Ah, to be a rock star for a week…Hell, we'd even settle for being David Hasselhoff for a day. The dude kills in Germany. [1]



No, but really, our point is: if you’re in a band, any band, you’re getting laid. If you’re in a really famous band, you’re getting tired. Tired of too much ‘tang. And all we can say is: “Those lucky fuckers.”



And, they’re not alone at the top of the Fucktabulous Food Chain™.

And speaking of the FFC™, is that a nature or nurture thing? Is a dude born into being a chick magnet? Or does he develop into one by way of how he is raised and his education in the arts of scammery? Perhaps a little of both? But we digress. What are these professions that we'd all kill for?

Rockstar

The Scent: Music transcends the flesh and strikes at the very core of immortality – or at least a chance at writing a great song before blowing your brains out by the age of 30.

The Prey: Models, and any groupies that look good enough to be models. Remember girls: BYOR. Bring your own rice cakes.

The Formula: The mastering of 3 chords, a band ad on Craig's List and a Myspace page that lets the world (and Tom) know you have arrived. All right, fuck Tom, what a tool.

The Trap: Competing with the 30,000,000 other bands on Myspace, and ending up having to beg your cousin to play at his kid’s Bar Mitzvah.



Professional Athlete

The Scent: It’s been scientifically proven that chicks dig sweat. It’s also been scientifically proven that all life is about Survival Of The Fittest. Athletes are living proof.

The Prey: Gold digging hoes, a stripper in every city and Madonna.



The Formula: Bring the athletic swag, a crooked agent and some ‘roids for starters.

The Trap: Physical and mental breakdown, and/or signing autographs in the Home Depot parking lot with Pete Rose. We’re betting your signature would fetch more than Charlie Hustle’s on eBay.



Professional Actor

The Scent: Steeped in a coddled existence and perpetual adolescence, it’s puppy love every day of the week for actors and their mates. Of course the name on the dog bowl is always changing – throwing the tabloid industry continual chops to feast on.

The Prey: Other equally as dysfunctional humans (read: actresses), and anyone who can convince said actors they are loved beyond the weekend grosses and the intermittent trips to a Malibu rehab center.

The Formula: These days being famous isn’t about being talented. It’s about positioning yourself on the latest reality show and proving to the world you’d do anything for their adoration – "Prepare the jar of leeches, and Viagra, I'm going in!"

The Trap: Falling into the 95% of the pool that doesn’t make a living. Death by waiter job.



The Politician

The Scent: Powerdisiac. He rules, she/he obeys.

The Prey: Anyone but their wives: interns and cyber pals—oh my!

The Formula: Start by controlling the action at your local dope shop (or college dorm) and in a few years you could be the next Marion Berry. OK, who is Marion Berry, you ask? Click away – base pipes optional.



The Trap: Scandal, being ostracized, and the joy of having your parents read your text messages on CNN. “Larry didn’t learn to type like that from us!”

The Fireman

The Scent: Le´ Hero. When your weapon of choice is a hose, you’ve already got a head start on the competition.

The Prey: Damsels in Distress, and anyone who still believes in tooth faeries and unicorns.

The Formula: The balls and ability to run into a burning building to save the life of a convicted crackhead. Having a dalmatian wouldn’t hurt either.

The Trap: Long, slow days at the station with the guys talking about poles. Hopefully they don’t get smoked. Um...



The Carrot Top

The Scent: Funny Boner. That’s right, the babes love a good laugh every now and again. At least they say they do on match.com.

The Prey: High school nerd club girls, Plushies, and middle-age divorcees on loan from Branson, Missouri.[2]

The Formula: A few hundred gadgets, two jokes and a weight training video and you too could play Vegas!

The Trap: Everything that happens in Vegas...That’s right, Mr. Top, you’re never getting out. The only way up now is down. May the celery sticks treat you nicely – in the fiery pits of hell!

Oh, whoops! We put you in the wrong category. Our bad! We meant to stick your ass in:

Exceptions To The Rule



Ozzy Osbourne – Even if we were the skankiest chick in the world, you couldn’t pay us enough money to blow the guy. Sorry Sharon.

Andy Dick – Not sure one can call Mr. D an actor, but we can’t imagine any chick in her right mind wanting to shag his carpet. Even in a parking lot of a Buffalo Wild Wings Grill & Bar.



John McCain – Sure he’s running for president. Sure he was a spokesperson for ED (oops, that was Bob Dole. McCain’s the one with the funny jowls, not penis). But, nevertheless, do you think interns are lining up to get their dresses soiled by him?



The 9-11 Connection

Shortly after the Towers disintegrated, the volunteer lines to feed the firemen and police at Manhattan soup kitchens exploded so large that there had to be a waiting list. It was packed with every single 20-and-30-something chick in NYC trying to land themselves a hero. That's right, nothing says tragedy like hooking up with a fireman. Or unicorn.

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[1]Germany’s best selling pop artist of 1989. But you probably should get reacquainted with him on youtube and his Jump In My Car video. You want to talk bad boy? America's Got Talent, but so does The Hoff!

[2] For a good time see: Branson. For an even better time, don’t be caught dead there. Which doesn’t quite explain how Yakov Smirnoff is still making a living.



"Is this a face to take home to mom, or what?"

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