I had an interesting discussion with a friend of mine this weekend.

You may recall an article I posted quite some time ago, about my slightly backward comprehension of modern-day colloquialisms/terminologies (I, nowadays, fully understand the concept of ‘muffin-top’ and ‘budgie-smugglers’ and hope to god that I don’t acquire and/or come into close contact with either.)

At any rate, I am not exactly sure how the issue came about – we had been talking about something fascinating and relevant like ‘ cinematic midget-actors who can crochet large ornamental rabbits’ – when my friend uttered profoundly, ‘Well, that’s possibly inline with what a fluffer does I suppose’.

After a lengthy pause, making sure that I had heard correctly, I asked, somewhat confused ‘What’s a fluffer??’

I was under the initial impression that perhaps a ‘fluffer’ was someone whose job was to plump someone’s pillows (perhaps those belonging to the midget-actors) or perhaps some unfortunate sod who had uncontrollable flatulence….

But no, I was most off-base…….

As it turns out, a ‘fluffer’ is an employee, usually in the lucrative porn film industry, whose sole-responsibility is to ensure that the male actors involved….err….for wont of a better word, remain ‘on top of their game’ and ‘up for the job’.

It probably comes as little surprise that this calibre of employment is not openly announced in the weekend ‘Careers’ section of the Courier Mail, and, if it was, I would say that the respective employers would be in the business of hiring a very capable copy-writer to word the advertisement.

‘Film Industry position available. Flexible hours in a team-work environment. Most suitable for those wanting to get ahead’..

I can only imagine what home-life would be like. I used to share a house with a chef in Cairns. When I first moved in, I was fully expecting a nightly spread of gourmet delights from my room-mate. However, upon inspecting the fridge, there were no truffles, pieces of wagyu beef or thinly cut slices of smoked salmon to be found. Sadly, the sole item occupying the vegetable crisper was a mouldy packet of Maggi 2-minute noodles which sported an expiry date of October 1984.

It made sense that,  if my roomie was cooking these epicurean marvels for 16 hours a day, 6 days week, he would be hardly in the mood to whip up a quick Goats cheese tartlet with blanched almonds served on a nest of freshly-picked witloof for his hungry and culinary challenged flat-mate.

One can safely assume that when a ‘fluffer’ comes home from a hard day’s work (yes, pun absolutely intended) that any romantic rumblings from his/her partner would probably be met with ‘Not tonight dear, I have a mouthache

This revelation got me thinking about certain career paths that people embark on.

I happen to like my job as a travel consultant. It has its moments, but overall it is a challenging and satisfying way to make a living.

That’s not to say that I havent had my own share of slightly unusual occupations in my life to date.

My first paying job was when I fifteen.Whilst most of my peers were taking part-time work at McDonalds wrapping junior burgers, I was getting up and trudging out to work on my Summer holiday-break in a six-foot-tall dog-suit at the Grundy’s Pavillion in Surfers Paradise. At 9:01 a.m., I ceased to be Kylie Elise Evans, and morphed into ‘Barnaby Beach Dog’ Canine Extraordinnaire.

I barked, I woofed, I wagged and helped to pull rabbits out of a bucket thanks to my very lame and ultra-gay Magician side-kick ‘Julio’.

I ignored the kids that pulled my tail and tried to hump my leg. ( They managed to do this when the parents were watching of course – There are a few tykes though, who didnt quite walk away from Grundy Park ‘feeling the magic’…let me tell you…some of whom, I am hoping, are able, and functioning eunuchs to this day.) Subsequently, I also lost half my body weight in perspiration, just from parading around in 40 degree heat during the summer.

The one highlight was being a consistent ‘guest star’ on Boris The Black Knight’s Morning Show on Channel 7. It wasnt a difficult call. I would trot up and record 8 shows in a row with Boris (aka Eric Summons) and spin-a-wheel whilst pretending to mime laughter as ‘Boris’ made lewd and rude inferences about dogs and….chairs..zippers….anything that he could possibly attach a phallic reference to.

Fun times.

There are those who choose their careers selling sanitary pad bins or anal wart creams. Others find satisfaction in tending to blocked and overflowing sewerage pipes. Some people even find themselves paying their bills and monthly financial commitments from being ‘Road-Kill Removers’ or ‘Odour testers’.


After researching the issue of ‘World’s Worst Jobs’ I found myself thinking that dressing up as a dog or keeping Mr Johnson’s ‘Mr Johnson’ on active duty, probably weren’t the worst vocational options in the world.

Most recently, I was out and about buying some cheap wine glasses with a dear friend (I tend to go through wine glasses at a ferocious rate) and we found ourselves at the ‘Reject Store’ chain for our purchases.

The young lad serving us was sporting a fresh batch of acne and had glasses so thick that I could not even see the whites of his eyes.

As he wrapped our goods politely, he smiled and pointed to his badge:


The next day I dusted off my flea-bitten ‘Barnaby Beach Dog’ suit and handed it to him gladly


Source of the text where it first appeared by Kylie Evans
When I Grow Up I Want to be a Roadkill Remover

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