One of these days I’m going to run away to the French Quarter. When I get there, I’m going to, ever so gently, knock the lady on the head who takes the money and issues the tickets for the wax museum on Conti Street. She has my job and that’s just not right. She can keep it until I get there, but then it’s mine.
After I knock her gently on the head rendering her still capable of living a full and wonderful life, yet, incapable of standing behind that counter, reading books and trashy tabloids all day and issuing the occasional wax museum admission ticket, I will take my rightful place behind the counter reading books and trashy tabloids all day and issuing the occasional wax museum admission ticket.
Don't worry. I know exactly where to hit her. I Googled it.