I’ve got some really exciting news to report to everyone… I just got into the fire academy this week!
But if you think I’m fighting a fucking fire you are out of your goddamn minds! Well, let me rephrase that… If you think I’m fighting a fucking fire without any chicks watching me do it, you are out of your goddamn minds!
Some hippy’s living room is on fire from an unattended candle!? Better call someone who cares… or at the very least somebody that’ll promise to post a youtube video of me kicking down your front door in HD. I mean, why would I ever run into a burning bedroom and risk my life to save a stack of your scratched Evanescence CDs? Or worse, i’m called to resuscitate some goth teenager that hates his life anyway!? On the other hand, if a call comes in reporting a sorority house fire or a deck collapse at some private girl’s college, you know I’ll be there before the last drunk chick hits the lawn!
Today the instructor was all like: “Blah blah blah” something about CPR compression rates on an infant… I’m like: Yea that’s cool, but I’m not stressing over some stranger’s cold blue baby if there aren’t any totally bangin’ bystanders around. I don’t need that kind of grief; you shouldn’t have been puffin’ Marlborough reds while you were preggers chica!
If there are some little hotties hanging around on scene, I’m sure the instructors would agree that you can’t save an infant with all that bulky clothing on, so the jacket and shirt have to come off first… leave the suspenders on… and it may be best to hose me down just a little so I’m cool, calm and ready to be a hero. And lastly, I’m probably gonna need an axe slung over my shoulder while I perform some fancy one-handed CPR. Ya know, just in case something else goes down or people start snapping pics bound for Instagram.
Don’t get me wrong, being a firefighter is important work, but far too dangerous not to fake it once in a while. You do one heroic deed involving a stupid cat and the elderly community comes out of the woodwork trying to hug up on you with their expired perfume. Can’t let em’ salt your game like that though… What happens when a perfect 10 wants to congratulate you, but a line of geriatrics are blocking you from getting her digits? Get back behind the yellow tape granny.