fellows out there that have some sort of apparatus that shoots hand grenades like a rocket! No, really; it’s true, I’ve seen it.

All these guys seem to have a thermos full of polonium and really scary knives and all manner of pistols and explosive devices on their persons at all times, too. I mean, you could attack them in the shower or when they’re taking a poop and they’d still mess you up. That sort of thing is not for me, that’s for sure.

But you guys get good dental plans and a half-decent retirement, and you get to ride in fancy motorcades and whatnot, so there must be some sort of job you guys could give me. I know! Why don’t you make me special agent in charge of protecting the President’s melons and exercise equipment from slender guys dressed like a wine steward armed with combat umbrellas. I’m pretty sure I could handle that. Well, if you gave me a gun. Mom won’t even let me have a BB gun.

(Thanks to Sam Dunkin for sending that one along, and for all the donuts over the years)