Go ahead. Press the flesh with another dead televangelist. Now just smile. Hold. It’s all the same. Smiles and handshakes. We’re all the same. “We’re all dancing to the same song because we know it by heart.” This job turns us into our alcoholic fathers, rubbing elbows with clientele and putting our fists through walls. Smiles and handshakes. This tired song and dance routine feels like Monday mornings with coffee house intellectuals. It’s so quiet you can hear a name drop during the appropriate breaks. Punch your timecard and wait for tomorrow.