At least at the end of the day, I can still spell 'marketing.'

I've been on the job hunt for awhile.

Admittedly, I haven't put myself out there nearly as much as I should be.  But let's be honest, there are a lot of entry-level positions to sort through, and most of them would pay me way less than would the soul-sucking leech that is the job I have in the service industry.

I want to be a writer, guys.  Not a waiter.  I don't know how much longer I can serve the gluttonous masses sweet tea and infinite carbs -- constantly being told what they "need."  I hate when people tell me what they "need."

Let's get one thing straight.  You don't need more bread.  You want more bread.  You need gastric bypass.

Also -- eat shit.

But this post isn't about the mind-numbing, douchebag-taming job I endure.  I'll save that for another time.  Besides, until then there's always the bitchy waiter, and my commandments.

So I actually found something a few weeks ago that seemed pretty promising.  The job was a copywriting position with a marketing firm a city over.  I sent them my resume and the head dude, we'll call him "Chad," wrote me back the same day.  Interested in my skills, he requested a writing sample.  Just some informational copy about a refrigerator based on a list of features provided.

So I resisted the urge to go all Brian Regan on him by writing this:

"This two thousand dollar, stainless-steel behemoth keeps all your shit cold the same exact way a regular fridge would, but because you're an over-indulgent consumer whore, you know you want to buy this one instead.  To hell with what your wife says, that dickhole Tom Johnson down the street has a bigger TV than you, why not have a more bad-ass refrigerator?"




Instead, I gave Chad exactly what he wanted -- professional copy, which I won't show you because it doesn't really fit with the whole scheme of the blog.  It isn't vulgar.  It isn't funny.  We're skipping it.

Chad writes me back two days later and, in a nutshell, is all:

Again, I resisted the urge to be a total moron by writing copy for a company called Dick's Hardwood.  Instead, I did what was requested of me, and instead of writing about letting Dick's come inside (your home), I did the right thing, thinking, "Hey, they're serious about me.  This could go somewhere."

New copy submitted, it was time to wait.  And wait I did.  For a week, I heard nothing.  So I sent an e-mail to Chad.  It has been paraphrased, but the general tone of my follow-up e-mail is still intact.

And then I waited again.  For over a(nother) week.  The guy was on top of things the first couple of exchanges, and then pretty much led me to believe he'd either been abducted by aliens, or I'd just imagined the whole goddamn thing.  So I sent one more, grasping-for-straws e-mail.  Again, though paraphrased, the message and tone are still the same.

But, you know, more professional.  Remember, I'm still sorta trying to get hired, here.

I sent that one today.  Two hours later (if that), I receive the following actual fucking e-mail from Chad.

Maybe if I were on your team, you wouldn't have spelled 'marketing' wrong.

I debated pretty much the rest of the day as to whether or not I should send him an e-mail back, thanking him for absolutely nothing.  I decided that it wasn't worth it because once he made it apparent he didn't give a shit -- neither did I.

Instead, it's provided me with material for the enjoyment of you people.  Because you know what?

I sort of like you.

Sort of.

Let's just say you're growing on me and leave it at that.

I won't even make a tumor joke there.

You're welcome.

Until next time.