INT. BEDROOM, DAY.
JENNY TROUT lounges on her bed, pondering all the vast scope of the cosmos within. Also, she’s recently smoked marijuana. Her husband, MR. JEN, sits annoyedly beside her, trying to watch a television show.
You know what would be an amazing job? If you could make those balloon animals.
Mr. Jen doesn’t not answer or acknowledge her.
Just think about it. That business is all profit. You can buy a bag of those balloons for like, a dollar. Then you sell, what, you make swords and flowers? And you go, okay, this sword is two-fifty. Or two dollars. You sell just one and that’s it. It’s pure profit from one sword or whatever. There’s practically no overhead. All you have you have to do is learn to make those balloon swords and animals.
Mr. Jen sighs heavily. The volume of the television rises, not subtly.
There’s no overhead. I would do that.
You’re terrified of balloons.
If I wasn’t afraid of balloons. I would do it if I wasn’t afraid of balloons.
During a lengthy pause in the conversation, Mr. Jen visibly relaxes, trying to enjoy his show.
There’s no overhead.
Mr. Jen has finally had it.
There’s your time! You’re losing your time!
Right, but that’s any job. And you’d be making ninety percent profit.
Except for the alcohol.
All the alcohol I’d have to drink to cope with that fact that your job is selling balloon animals!