Don’t take an unpaid internship…grow weed instead!

Ms. Mary Staffing, whoever she is, is now offering temp services to marijuana growers…presumably for part to full-time bud trimming, which pays what recent college graduates would doubtless consider a living wage of $15 an hour. Enough for rent & ramen, at least, and squarely in the Obamacare subsidy wheelhouse.

Lab techs can make even more–as much as $22 hourly–and if you have a carry permit and a commercial driver’s license and you’re willing to haul loads of cash and chronic around town in an armored truck, the starting salary for that is $40,000…plus hazard pay if you have a DEA office in the neighborhood and/or Attorney General Jeff Sessions happens to be drubbing his tom-tom in a particularly vigorous way.

But hazards aside: imagine the side benefits of working for a grower! You’ll still have a shit-ton of student debt, but just think…you’ll be mellow about it!

So why in the flibber-gibberty hell would you ever take a year-long unpaid internship at, say, a midwestern paper-supply company? Pack the microbus and hie thee off to Colorado–a veritable paradise of a state–and ask yourself, as Cheech Marin once asked Tommy Chong, “Hey, man, am I driving OK?”

Now…you might be tempted to wonder: “But what effect would this have on my career?”

Well, I used to do a lot of interviewing and hiring back when I was still working in corporate America. I once hired a liquor salesman for a spot trading job because I figured if the guy could make a good living selling booze on commission, then he could sell absolutely anything else. Recreational marijuana wasn’t legal anywhere back then, but if it had been and he’d demonstrated a successful track record in weed-slinging, I’d have hired him even quicker. Whereas some poor sap busting his ass for nothing and pissing in a jar thrice monthly for the privilege of it? Nah, man, come back and see me after you’ve risen up and struck off your chains.

Because look…if you want to be successful you have to go where the action is.

So someday when you’re behind the dispensary counter earning a fine living selling Cheeba Chews and in strolls a guy with a long grey ponytail and a goatee, wearing Birkenstocks and a disreputable pair of cargo shorts and a t-shirt of an orangutan smoking a blunt, you can greet me and shake my hand and thank me for saving you from a fate worse than…

What were we talking about?

Disclaimer: the opinions expressed in this article are not those of the author, his wife, the Whole Foods grocery chain, Oscar the Grouch (although is there anything medical marijuana couldn’t do for a guy who spends his days in a trash can mumbling to his pet worm?), or the zookeeper here in town who’s responsible for the care, feeding, and entertainment of everybody’s favorite chimpanzee: Mr. Shazam.

Mr. Shazam, you may recall, used to play the maracas for Carlos Santana.

But yes…I utterly disavow what I’ve written here. It’s entirely unsuited to the dignity and majesty of my family heritage.


My father, a Nobel laureate, is currently serving a life sentence in Colorado ADX for smuggling C-130s in checked baggage. We await his imminent escape. My mother was Bill Clinton’s personal hairstylist and occasional paramour; we often marvel at my brother’s big red nose, skill at governing southern states, and intense libido.

My grandparents were equally extraordinary. My maternal grandfather married into the royal family of Spain and sired nine bastards—all hemophiliacs—who are now members of NATO and own the World Bank. My maternal grandmother was a race car…a limited-edition Lotus with gull-wing doors and a polka-dot paint job.

My paternal grandfather slaughtered the last mammoth in North America with a Matryoshka doll, held the world record for climbing the most coconut trees in a twenty-four hour period (712), and was known for his enormous [redacted]; a hereditary condition afflicting his descendants to this day. Consequently my paternal grandmother mostly laid around fanning herself and icing her crotch.

Two of my great-grandparents also deserve mention.

My maternal great-grandfather invented Cognac. He died jumping his Harley over the Bay of Biscay when he unexpectedly landed on a whaling vessel, punching multiple holes through its hull and causing it to sink with all hands. His remains were recovered at great expense by Greenpeace and cremated with full military honors. Harry S. Truman personally scattered his ashes on the bosom of [pinup queen’s name deleted at the insistence of the author’s legal team].

My paternal great-grandmother was a train robber. She was a hoot…we have several pictures of her and in each one of them she has two eyes in the normal places and one in the center of her forehead. This accounts for her unbelievably accurate aim with a six-shooter. She once shot a tarot card in half, edge-on, from a distance of ninety fathoms. Naturally the card was the Ace of Long-Eared Varmints.

Other of my ancestors include Genghis Khan’s personal toenail-cutter, a shine-runner named Buford “Pawg” Plockwitt of Intercourse PA, Aeon Flux, and the British pirate who won both Opium Wars.

For these reasons and others, I have a magnificent physique and a world-class intellect.

In 2008 I was the captain of Jennifer Anniston’s personal stripper corps. I was the only man in the history of “America’s Got Talent” to win simply by baring my Adam’s apple to the audience. I have two biceps in each arm and a washboard stomach upon which cloistered nuns grate cheese in between fainting fits. I’ve inherited my paternal grandfather’s problem, if you want to call it that, much to the delight of my fans. On my [redacted] are tattooed the words “George Washington Slept Here.” My legs are carved from gopher wood, and on my feet I wear Air Jordan’s. As in I literally wear Michael Jordan’s feet on my feet.

And my IQ? The bell curve is my bitch, bitch. Marilyn vos Savant, in attempting to describe my acumen, can only gaze blankly into space flubbering her lips with her index finger. Warren Buffet consults me on the arcana of ping-pong, I’ve cured various tropical diseases with nanotechnology, and the demand from barren couples for my [redacted] is such that each day I spend three hours donating it the old-fashioned way. All proceeds from my business activities benefit grade-schools in impoverished villages throughout the world, and I teach graduate-level physics in each of them.

I scam Nigerians.

In short: behold the embodiment of human glory you see here before you. But nay…fear and tremble not, my good people, for these are only fantasies and in real life I’m actually quite chill. Especially when I’m smoked up.

Author: ER Dude

Sick of your job? After a thirteen-year career, Early Retirement Dude fled corporate America for good. You can do it too! Visit or email

4 thoughts

  1. Dude, this is a stoner conversation and we’re not even high… awesome, why do you bother writing about finance when you can simply killing it by writing fiction? Nevermind… Marilize Legajuana!

  2. Bahahaha! It’ll be interesting to see how people working dispensaries can perform professionally. I’m in Texas, which is so puritanical about these things, where it would definitely ruin your career. But in bud-friendly states I’m sure the attitude is much different

    1. My experience is that the staff is very professional. I encourage anyone who hasn’t visited a dispensary to do so–not necessarily to shop, but just to have the experience as a component of an informed opinion.

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