Me and MJ Ride the Bus

Like me, except cooler, blacker and more talented.

As some of you already know, I’m raking in obscene amounts of cash working for the sugar-daddy, Big Ag wing of the University of Florida. This is important for you, the Casualtist, because A) our entire female readership can count on me for free drinks at The Top Thursday and B) I’m now mildly inspired to remove our soft-core cartoon ads from the right sidebar.

Look at them. Aren’t they cute?

Click on them.

Seriously, do it.

For me.

So this was the first day of my roughly 24-year existence spent at a traditional desk job – plugging away as an underling for the dean of research at the Institute of Agriculture and Food Science. If today was indicative of the typical white collar experience, I really don’t understand what all the fuss and bad rap are about. Sure, I went all day without catching a ray of sunlight. Sure, I couldn’t “drink on the job” or “walk around in my underwear.”

But working for The Man has its serious perks. For one, I have to start shaving regularly, which means when I finally let this puppy go on Dec. 31 (to celebrate the ‘Canes Orange Bowl birth), I’ll be lookin’ a regular Jim Morrison by the first week of spring semester.

Break on through, ladies.

I’m also really digging these “pants,” as they’re called. Totally less restrictive than skinny jeans. I can feel everything.

Haven’t really hit on any tangible benefits aside from the aforementioned aesthetic concerns, but the short-lived ego boost was nice. Gotta say, I kinda felt like Michael Jordan…

On his first day in the minors.

Was I the main attraction? Sure. Was I charming? Come on. Did I know what I was doing?

Of course not.

(Just kidding, Scott. If you’re reading, I totally feel like I spent 7 1/2 of those 8 1/2 hours being constructive… and the other hour almost crashing your website. Again, my sincerest apologies. And sweet hoodie.)

But you know, as I was sitting there in front of a double-wide computer firing off little blurbs of genius (read: gingerly editing the IFAS home page), I got to asking myself, what would MJ do in this situation?

If we went solely by last night’s ESPN “30 for 30″ doc, the answer is “mould myself into the greatest damn copywriter in the history of paper pushers.”

Like this guy.

Now I’m not sure if “Jordan Rides the Bus” was a totally accurate depiction of the man’s stint as minor league ball extraordinaire (b/c that’s exactly how they painted him by the end, an extraordinaire), but MJ’s story is both baffling and inspiring irrespective of statistical success.

I vaguely remember the day Jordan announced his first retirement and looking back on it now is no less unbelievable than it was on that fateful day in October ’93. At the time, MJ was the best player in the league, arguably the greatest of all-time, in his prime, the face of American sports and the first global icon to boot.

Two lowlifes murder his father on the side of the road in Nowhere, NC. All of sudden the most famous person on the planet is slumming it in some hick town in Alabama, trying to prove himself at a game he hasn’t played since 18.

I still can’t wrap my head around it. Imagine Bono quitting U2 in the early 90′s to hone his punk chops with the Butthole Surfers. Or the Pope stepping down to join a buddhist monastery in Tibet. That’s essentially what happened.

The greatest athlete in the world, at his late father’s behest, walks out on a reigning three-time champion to play baseball with a bunch of nobodies who 1) idolize him and 2) think he’s a joke. Say what you want about MJ’s arrogance – he thinks he can do WHAT? - but the guy had balls the size of watermelons and the thick skin to match.

Jordan was a joke at first. Yet he carried that fanatical competitive burn from the court to the cages, and by the end of this whole whimsical experiment, he’d hit .255 and stolen 30 bases against the best Big League prospects around. Barons manager Terry Francona swore he would’ve made the Majors.

If only. If only he didn’t spend the next 3 1/2 years pummeling the rest of NBA into oblivion. Jordan’s time in the minors should count for his legacy, not against it. That his basketball comeback solidified his status as the greatest competitor ever renders the issue moot.

Byron Russell still taping ankles.

I wanna dominate this copy editor position. Then I’m taking on microbio. Remember, ladies: the tab’s “Hilson”. See you tomorrow.

- Robbie