No more boring cover letters, or call me Pinky.

Cover letters are stupid. Just like blogs. Does anyone read them? I don’t know. Yes and no, I suppose. Does anyone write them? Yes, we all do. Most of them are so blah, blah, blah embarrassing. I vow that I shall never write another boring cover letter. If the people who read it don’t like it, well, I just don’t want to work for them anyway.

Here is a cover letter I sent off a few weeks ago for which I quickly got an interview for the position of Managing Editor. I didn’t get the job, but I got an interview and hit it off pretty well with the head of the company who was looking for more of a web/digital person than me. That ain’t saying much. I’ve always insisted that I’m more of a writer than anything else that goes on at a news shop, except maybe an editor.

Dear [hiring person],

I could do this job without falling to sleep at my desk. It looks that interesting. I am comfortable assuring you I would not require brain implants or other psychotropic enhancements (for myself, mind you) of any kind. Cattle prods are always an option for motivating the staff, but I’ve lost interest in using them since I gave up caffeine. They only tickle after awhile, anyway, and by then you’ve lost everyone’s respect. I would rather earn the room’s respect by setting a respectable pace, by cranking out irreproachable prose with stories and reviews worth reading because they are worth writing, worth the telling. Show everyone the right way of doing things without telling them, and if they are smart, and we are sure they are, those over whom we have charge (cue patriotic background music) will humbly and eagerly pass our ranks, lead us and each other to some kind of glory or other. We will not only let them, we will encourage them! We will not only encourage them, we will be somewhat miffed if they don’t. We will not only be somewhat miffed if they don’t, we will be perplexed. We will reevaluate our leadership, our example, our view of ourselves and the thought processes of our chosen minions. We will communicate. We will confront. We will purge. We will begin again, avoiding past mistakes and discovering new ones. Some will be happy accidents that we’ll insist we planned the whole time. The atmosphere will be a tempered blend of heaven and hell. Everyone is happy, but everyone is not happy. It is the best of times. It is the worst of times. Everyone calls each other Ishmael, except for Ishmael. We call him Pinky because he really hates it. But we call him that because we really love him. That’s when you realize everyone loves you.  That’s because harassing and hazing lurk in every shadow around every other corner. All good-natured, of course. The room has been playing with PhotoShop again. Your likeness is handsomely infused upon a nine month pregnant torso, bikini clad, pinned to every bulletin board on the floor. Someone has discovered and Exacto Knife in the back of the old Managing Editor’s desk. Nobody uses those anymore! Then you find a bust of you, a pink crystal bust of you from your shoulders up, the size of yo-yo at the bottom of a yellow stream, carved from a fresh urinal cake. Yes. It’s nice to be loved. I want to be loved. I could do this job without brain implants or other psychotropic enhancements, especially if I were loved. I could do this job. Call me yesterday. Or call me Pinky.

Sincerely,

s.r.g.

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