I wanna be the new Spice Girl. ::nervous twitch:::
Gah! Nonononono. Nyet. Uh-uh. No, and no.
Sure . . . on the surface -- and for the most shallow of reasons -- it seems as though it'd be a great job. You get to work with four beautiful women and tour around the world, and if you can't parley that into sex with one or more of them you need to have your Heterosexuality Dipstick checked.
But let's look at what it must really be like. Menstruation, for example. All the time those broads spend together, you know that you're looking at Four Full Moons all at once. No fishing villiage can withstand that blood-red high-tide.
And then there's the fans. Remember what I said about irritating sixteen year old girls? Imagine a stadium full of them, each one screaming louder than the last. The thought of it makes me want to put my head in a vise.
Let's not forget the accents. Sure they're adorable . . . for about three-and-a-half minutes. After that, you'll be looking for a knife.
"First I'll kill YOU and then I'll kill YOU and then I'll kill YOU and . . . hey, where ya goin? I need one more Spice to complete the rack, and I've got a little jar with your name written all over it."
Get a job at the Post Office ... it'll be easier on the sanity.