Sterling Archer’s Day Off

I’m an imagery analyst for a government-funded agency, which is a polite way of saying I’m a spy for the CIA.

One day, my dad calls me and says that there is a family emergency, so I rush home from work.

Dad: “Your younger brother’s phone got stolen at school. Can you find it?”

First off, it’s an ancient phone model. It’s worthless. Second, my brother has three phones — hand-me-downs from the rest of the family — so losing one is no biggie.

Me: “You kidding me?”

Dad: “No. You’re a spy. You’re supposed to be good at tracking things down, so I want you to go use your fancy government surveillance gizmos, find me that phone, and send the perp who did this to your torture rooms.”

Let’s ignore everything else he said. My brother is TEN. I ain’t torturing no schoolmates of his.

Me: “Can’t you find it by yourself?”

Dad: “Nope. Already searched the school for it. It’s not there. Now go do your job.”

In short, he’s too lazy. I curse under my breath in Cantonese. One hour later, I plop the phone down on the table.

Dad: *To my brother* “See?! I told you that your brother could do it! Good thing he’s a spy, eh?”

Brother: “Cool! How did you do it?”

Dad: “He’s a spy! He’s got access to all of the government surveillance gizmos and s***.”

Me: “No, I didn’t use that.”

Dad: “Oh, then what? Did you go to the school and find out who stole it and then gave him the old one-two?”

Me: “No. I used the [Phone Finder] app to find the d*** phone. It was on the soccer field. He forgot to bring it home.”

Word of advice, kids: don’t become a spy. James Bond lied about how exciting it is, and everyone that knows you’re one thinks you’re either their personal sniffer dog or hitman.