letter

Hand Holding Paper

Worst job application ever

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Dear whatever it is your name is,

I am applying for the position of Junior Paper-Shuffling Specialist at your company.

I’m the perfect candidate. Wait. I just looked up the definition of the word “perfect,” and now I’d like to change my previous statement to “I’m a candidate.”

Firstly, I am highly motivated to get a salary.

Secondly, I am currently unemployed, which means I can start at a moment’s notice. Literally. I am outside your office right now.

Over the course of my extensive, two-month career, I have taken only 17 sick days. Well over half of those were true medical issues. Insomnia. Tiredness. Simpsons marathons. That kind of stuff.

I am a true team player. My former colleagues have frequently characterized me as “I don’t mind him,” “that lazy guy,” and “who?”.

I don’t drink or smoke, unless I have enough money to buy alcohol and cigarettes, in which case I do. A lot.

I am a quick learner. It once took me only seven viewings to figure out the plot of The Sixth Sense. Additionally, I have a wide range of skills that include staring intently at people in a way that suggests I’m listening to them, typing loudly, and interpretive dance.

I’m an avid collector. My collections include vintage porn DVDs, curiously shaped cigarette butts, and spare parts from discarded Ford minivans. I also have other hobbies. I’m familiar with social media. I maintain an active Facebook account, where I frequently post pictures of my lava lamp and my CandyFarmQuest scores.

I am certain that I can contribute greatly to your company. My mere presence will create the illusion of a busy office environment, so that potential clients are impressed with your people-hiring abilities. I don’t have friends or acquaintances, so I’m willing to work weekends, as long as I don’t have to show up at work and nobody’s around to monitor me.

If my former employer had to say a few words about me, they’d probably be angry screams of hatred, accompanied by wanton destruction of nearby objects. Don’t call him.

In conclusion, you could probably do a lot worse than hiring me. (You could set your offices on fire, for example.)

I look forward to your response.

Last wish

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Today we go even further down memory lane, to the very beginning of my life in Denmark. During the first two years here I went to Rygaards International School.

Our history teacher was an Irish guy by the name of Mr. Murphy. That’s right, back then all our teachers were either a “Mr” or a “Mrs”. To this day I don’t know most of their first names. In fact, I can’t be 100% sure they even had first names.

Mr. Murphy was one of everyone’s favourite teachers, despite the fact that he was one of the strict ones. He had a heavy Irish accent that took a while to get used to (“a while” in my case would turn out to be many months). Many a time he’d go off on a tangential story about something completely irrelevant to the subject at hand. The stories were, without exception, hilarious.

It was also not out of character for him to act out his favourite battles from history by jumping onto desks, running through the classroom, and otherwise re-enacting some epic war scenes.

“Incoming! Think fast, kids!”

He was also famous for his surprise quizzes. He’d walk into the classroom, tell everyone to close their books, grab their pens, and write down answers to a bunch of random questions he asked. Sometimes, however, he’d put a twist on this exercise, just for fun.

One day he walked in and gave the following instructions: “Blank page, name on top. You’re in the navy during World War II. Your submarine has just been hit and is rapidly sinking. You have time to write a letter to your parents, knowing it’s the last thing they’ll read from you. You’ve got two minutes. Go!”

Everyone scrambled to write down some panicked words. After two minutes, Mr. Murphy told us to stop writing, collected all of our “letters” and then proceeded to read some of them out loud to the class. Mercifully, he avoided mentioning students’ names. Less mercifully, he didn’t even try to contain laughter at some of the stuff people wrote.

Surprisingly, this looks nothing like Mr. Murphy

There were some needlessly formal letters, beginning with “Dear mother and father, this is your son writing to you…”. Some letters were otherwise awkward and amusing. However, the absolute best letter read:

“Mom, dad, our submarine has been hit. We’re not going to make it. I’ve got only seconds left to live before we sink. Wish you were here!“…

…I don’t think Mr. Murphy could’ve hoped for a better comic relief that day.