Letters to MAD, Part 1

Since I have been instructed by my beloved that I have to get cracking on my children's fantasy novel or he'll personally throttle me, I am taking the lazy blogger's path and posting pre-written material. The story of my evil midget boss will be continued when I have the fortitude for it. I suffered several panic attacks and nightmares looking back to that dark history, and three doctors have advised that I do not commit this story to printed or virtual word until I my new "psychotropic cocktail" takes effect.

So...on another topic altogether, I thought the following would be insightful material for those job seekers out there. The history: Back in 2004 I was miserable at my job and was trolling the job postings on HotJobs or some other database for the work-weary. I discovered that a magazine I had loved in my youth, MAD, was seeking a senior editor. Although a step down from my position at the time, I was pretty frantic with boredom and hatred for my job—and I thought the folks at MAD would be fun, fun, fun. I wrote a very delightful and polite letter, but received no response. ( I shall not include this letter as it contains too many personal details. An expurgated version may be available within the next few months, upon request.) So my next letters was as follows. (For those who are reading now, please note that the small cat referred to in the letter is no longer available, nor are the meat products. They have all gone bad and I can't afford to buy more at the present time.)

April 8, 2004

Dear MAD Editors,

No doubt you have received my previous letter and have tossed it, with cruel and knowing smirks, in a nearby trash receptacle. Yet—noting that you still seek a Senior Editor for your magazine—I forge onward, compelled by the knowledge of what I could bring to your publication. Here is what I can offer you, and no more: I can bring meat products, and a small cat named Potatoe. (The “e” was added in honor of Dan Quayle, as the cat is rather slow-witted.)

Let us first turn to the meat products, which will require some explanation. I have in my possession a quantity of meat (bologna, steak, sausage links, and the flesh of other sundry beasts) that I would be happy to share with your staff. Do you like them smoked? I can do that. If you prefer them rare, that can also be arranged. The meat can also be frozen, or molded into many unusual shapes such as hats and cravats. With my meat, I have traveled to locations as far-flung as Des Moines, Iowa, and the corner of Henry and Kane streets in Brooklyn, New York. We opened for Up With People outside Poughkeepsie, and received a standing ovation. Skeptical? Don’t be! My meat and I have a large following.

Sometimes, when bored, I stand on the rooftop and fling little strips of meat at unsuspecting passersby. They are quite startled to be struck with meat from the heavens, as it were, and some have even scuttled post haste to the local house of worship to thank the creator for this manna. I like to do my part.

I hope that when I come in for an interview, you won’t take offense if I dress up in one of my meat fashions (strips of bresaola in an artful, body-hugging shape, coupled with a Spam belt...or no, perhaps the strip steak bustier and Jimmy Dean leggings. I can never decide, and both make me look dreadfully fat! But I digress.)

The small cat may be self-explanatory, but he has some unusual habits that could be of use to you. He fights crime, and likes to gnaw on upholstery. But he prefers upholstery that is made in the Ukraine, by women with wide, spatulate hands and overbites. Do you have any of that in your office? He will require two bowls of gruel (daily) and a bodyguard, but we can work out the details in my employment package.

I adore MAD, and so do legions of pimply teenage boys everywhere. Perhaps with my meat products and cat, we could widen your audience to include several housewives, a military historian, an elf, and an actor who works as an anthropomorphic chicken. I know people, and they know me. May their boots dig wide troughs in the landscape as they march toward magazine purveyors everywhere!

Yours,
[my signature]