**JOB APPLICATION**

To whom it may concern:

Hello! My name is Marc and I am seeking gainful employment with a struggling, morally questionable corporation more concerned with the almighty dollar than keeping the client, one that boasts a far-reaching, disingenuous mission statement; a company waste-high in lawsuits that can best utilize my distaste for authority and desire to get “paid more for doing less.” You know the type of job that people say monkeys can do? That. That is what I’m looking for.

I am an exquisitely clever man. Cunning. Crafty. No doubt you will be impressed with the variety of ingenious ways with which I will endeavor to cut corners and sweep problems under the rug!

If you are looking for someone who is self-motivated and persistent, I’m your guy! Like when my dealer is out of town and I shakily ask around on the streets for some blow, or how I keep tabs on my exgirlfriends. Watching… waiting…

Moreover, I am a substantially attractive man (physically) and am not averse to trysts with the client, coworkers, or your cleaning woman Juanita, who I hear puts out if you but dangle the term citizenship (now there’s a fine piece of tail, eh? Mamasita!).

I enjoy creating a relaxed, comfortable environment for all my colleagues. Like how I make ribald racist jokes to keep everyone laughing, or compliment women on their breasts and asses. They love this. (Even when I don’t verbalize the flattery, my lecherous, hungry gazes are usually indication enough!) People show their gratitude by coming up with silly, endearing nicknames for me, like Shyster, Dead Beat, and Jackal, just to show me I am one of them. Ha ha! (ps. Please note these are my nicknames, not to be confused with my aliases.)

You are probably wondering if I can multitask. I am happy to respond in the affirmative… And how! Why, practically every night I find myself juggling my raging alcoholism, crippling methamphetamine habit, and devastating self-hatred, yet still find time to download illicit pornography and verbally abuse my baby’s momma. No small feat!

I am a BIG fan of diversity in the workplace, and I look forward to working with a vast array of people within a variety of races, religions, lifestyles and political affiliations.*

I’m very flexible when it comes to my schedule. Sometimes I might arrive for work on time, while others I might stagger in hours late, barely coherent, wearing the same rumpled clothes that I had on the last time you saw me and emitting a strange odor that will seem to be a cross between cheap perfume, alcohol, and some other, vaguely chemical scent. This will usually be after one of my famed 48-72 hour benders, which fortunately I keep restricted to only the first and third weekends of the month. **

Don’t be alarmed by my absence of relevant job experience (or curious lack of a work history altogether). I can assure you that I have had/pulled many jobs, it’s just that on the advice of counsel it is evidently in my best interest to omit them from this missive. Oh, and please do not contact my references. But if you must, bear in mind that these are outrageously hilarious people who will feign confusion, like they don’t even know me. Kooks!

Obviously, I will expect a salary that is grossly inconsistent with the level of work that I accomplish.

I look forward to hearing from you!

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*Except Jews, blacks, gays, Hispanics, women, Catholics, Poles, Arabs, Asians, republicans, democrats, libertarians, Muslims, Scientologists, lesbians, Baptists, Indians (both real and the tribal ones), senior citizens, agnostics, the disenfranchised, fatties, retards, vegetarians, freaks, Mormons (or is that redundant!), do-gooders, go-getters, depressives, intellectuals, bisexuals, children, extroverts and people who are left-handed.

**And second and fourth.

**WIFE APPLICATION**

(I originally wrote this on April 23^rd, 2006. The tongue-in-cheek tenor was apparently lost on Karma, which promptly wove a few madcap twists into my otherwise haphazard, liquor-bathed existence…)

People often say, “I’d hate to wake up and be [some advanced age] having [some cumbersome burden] and never having [fun experience too late to consider].” I’ve uttered these words myself, usually over stiff drinks at unsavory bars, but I’ve never taken the line too seriously. That was until this morning, when I woke up with the disconcerting knowledge that I’m 27 years old. Twenty seven! How and when did this happen? There’s no humanly way I can be this old. 22, maybe… 23, TOPS. But 27? 27 is the age where you’re an ostensible full-fledged adult, as in kids, a house, and a fledgling 401K. One minute you’re in 6^th grade, rummaging around in your father’s top bureau drawer, finding a bag of marijuana and box of condoms (Dad?), and the next you’re practically over the hill!

I’m way behind, and drastic action is necessary; I feel that my only recourse is to significantly fast track my life. As such, I will immediately begin accepting applications for a spouse, preferably one with baggage (I’m already 27, obviously I don’t have the time to be cultivating deep-seated festering wounds and unplanned children from scratch).

There’s no time for wooing. We’ll be bypassing courtship as well as the honeymoon phase and plunge directly to discontented married life! Applicants should be prepared to nag me for not assisting with the household chores, never being home, and caring more about my goddamned friends than I do my own children, for crissakes. You should seek to create an abrasive and unwelcoming atmosphere when I return from my soul-deadening 12 hour workday at my mindless office job, affording me the unmistakable feeling that I’m damned if I do, damned it I don’t.

Further, you should pack on the pounds and withhold sex on a regular basis while simultaneously criticizing my spare tire, which I might get rid of if I got off my ass and did some work around the house for a change. The usage of sex as a weapon is a plus, though not required.

You may want to assimilate various adjectives into your everyday lexicon, including “lazy,” “beer-drinking,” and “no good.” Belittling is a MUST! You will oversee the slow erosion of my inflated male ego until feelings of inadequacy and resentment become permanently encoded into my makeup.

We will plan family trips in our Dodge Caravan that are certain to be awful for all parties involved, particularly our ungrateful children, who will not see the inherent value of a trip to Colonial Williamsburg in lieu of Disney World. On the highway we will invite them to play the license plate game, where they will earn a quarter for each different plate they identify. The lying, opportunistic bastards will invariably spot license plates from all 50 states.

I will refer to you as my “old lady” and will not give you the respect that you deserve for raising the kids while I’m off doing God knows what.

I anticipate having my every little mistake brought to my attention and relentlessly harped upon; you may find it useful to devise a mental database where you can store such transgressions and thus more readily throw them in my face when we fight. To this end, constant bickering will be expected, mostly surrounding my drinking, gambling, and emotional unavailability. Your arguing strategy will ideally consist of emotionally charged, sweeping generalizations against which I cannot possibly hope to defend myself.

Any and all sexual activity will be referred to as “horsing around” and, as previously suggested, such activity will be unsatisfactory, mechanical and passionless on the rare occasions when we do horse around.

Our children. Our kids should be smarmy, spoiled little sons of bitches who will take us for granted and assume that the origin of money is trees. I will anticipate them walking all over me, my reprimands directed at them met with the venomous retort of, “You’re not my real dad!” instilling in me the sharp sting of self-loathing which I will remedy with vodka and your Valiums as I watch M*A*S*H reruns deep into the night.

Ideal candidates should possess numerous maddening quirks, such as chewing your food slowly and with your mouth open, so that I may witness our overcooked pot roast being softly pureed in your meaty chops at dinnertime.

Lastly. You must have a working knowledge of ho w to train a man. As you are all undoubtedly well aware, the only good man is a properly trained one, and who better to accept this responsibility than you, my wife.

Please do not delay. I am 27 and the clock is ticking!