The online slave trade

Ballet-loving lackeys are available for rent, and only a click away!

WHEN I HEARD about—a sort of "virtual slave" for the digital age—the lazy bachelor in me stood up and yipped out a big "Woo hoo! Video games, taverns, Aerosmith, pizza, sports, girls—no more annoying chores!!!"

Upon visiting the site, however, my yip turned to a mere grin. The lackeys, you see, seem to cater only to the high-end cell-phone set: on-the-go types who don't have time to actually drive to the massage parlor or call the town car service—they want it a click away and at their doorstep in T-minus-five.

What a bummer. I mean, sure, they're making people's lives an eensy-teensy bit easier by returning their movies and waxing their snowboards, but what about things we REALLY need done for us, like waiting to argue a drug possession charge at the courthouse or paying alimony checks. A lackey for all seasons, not just the prosperous ones.

I'm a good sport who really wants to see this business work for me, so I've decided to help the bigwigs at mylackey chart a clearer course for their company. The following hard-core domains represent the trials and tribulations of a life not-so-less ordinary—domains the lackeys should buy, says I. They'd make our lives a walk in the e-commerce park. (I'm probably missing out on some serious coin offering my expert insight for free, but such is the life of a writer.) Despite claims to the contrary, even the most dedicated parent despises touching their beautiful baby's poopy mess. But not the employees of, each of whom will joyfully wallow in your kid's dumpy drawers for $20 per week and dispose of the wreckage free of charge in their customized, incinerator-equipped "Shitmobiles." The Nutcracker's great for guys the first time, but year after year—cawmon, baby girl! Do yourself a favor every Christmas and bookmark, which sends the sweetest, most sensitive blokes in the whole wide world over to escort your better half to the ballet. Don't worry, you still get laid afterwards—it's in the fine print. You've been through euthanasia before with fuzzy friends, and you never want to go through it again. Well, now, believe it or not, you don't have to, as drives the sickly pooch to the electric chair while you tell the kids he's run away to be with his real dog family in the foothills of North Dakota. A 12-hour day ends and the dilemma emerges: tavern or gym? Dilemma, shmilemma—order that plate of four-alarm nachos and swill schooners of Bud to your gut's content as your body double squeezes into the unitard and grinds out 20 miles on the stairmaster, a sort of physiological draw. AAARRRRGGGHHH!!! Those god-forsaken triple knots in the ol' tennies—especially when you got the shakes after a Friday at the pub, for pete's sake! Well, shake away, boozo, as the sober kin from zip right over with their tweezers and deftly loosen your laces for less than the price of a Bloody Mary. No parent likes it when their kid vomits on the dinner table, but you gotta make 'em eat their cauliflower, right? But now, courtesy of the Internet, little Jimmy comes to you with a middle-ground proposal: "Mommy, for $12 per visit, the kind folks at will come over and eat the tasteless, white veg for me. Whaddya say?!" Too good to pass up, says mom, and you enter your credit card number and click for Colly. One for the naughty kids, as the spoil-minded parent sends in the toughs from juvie to fill in for their little angel, giving Dean Wermer a bit more than he bargained for. Come on, admit it—baby Becca was really cute for a few years—kind of like a toy. But trying to be superparent while arguing high-profile land dispute cases doesn't quite give you the free time you hoped for, does it? Well, now Becca has the lead in the school play and you have to work after-hours researching zoning restrictions in Federal Way. Who you gonna call?, that's who—a service that sends someone to the grade school gym to fill your seat. Becca can't see your face through the glare of the spotlight, and you'll make it in time for curtain call. You're still crazy (about him) after all these years, but the same face, same fetishes, expanding gut, thinning hair—when you start closing your eyes and picturing Jeremy Irons, you know things are going downhill. Nope, he ain't the panther he used to be on the mattress of matrimony, and you'd rather get the extra 15 minutes of sleep. Well now you can, courtesy of, which will have a sub on your doorstep in 30 minutes or your money back—the Domino's Pizza of sleazy surrogate sex.

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