I’m writing to apply for the (TITLE GOES HERE) position you posted on Craigslist. Per your request, below you will find a detailed cover letter. My resume is also attached.
Or rather, a .pdf of a medium-resolution color portrait of my scrotum is attached, entitled “Delicious Tacos Resume.” Taken during the recent heat wave. Note the varicose veins. Like the back of your eyelids when you blink after lightning. The hairs, uniformly white. Wiry. I trim vigilantly but the brain coral contours of the human sac ensure that I’ll have missed a few. They grow to inordinate lengths. Form elaborate kinks and curls. Take on lint. Chunks of skin. Brown and pink wads stuck to them, hideously dangling. I have the balls of a one hundred twenty year old man, in other words. But rest assured I am of prime working age.
Note the unusual size. Recall the Jackass bit where Johnny Knoxville gets made up like an old man. He attaches a pair of prosthetic balls to himself, so long that they hang out the leg of his shorts. I was offended by this skit. My balls are actually that size. In tropical conditions the sac can reach seven inches in length, when pulled down gently with the thumb and forefinger. Seven inch long balls. The testes themselves never retract in the slightest. They bobble painfully at the bottom of this lawn and leaf bag sized possum pouch of musky, veiny skin. I must take care during bowel movements. Angle my body carefully. So I don’t shit on my balls.
Note the left testicle. Especially gigantic and malformed. There are two reasons for it its gag-inducing heft. One: a cherry-sized cyst that’s sat on my vas deferens since adolescence. Two: a grotesquely coiling length of periwinkle-colored vein, attached at one end to the teste and at the other to nothing. This was from a condition called “varicoseal.” At sixteen I had surgery to snip this vein off. Otherwise it might keep hot blood too near my left ball. Render me unable to reproduce. The doctor made a huge Frankenstein incision on my pubis. Reached into my scrotum through it. Snipped. But they did not remove the vein. They just left it there, curling on itself complexly like the intestines on an H.R. Giger demon. Sealed the incision with gigantic staples. Don’t worry, the doctor told me. Your pubic hair will just grow back over the scar. He did not anticipate that neatly trimmed pubic hair would come into fashion. He did not anticipate that women of the future would be sexual libertines who enjoy playing with balls. He did not anticipate that I would grow to an advanced age without wanting to reproduce. That whenever I came close it would end in drug-induced miscarriages. Painful abortions. He ought to have just left it the fuck alone.
You may ask: why go to so much trouble to describe your balls, if you’re including a picture of the selfsame balls? All the details I speak of are of course visible. You can almost smell the balls through the picture. Sour sweat. Piss dribbles. Bacterial gas.
Except you’re not asking. Because you won’t open the attachment. You won’t read this letter. I know, because I’ve applied to dozens and dozens of posts like yours.
If your ad is for a writing job, it’s not a job at all. Asking for my resume is a ruse. You’ll also ask for a Paypal account so you can pay me. You’ll ask me to create an account on your “freelance” site with a password. You hope I use the same password for everything. If I do, you will drain my Paypal account. That’s fine. I respect your enterprising spirit. And only a fool thinks writing jobs exist.
If your ad is for an office job, you are posting it to get the legally mandated amount of minority applicants. Or you’re getting some tax break by posting it in a required number of public fora. I don’t know what your scam is. But I know you have no plan to hire someone off Craigslist. You’ll promote internally after H.R. Jumps through whatever regulatory hoops. Again, fine. I was frustrated once. Hundreds of resumes sent to places like yours. Places that ought to lick my boots to have me. Not a single call back. But I get it now.
Or your job is some hybrid of the two. Creative Superstar Executive Assistant/ Writer Needed for Internet Mogul’s Home Based Business. You, you’re an unhinged rich woman spending your husband’s money on a vanity project. You use the word “writer” so you can pay some schlump less to clean up pug shit. I would rather have my balls (pictured) swarmed by hungry centipedes than be in a room with you for a minute. Still. As a former Executive Assistant and current Writer, I am more qualified for the gig than anybody. It stings a little that you can’t even give me a phone call.
No matter though. I don’t want your job. But I still have to write you. Detailed custom cover letter after detailed custom cover letter. Otherwise the state will take away the money I get for nothing. So this is the one you’re getting. It’s my balls. I know you’re not reading this. But I wrote to tell you anyway:
I look forward to your response.