To whom it may concern,
I’m writing to you with reference to your position opening you have listed on illdoanythingformoney.com. I can easily say that your position caught my eye, and applying gave me something better to do than trying to achieve hyper-pigmentation via mass quantities of purple Gatorade. It’s not that I love Gatorade, you see, it’s just that I think a slight magenta glow would compliment my red hair quite nicely.
For the past several years, I have dedicated myself to the pursuit of knowledge in food and women. Well, mostly women. In my spare time, which usually runs about 60-80 hours a week, I heat up food and make people eat it. Yes, I make them. Or sometimes I mess with their heads, and after they take a bite, I catch their eye and slowly shake my head with a sorrowed look in my eyes, similar to when you see a mother smacking her kid.
But my resume speaks for itself. Check out my skills! They’re awesome! Look at that font! It’s not just Times New Roman. It’s Time for a New Roman ORGY! Of skills! Skorgy!
I should be clear on this though: I’m not a sex addict. I never let it get in the way of my work. I’m more of an addict of sarcasm, and whatever part of the human condition makes for some delightfully stupid situations on a daily basis. For instance, around the corner from where I live, there’s a small building that houses a local chapter of disabled American Veterans. Now here’s the kicker: there’s NO wheelchair ramp to the front door. So, it sucks because it’s veterans we’re talking about, but it kind of makes the whole thing even more hilarious.
Sorry, I digress. Why should you choo-choo choose me? Because I like food for what it is. I like mustard greens. They don’t need to be mentholated and turned into a plasma for me to say “wow, this is tasty!” I’m not doing lines of mustard green powder off the pocket-mirror of some over-priced call-girl in the bathroom of an horribly-named stupidly expensive steakhouse in some completely fictional hotel with some purple-ish color for a name that’s off exit 23 from 95 in, oh, say, Newton, Mass. The kind of place that named itself based on which letters of the alphabet happened to be on super-saver that day, and then even added some numbers that have no bearing on its location. It’s like post-modern version of naming a restaurant after its address. Oh, did I say post-modern? I meant lazy.
This whole process is so antiquated. This stuff is so P.C. first-date that it makes me want to orally extricate the contents of my stomach. I’m supposed to tell you all the right things, tick the right boxes with my cover letter, make you want to read my resume, and not just burn the thing straight out. What’s going to keep your attention then? Should I tape some BBQ ribs to this thing? Would that help? Maybe spray it with some cologne, so you know that I’ll smell good? Sounds, stupid, right? Well, I used to work with a guy that I swear invented the scent of rotting patchouli without even trying, and that’s pretty much all I remember about him. Not me, though. I smell awesome. I’ve got nasal references.
So let’s cut through this bullshit. I’m checking you out, you’re checking me out. Of course you are, because you’re still reading this. That’s what this whole cover letter is all about. We could be two guys at a gay bar, with the way this is going. Ooh, he’s a bad boy; he’s got an 8-inch scar on his forearm. Does that mean he’s any good in the kitchen? Who knows? Should I have a cocktail in my hand? What does my choice of cocktail say about me? Maybe I was in the mood for a sugar rim, but it’s not like I’m drinking something with a hyphenated “tini” suffix. And it’s called what it is. Not “Opal Moon” or “Strawberry Cheesecake, the drink!” Nothing that could double as a yoga position or celestial occurrence.
I said sugar rim, not rim job. Don’t get too excited.
The point I’m getting to here is that I am who I am. If I said yam, then I’d be someone else. Yes, Popeye. Who, coincidentally, never ate yams. Good, knowing that dates you appropriately. And where are the yam lobbyists, anyways? There’s one vegetable that sadly devoid of rights. I’d vote for someone that stood for vegetable rights. I like food for what it is; I like people for who they are. I even like you for who you are. How do I know? Because I’m watching you. Right now.
When did this cover letter become a creepy stalker letter? But I don’t mind it, because like a good stalker, I’m focused and dedicated.
Now: for my compensation. I deserve as much money as any normal-haired individual. And by individual I mean male. For Crissakes, it’s not like I’m a woman! Ha Ha HA! Wait, are you a woman? Then I take it back. I’ll just harbor my sexism, and bury it down deep until that concealed gun permit comes through. I’m getting it mail order. Like my undergraduate degree. Then all I need to do is wait for the day when Betsy in accounting accidentally puts decaf in the pot with the black handle instead of the orange one, and then watch out.
Will I relocate for work? Abso-freaking-lutely. I can’t go too much into my current living situations, but let just say it takes the Patriot Act to a whole new level. But it is free, so I can't complain. Then again, Guatanamo is free to get into, right? Thank you very much Cheney. You occupy the scary end of the bald guys with glasses spectrum. On the other end? Chevy Chase. Right in the middle? My dad. Not quite as scary as Cheney, and still pretty funny. Doesn’t have the best taste in, um, cars, but hey, people are free to ride what they want, right?
Speaking of Cheney, he just survived his 5th heart attack. You’ve got to be kidding me. He could probably rent space on his aortic valve out to med company advertising, there’re so many docs that have seen it by now.
What are my weaknesses you ask? I care too much. I tend to write things that I probably shouldn’t. I have a habit of screwing up relationships too much, and not screwing up my food enough. It’s not a healthy balance. Oh, and I seem to have some deep-seated unhappiness about turning 30. It’s not being 30 that bugs me, it’s the lackluster showing by my friends in helping to celebrate it. I know, as head of H.R., I shouldn’t be telling you these things until I’m hired and my therapy plan has been firmly explained to me, but I went BALLS out for some close personal friends on their 30th, and in return received the kind of dedication that left a taste in my mouth akin to, say, chewing on cold beef fat.
So please hire me, she/male reading this. It’s been far too long since I’ve put mind to electronic paper, but OOOH this feels so good. Like an explosion of macabre wit. In my pants. I mean rants. Hope to hear from you soon!
