PELOSI’S BILL FOR FEDERALLY FUNDED TOILET PAPER OPTION INCLUDES FINES FOR NOT WIPING ASS

POLL SHOWS MAJORITY OF AMERICANS DON’T TRUST POLLS

TEN MILLION CHINESE TROOPS “JUST VISITING,” SAYS OBAMA

WANDA SYKES SHOW IN SECOND SEASON – AMERICANS BAFFLED

15 MORE WOMEN, 6 MEN, 3 HORSES, 4 SHEEP, AND AN END TABLE CLAIM TO HAVE HAD AFFAIR WITH TIGER WOODS

GLOBAL WARMING NOW PERVASIVE, CATASTROPHIC; CHICAGO A TROPICAL PARADISE

CATHOLIC PRIEST CLAIMS TIGER WOODS MOLESTED HIM

OBAMA OFFERS CALIFORNIA TO CHINA AS DEBT REPAYMENT, “NO THANK YOU” THEY RESPOND

AMERICA INVADES IRAN, OBAMA WINS SECOND NOBEL PEACE PRIZE

JIMMY FALLON STILL TELLING JOKES ABOUT PRESIDENT BUSH

PALIN ANNOUNCES RUN FOR PRESIDENCY IN 2012, BABY JESUS CRIES

ILLINOIS SELLS OBAMA’S SENATE SEAT TO MARK CUBAN TO COMBAT RISING BUDGETARY DEFICIT

OBAMA BECOMES FIRST BLACK PERSON TO GIVE “STATE OF THE UNION” ADDRESS

WORLD CUP MAKES AFRICA SEEM ALMOST BEARABLE

WINTER OLYMPICS A SUCCESS, NO ONE NOTICES

FURBY ARRESTED FOR PUBLIC DRUNKENNESS, SAYS, “I USED TO BE ON TOP.”

“SEXT” RAPIST GETS DEATH SENTENCE; JURY SAYS, “C YA”

ABC’S “BIGGEST LOSER: RELAPSE” CANCELLED, AMERICA LOSES HOPE

LOST’S SMOKE MONSTER REVEALED, OBAMA TO GUEST STAR

KANYE INTERRUPTS OBAMA’S NOBEL PRIZE CEREMONY, SAYS “DESMOND TUTU WAS BETTER”

Thanks to Christian Gonzalez and Kent for contributing headlines to the list.

What is it about work that I find so unsatisfactory?  Almost all of it.  The bad coffee.  The expectation that I wake up earlier than The Price is Right.  The pervasive sports analogies.  The existence of “workplace humor” (a.k.a. the handicapped cousin of comedy).  The requirement that I spend several hours a day thinking or talking about things unrelated to sports, movies, attractive women, or gambling.  It’s all insufferable, but there is another, even more unbearable aspect of employment that has me plotting my escape from the professional work quicker than you can say “stay at home dad.” It can be summarized in one word: accountability.

Companies love holding their employees accountable (Enron, the United States Government, and Tiger Woods’ family being notable exceptions).  They love it like they love government bailouts and Atlas Shrugged.  Chances are, if my superiors aren’t forwarding patriotic chain emails or playing Spider Solitaire, they’re coming up with creative new ways to make sure I actually do the things I say I’m going to do.  Corporate structures are designed to efficiently and mercilessly squeeze the slacker out of people like me.  The process has not been pleasant.

Four years of college taught me that accountability was avoidable, and I have not taken kindly to its sudden reintroduction into my life.  I got through college the same way all lazy extroverts do, I smiled a lot and brought donuts to study groups.  In class projects, extra-curricular activities, and group presentations I was conditioned to over-promise and under-deliver with the assurance that my Type-A partners would always pick up my slack.  I discovered that some of my classmates actually loved learning and I realized the best gift I could give them would be to let them learn for me.  All I had to do was be present and enthusiastic.

Turns out things are a little different in the real world.  In the real world people care about things like results, individual contribution, and pretending to care.  This has taken some getting used to.  I remember vividly the shock of my first performance review.  My boss wanted an update on my “progress” with the “personal goals” I had set six months prior.  I hadn’t planned on having to talk about those again.  I assumed personal goals were like being on Student Government – they looked good on paper and people would be impressed, but I wouldn’t actually have to do anything.

I was a business major for crying out loud!  What did I know about clearly stated expectations and grading scales that accurately reflect effort?  For four years, my performance was appraised on the basis of facial hair, Facebook friends, and an easily-skewed two digit number.  That’s the world I want.  I want to go back to the time when a professor’s appreciation of me as a person could drastically alter my final score.  I want study partners and collaborative assignments.  I want people to say things like “If you get a chance” and “whenever you get around to it” and “never mind, I’ll just do it myself.”

At some point next week, I will endure my second round of annual reviews.  At least this year I know what to expect.  My boss is going to sit me down and say things like “adding value this” and “developmental opportunity that” and I’m going to say things like “I’ll try harder next year” and “Mark got on my computer and went to those sites when I was out to lunch.” I guess this is how these things go.  But still, wouldn’t it be easier to just give me a B- and move on?

Maybe next year.

Do you have a communicable disease of public health significance such as tuberculosis (TB)?

Have you ever violated, or engaged in a conspiracy to violate, any law relating to controlled substances?

Are you coming to the United States to engage in prostitution or unlawful commercialized vice or have you been engaged in prostitution or procuring prostitutes within the past 10 years?

Do you seek to engage in espionage, sabotage, export control violations, or any other illegal activity while in the United States?

Do you seek to engage in terrorist activities while in the United States or have you ever engaged in terrorist activities?

Have you ever or do you intend to provide financial assistance or other support to terrorists or terrorist organizations?

Are you a member or representative of a terrorist organization?

Have you ever ordered, incited, committed, assisted, or otherwise participated in genocide?

Have you ever committed, ordered, incited, assisted, or otherwise participated in torture?

Have you committed, ordered, incited, assisted, or otherwise participated in extrajudicial killings, political killings, or other acts of violence?

Someone got paid American tax dollars to sit in an office and come up with these questions. It probably took them six months and cost millions of dollars. And all for what? It screens out the completely moronic people that actually answer in the affirmative.

I suppose if an immigrant gets caught committing a crime mentioned in this questionnaire, they could also get prosecuted for lying to the government, but do you really need another reason besides “started a brothel” to deport someone? “Started a brothel and is such a total liar. We’re going to deport you, let you back in, and then deport you again. Suck it.” How long before you think they start asking multiple choice questions?

Circle some of your favorite activities:
A. Murdering
B. Pillaging
C. Violencing
D. All of the Above

Is there a way to answer any of these questions that won’t get you denied entry, besides “no”? Any ideas? My favorite so far is “just for fun.” Kent likes “not yet.” Post your responses below!

Nickelback kicked off its North American tour in front of a capacity crowd at the Staples Center in Los Angeles on Friday night, its first of three shows in southern California.  However, what should have been a classic, mind-bending rock performance in the typical Nickelback style is being heralded by many as a total flop.  The reason?  Lead singer Chad Kroeger.

“I show up ready to grind on my girlfriend to some kickin Canadian rock n’ roll, and that jag Chad Kroeger tees off and kills a classic Nickelback song,” reported Dane Strump of Riverside, “That guy gives Nickelback a bad name.”

Sources report that Kroeger went on to ruin at least 25 more amazing songs during the show, including “How You Remind Me,” “If Today Was Your Last Day,” and “Photograph.”

“I’ve got my cell phone in the air, my eyes are closed, and I’m rocking out to “Rockstar” by the greatest band of all time, and then all of a sudden, this raspy voice starts bellowing and I’m like, dammit, this song is completely toasted,” noted Ben Howell, a police investigator.

Kroeger (front and center) ruins another Nickelback publicity photo.

Eyewitnesses agree that Kroeger’s antics became particularly onerous during a rendition of “Savin’ Me,” a heartfelt ballad of loss and love.  “I just kept waiting for [guitarist Ryan] Peake to hit his solo about halfway through the song.  He started to jam and then Kroeger busts in and starts humping the mic and running his hands through his Mr. Tumnus goatee.  What a gooch,” said Strumph.

“That guy’s been dragging the band down since the late 90s,” stated Rolling Stone columnist Yolo Ty, who also attended the concert.   “I went to the merch booth after the show and was disappointed to see that Kroeger ruined all the shirts as well by putting his face all over the front.”

Other fans noted his incessant singing during an otherwise awesome performance by Nickelback.  “He just sang the whole time, he didn’t shut up for more than one minute during the whole concert,” complined Haley Olson, a dental hygienist.  “I just kept thinking that he would be done, but he never was.  I kept screaming ‘I didn’t pay for this’ but he just continued singing.”

Eyewitnesses report that fans left the Staples Center commenting that Kroeger had once again managed to intrude on what otherwise would have been a fantastic show from a band that can throw together a mean rock tune.  “I hope that in the future Chad can restrain himself from yelling and gesticulating wildly at the crowd while the rest of the band plays their kickass songs,” mumbled Howell, “Kroeger just keeps ruining everything for this awesome group.”

David “Flava Dave” McCloskey is a stage actor and philanthropist who lives and works in Washington D.C.  He has read everything Nicholas Sparks has ever written and has visited Mt. Rushmore 18 times.

“It’s about time there’s a Web portal aimed at large Hasidim like myself. I applaud the launch of TheBigJew.com, and hope it will prosper!”
– Michael Colton, Co-Founder, Modern Humorist

You can check out the site by clicking here, or the link in our blogroll, or the other link at the bottom of this article.

Enjoy.

TO: Tom (My current boss)

I’d like to add you to my professional network on LinkedIn.

– Kent (the guy with the funny ties)

TO: Cheryl (My high school guidance counselor)

I’d like to add you to my professional network of people on LinkedIn who thought I’d be dead by now.

– Kent

TO: Susan (My old boss at JoAnn’s Fabrics)

I’d like to add you to my professional network of past employers on LinkedIn who were unaware that I was spending most of my time at work jousting with curtain rods and fitting myself for capes.

– Kent

TO: Sam Jones

I’d like to add you to my professional network of college graduates on LinkedIn whose future in advertising depends largely on whether or not I have courtside seats at The Garden this Saturday.

– Kent

TO: Britney Cooper

I’d like to add you to my professional network of emotionally stunted human resource professionals on LinkedIn who – coincidentally – were also the inspiration for my Facebook status yesterday afternoon when it read “Kent Woodyard thinks some people need to get over themselves.”

– Kent

TO: Stephen, David, Josh, and Adam

I’d like to add you to my professional network of former college roommates on LinkedIn who were supposed to open a liquor store/sushi bar/off-track betting facility with me but decided instead to get married or deported and – as a result – had to abandon their childhood dreams, thereby forcing me to do the same.

– Kent

TO: Kelly McFarland

I’d like to add you to my professional network of campus recruiters on LinkedIn who I’m sure are now regretting their decision to let a mild case of Tourettes and a few good-natured ethnic slurs come between The Walt Disney Company and a top-notch applicant for the marketing analyst position.

– Kent

TO: Michael, Gary, and Mark

I’d like to add you to my professional network of coworkers on LinkedIn whose inability to “take one for the team” and “loan me the company credit card” will likely result in an uncharitable portrayal in my professional memoirs.

– Kent

Click here to read the rest of the article.

It is a known fact that God has been trying to destroy California for some time now.  Conservative pundits are quick to remind us that the state is riding a slip-n-slide straight into the Pacific, which to their way of thinking can only be explained by the existence of Sodom Francisco.  Geologists offer up some Discovery Channel mumbo-jumbo about why this is happening, but anyone who’s ever sat through a college geology course knows that listening to a geologist is almost never worth it.  Between the earthquakes, the mudslides, the bear attacks, the fires, The Hills, and the terrorists on Alcatraz, it’s hard to deny that God is doing everything in his power to get rid of The Golden State.  (To be fair, many believe this is only because He wants an unobstructed shot at Las Vegas.)

Why this ire?  Why this unleashing of righteous judgment?  I can think of only one reason: the people.  In the same way that the rest of the world might be a tolerable place to visit were it not for all the foreigners, California might be a half-decent place to live were it not for all the Californians.  You may have heard that Californians suck, and I can tell you that what you’ve heard is true.  However, they don’t suck for the reasons you may think.  When Christians (read: Midwesterners) celebrate the imminent demise of the Bear Flag Republic, it is usually because they’ve heard that Perez Hilton lives there.  While it’s true that California has become a veritable Petri dish of vanity, VD, and V-necks, those are not my primary complaints with the the people.  The true scourge of the Californian is stated eloquently by Chuck Klosterman in his better-than-decent book Killing Yourself To Live.

I don’t care if 85% of [California] is stupid.  I can deal with stupid.  My problem is that every stupid person in [California] is also (a) unyieldingly narcissistic and (b) unyieldingly nice.  They have somehow managed to combine raging megalomania with genuine friendliness.  It’s a combination that infects your blood like leukemia…you find yourself admiring people you hate…

California has created a new and terrifying breed of douchebag: the likeable douche.  You go to the beach and see a guy wearing a hoodie with no shirt underneath playing Jack Johnson songs on his guitar to no one but himself and you arrive at the only possible conclusion, “I should probably hate that guy.”  Having established this as your point of reference, it is disorienting when you bump into that same guy at the fish taco stand and discover that he’s really digging “what you got going on” and is intensely interested in “your deal.”  In fact, the only thing he’s more into than “your deal” is his own deal, specifically, the way his deal looks in board shorts.

Californians, particularly those of the Southern variety, are infected with a baffling blend of kindness and egomania can only be attributed to relentless sunshine, recreational Hinduism, and easy access to high-quality marijuana.  Chances are good that anyone you interact with in Southern California will be one of the nicest people you’ve ever met.  Chances are also good that a five minute conversation with one of them will feature at least 15 hand runs through playfully tussled hair, several dozen glances into the nearest reflective surface, and repeated references to how sweet various aspects of their life are.

This unique cocktail of engagement and arrogance is concerning because it numbs our innate attack/avoid instinct when encountering douches.  Anywhere else in America, if you met a guy with a guitar and a Jack Johnson song you would either punch him in the face or go sit on the other side of the dorm lobby.  Not so in California.  Here you find yourself conversing with him about surf competitions and whether or not a tortilla wrap that doesn’t contain “guac” can actually be called a burrito.  Before you know it, the two of you have purchased matching cruiser bikes and you’re feeling the urge to work on your “beach bod.”

This is the danger of the Californian.  He cannot be placed in either of humanity’s two mutually exclusive camps: douchebags and decent people.  Generations of inbreeding have created an unholy mutant that is neither douche nor decent yet somehow both at once.  This is why California must be destroyed.  Should this conflation of personality types spread to other states, the American way of life might come crashing to the ground.  In a world where we can no longer trust our presidents, governors, baseball players, or Associations of Community Organizations for Reform Now to whom will we turn if our preconceived notions of goodness and doucheness turn out to be false as well?

California is waging a war on my social paradigms, and that is why I’m rooting for its imminent demise.  People need categories.  We need stereotypes and visual signals by which to recognize and categorize strangers on the street.  When I see a dude in a giant pickup truck with a bicep tat, a Jamba Juice, and a visor, I want, I need, him to be a prick.  I don’t want him to be sincere, generous, or in any way interested in me as a person.  At this point in my life, mountains, trees, and large bodies of water are confusing enough.  If one more Jason Mraz fan on a Vespa turns out to be cool, I don’t think I’m going to make it.

Note: I don’t own the rights to that picture and I’m not sure who does.  If it’s yours, let me know and I’ll give you all the credit you can handle.

So I was at the post office the other day, mailing something to my special lady friend. It’s long distance so you really have to send letters and what not to keep points on the scoreboard, so to speak. I had tried FedEx and UPS, but their prices were astronomical – $60 bucks when USPS was $10 – $20.

There I was, putting some stuff in a box and filling out all the appropriate forms, when some girl came in to ship something. It was only the two of us there at the Post Office, so I could easily hear her conversation with the USPS employee. The girl was trying to pay for her purchase with a credit card that said “See I.D.” where the signature bar is on the back. The USPS employee was not down with that. You see, their policy is that you have to sign your cards. “You can sign your card right now, but we won’t take it if it’s not signed,” the employee told the young lady – the damsel in distress, you might say.

Logic isn't in their policy.

“I work at a bank,” the girl protested. “We tell all of our customers to write ‘See I.D’ on the back of their cards because it’s more secure. Your I.D. has your signature and your picture on it. It helps protect against theft.”

“Hard to argue against that logic,” I affirmed her silently in my mind. This was, after all, the same policy that I myself practiced.

“Our policy says that you have to sign the card,” the employee persisted.

“But you can just see my I.D.” the girl continued in futility.

“Ma’am you can either sign the card now or pay with cash,” repeated the error message, reminiscent of the infuriating experiences we’ve all had with some type of electronics that malfunction despite all forms of reason. The customer yielded, her white flag waving as she handed over the cash for her purchase. Her head hung low as she marched out of the building, defeated.

“Not me,” I thought rebelliously. “You’re gonna see my I.D., and you’re gonna like it.“ I walked over to the counter, my chest inflated with an air of defiance. Having rung up the costs of shipping my blindingly romantic, swoon-inducing package, the employee asked for my payment. I offered up a credit card that pleaded for the merchant to ask for my I.D.

“We don’t take cards that aren’t signed,” the employee spouted like a recording as she pointed to the little sign with their policy printed on it, the section regarding I.D. highlighted.

“My Father works at a bank. Putting ‘See I.D.’ is more secure,” I said. True story, my Dad really does work for a bank.

“Do you want to talk to the post master?” the employee said, appealing to their ultimate authority. “Finally” I thought, “I can speak to someone with a mind.”

I was wrong.

A bald man in his 50′s or 60′s puttered out from “the back room” where the dark alchemies of postal service are performed and came up to the counter to speak with me. “Is there a problem?” he said.

“Yes. I am trying to pay with my credit card. It is unsigned, but it says ‘See I.D.’ on it. This is actually more secure than signing it, because if someone steals my credit card then they would need my I.D. as well. Then, were they daring enough to offer up both the purloined card and the I.D., you’d be able to quickly tell that you were observing a fraud because their face would not be my face.” Triumph filled the air, echoing off of the walls with my flawless words. My tone was clear and stern, but peaceful. I did not yell or scream like an undersexed suburban mother, protesting the end of a sale at Kohl’s. No, I just presented truth calmly and succinctly. I had changed the world in a small way, for the better.

“Our policy says that the card has to be signed or we can’t accept it,” the man said nasally, extinguishing the fireworks of victory.

“But didn’t you hear what I just said? That’s not secure.”

“Well if they steal your wallet they would have your I.D. anyway,” he said, making that face that people sometimes make when they feel threatened, as if they are clenching their ass cheeks in anticipation of a punch to the face.

“Right, they would. But they wouldn’t have stolen my face too, would they? Unless we’re dealing with an Eddie Gein character, in which case I would suppose credit card theft is the least of our worries.”

“It’s our policy. Our national policy.”

“Understood, and I’ll pay with cash. But maybe you could use your Postmaster powers – great as I assume they are – to affect a positive change in the system?”

“I have. This is our policy.” He said, still standing with a slight lean backwards, ready to flee.

“Okay then.” I said. I left the Post Office, my faith in humanity and customer service shat upon once again by reality.

I then began thinking, as thinkers like myself tend to do. What if this were health care? While I agree that the American health care system works just as well as punching yourself in the face does for relieving headaches, do I want to have this experience every time I need to get some kind of medical work taken care of? The talk of death panels is sensationalistic crap, the talk of communism/fascism is bloated rhetoric, but I can’t ignore the experience I just had with a business that is operated by the government. It is so mired down in bureaucracy that the idea of “customer service” is as present as the days when MTV actually had music on it. It’s a vague memory and a happy one, but the present is such a stark contrast that the pictures in the photo album are faded beyond recognition. These Post Office employees literally have no motivation or incentive for being flexible for a customer. What the hell do they care? There’s still going to be a Post Office tomorrow whether I continue to patronize their establishment or not. They have their mouths firmly attached to the government’s bountiful teat, why on Earth would they choose to “go the extra mile” to have “service with a smile”? The customer may always be right, but they don’t give a damn about what’s right. If “right” isn’t in their policies, then “right” means nothing to them.

Are my fears well founded? Or am I just being a pessimist? I ask you the question that Third Eye Blind once asked all of us: How’s it gonna be?

Good evening officers and officerettes,

I think you will all agree when I say that something has gone terribly awry in this relationship.  Over the past six years, I have had impromptu and involuntary rendezvous with nearly all of you.  These little get-togethers usually begin poorly and inevitably end even worse.  In fact, I believe I am no longer on speaking terms with several of you.  But alas, after a half decade of court costs, license restrictions, and memorizing every word of a certain N.W.A. song, I’ve grown weary of our bickering.  Let’s put an end to this discord between us and bury the hatchet once and for all (I, of course, mean that in the most non-homicidal way possible).

While the lion’s share of the blame undoubtedly rests on you people – what with your coercing me to the side of the highway, forcibly entering my place of residence, appropriating my hard-earned American currency, etc – I am willing, in the spirit of reconciliation, to admit to my own failures as a citizen.

For one, my normal style of driving is comparable in many ways to one who is fantastically drunk.  In truth, I am usually only a bit tipsy.  Also, I live in a house surrounded by 80 year olds with preternaturally sensitive ears.  Correlating criminal activities include: remaining awake in my home later than ten o’clock p.m., and occasionally having four or five visitors in my home at the same time.  Additionally, these guests may from time to time speak to one another at volumes louder than a whisper.

For all this and more, I am sorry.  Still, I can’t help but think that you people have had it in for me from the beginning.  For example, our first interaction resulted in a $60 ticket for a burned out headlight.  While I thought this a bit over-zealous of the young officer, I recognized there was little else for him to do on a Saturday night since all the other teenagers were in nearby houses drinking, fornicating, and huffing household cleaning supplies.  I should not have been out on the streets.  Point taken.

However, since that first encounter we have bumped into each other a total of sixteen times; each as petty and pointless as the first.  Just last month one of you stopped me for failing to signal while making a left hand turn.  The very next night, I was pulled over for doing 39 in a 35.  One of you (you know who you are) once threatened to arrest me for throwing a snowball at a buddy’s car as he drove past my house.  Twice you people have raided “parties” at my house when less than four people were present (Note: Since the publication of this article, that number has ballooned to six).  Excuse me for saying so, but what the hell?

I understand that my existence is highly offensive to you; I just don’t understand why.  What is it about the vaguely ethnic kid in the Chevy Cavalier that perturbs you so?  Are other non-tattoed, non-drug trafficking, non-pornography proliferating citizens treated with such animosity? (Note: These questions are not directed toward the Oklahoma Highway Patrolmen who pulled me over two summers ago while I was attempting to change my pants.  I have a pretty good idea why he disliked me and, while his unspoken allegations about my mid-trip activities were incorrect, I don’t fault him for making them.)

I am airing these grievances not only as support for my proposed cease fire but also as an explanation of some recent behavior.  Several of you have commented on and taken offense to my habit of greeting you with a hearty “Oink, oink officer.”  One of you in particular seemed a bit put off by my reference to the distinct aroma of bacon, which arrived – coincidentally, I’m sure – at the same time you did.  I assure you, overt hostility of this nature is not typical of me, and would not have occurred if not for the provocation documented above.

But let’s face it, we’ve all said and done things we wish we could take back.  Why dwell in the past?  My 800 plus dollars in assorted traffic and civil fines aren’t coming back and neither is your high school sports career.  Let’s move forward and forge a new future together where we agree to ignore one another and endeavor daily to forget each other’s existence.  That sounds nice doesn’t it?

I understand that it is your sworn duty to hassle law-abiding citizens while the real criminals run rampant through our government, middle schools, and professional sports teams.  I get that sometimes you just want an excuse to turn on the siren and flash the lights.  I just hope that in the future you’ll do it behind someone else’s car and in someone else’s driveway.  Surely I’ve been punished enough for all my good behavior.

Kindest Regards,

Kent Woodyard

DL#768904013

Dear Mr. Smittenberg,

I guess I’d like to express my interest in the Entry Level Account Manager position I read about somewhere while I was probably doing something awesome. I’ve heard some pretty good stuff about your company from colleagues and friends; we’re talking really cool, powerful people. I’m sure you have probably heard of me by now, as no doubt one of my friends in your company has told you stories about how well I’ve performed at every job I’ve ever had.  Whatever though, it’s not like it matters to me anyway.

So I hear that your company, I forget what it’s called, bought some other company recently and that’s why you’re looking to hire on some help. I have some experience in recent acquisitions,  as my last position with Goldhammer-Brown Investments (you’ve heard of them, right?) dealt with this recent acquisition they had of Washington-Ellis Investments. I’m sure you read about that one in Investments Magazine, it made the cover of the September 2008 issue. I wasn’t there at the time of the article but if I had been they would have probably asked me for an interview. Anyway I’d probably be a huge help to your company during this transitional phase, but I honestly don’t need the job. I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.

If you feel like it, go ahead and review the enclosed resume and references.  If not, no biggie.  Just so you know though, the last guy I interviewed with said I was “very impressive.” I’m expecting him to call by sometime next week to offer me way more than the minimum they had posted. Just saying if you want it you’d better put a contract on it.

In closing, it really doesn’t mean much to me either way if I get this job or if I don’t. There are so many other jobs I’m interviewing for, I probably won’t even notice if you respond. If you want to though, I might be able to take your call some time in the afternoon most days, as long as I’m not busy getting hired by someone else which is probably what is going to happen. For real though, do whatever you want. I could probably care less, but I’m having a hard time figuring out how.

Meh,

Michael Dawson

Two: Please Don’t Hurt Me.

Dear Miss Martinez,

I’m not really sure that you’re even going to read this since you probably have so many other candidates that have much better qualifications than me, but if you are reading this I’d like to express my interest in the Economic Analyst Position that you advertised, if that’s okay with you. Your company sounds really amazing, like on the cutting edge of the business, which probably puts you way out of my league so if you want to throw this letter away right now, I understand. I really don’t have that much to offer you that you probably don’t already have.

Since I’m here, though, I mean, I guess I’ll tell you some of my qualifications as long as that doesn’t bother you. If it does, it won’t bother me if you stop reading. Honestly, how would I know, right? That’s a joke, which my last boss told me was one of my strengths. I also graduated at the top of my class from Harvard, was the President of my class for all four years, and am a personal friend of Barack Obama. You probably have a lot of applicants like that though, I know I should have worked harder in college.

I have a few skills that maybe could help your company a little bit, but not as much as some other people. I guess I’ve been a Network Analyst before, for your competitor. You can see that on my resume, as well as the six internships I did during my college years for Fortune 100 companies.  They outsourced my job to India, but they’re really nice guys. They said that I can still go to the company parties as long as I keep bringing beer, which is completely a fair request. I totally don’t mind buying enough beer for everybody, it’s not a bother at all. I might have been given the Best Employee award for each of the 14 months that I worked there, and I contributed to part of the new employee handbook for my position. I mean, I wrote some of it, but it was mostly Susan from HR that wrote it, I just gave her a solid outline to start from. You should call her, she’s such a hard worker.

Thank you so much for reading this letter, I’m sure you have a lot more important things you could be doing. If somehow you are interested in an interview and you get around to calling me, I’m available most times. I do volunteer at the local children’s hospital in between occasionally providing freelance financial commentary for CNBC, but it’s really not a problem if you call. I can always step away and make time to talk. Or not. It’s really fine if you don’t.

Thanks Again For Everything,

Miles Lee

All you do is drive twenty minutes south from San Diego and BOOM you’re in a completely different country.  And not just any country, you’re in Mexico.  This isn’t like going to Canada where everything is basically the same except colder, Frencher, and boring.  This is like driving your car to India.  One minute you’re driving past Taco Bells, Taco Times and Del Tacos and then all of a sudden everything’s in a different language and no one knows what a gallon is.

All of this would be merely unsettling and not necessarily terrifying were it not for the fact that Tijuana is in “the other California.”  Tijuana – in case you haven’t heard – is pretty much the worst place for an American to be seen this side of Fallujah.  This is unfortunate because Tijuana is located one foot outside of America.  To reference one particularly illustrative statistic, in 2008 there were over 800 murders in Tijuana.  In that same year, New York and LA recorded 417 and 302 murders, respectively.  Things have not gotten better.  Tijuana’s criminal element has a nasty habit of undermining tourism by stabbing all the tourists.  Tijuana’s police aren’t much help in this matter due to their nasty habit taking of bribes and getting decapitated.  Fortunately, we were not deterred by these minor details since our pre-trip research consisted solely of watching The OC’s “TJ” episode.

Typically, things like drug cartel infighting, police corruption, and non-English speakers don’t trouble me anyway.  They stay on their side of the world, I stay on mine and we all get along famously.  Besides, I’ve got enough on my plate as it is with the Mad Men Season 3 premiere, the Blink 182 reunion tour, McDonalds monopoly, etc.  After a weekend in Mexico, however, my complacency is no longer possible.  No longer can I count on several oceans and a whole ton of ICBMs to keep me safe from the outside world.  They live next door.  A mere forty-five minutes from where I’m sitting right now, there are people drinking Apple-flavored soda and plotting ways to get their hands on my passport.

Is anyone looking into this?  Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this why we bought Texas – to act as a buffer zone between America and the Third World?  What’s the point of having places like San Antonio, El Paso, and Six Flags Over Texas if we’re going to allow our unruly neighbors to live this close to Sea World?

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m afraid of the Mexicans.  Okay, it’s not only that.  We need places like Texas – 17 hours of big tires, belt buckles, and desolation – to protect people like me from ourselves.  As long as Mexico is only an hour away, young, stupid Americans will continue crossing the border in search of cheap tequila and a decent burrito and they will continue being fleeced by shrewd adolescent street salesmen peddling ceramic turtles.  Not to mention the debilitating gastro-intestinal issues.  Something must be done.  Since expanding Texas is unacceptable, I see only one option at our disposal: hostile takeover.

I fail to see how converting Iraq into the 51^st state is going to make me any more secure when I still have access to Mexico.  Think how much safer we would be if all that money and manpower we’re spending in Arabia was put to use conquering Baja California.  It wouldn’t take much.  Heck, all it takes to get into Mexico is slowing to a speed of ten miles an hour as you go through the gate.  (Note: This is the same security measure in place at a typical Wal-Mart parking lot.)  Actually, the San Diego Police Department could probably handle the invasion by themselves.  Six weeks (max) and the Stars and Stripes would be flying from TJ to Cabo.

Everyone wins: they get Lakers games on TV and a few less decapitations every year; we get a dozen new SB2K10 hot spots and some exotic cannabis crossbreeds.  I don’t know about you, but that’s a lot more appealing to me than “access to oil reserves” and “stability in the Middle East.”  Think about it.  Every fifty years or so America runs out of safe, sanitary vacation spots and what do we do?  We go out and conquer a new one.   It worked with Hawaii; it worked with Puerto Rico (sort of); I see no reason why it can’t work with California the Lesser as well.

I’m just saying, think about it.