Why I am the Wright Candidate for the New Yrok Times Sumer Internship

Dear Sir or Madam:

Every once in a while I glance oevr the New Yrok Times and I start dreaming about what it
would be lkie if it came ture, my dream of wroking there as a editor. I would hereby like to apply for your Sumer internship programth erfore.
In my yoUnth I read “The Jumping Forg of Calaveras county” by George Orwwell, as wwell
as “Who Moved mY Cheese?” by Dr. Spencer Johnson, 2 semenal works of journalism. And
war&Peace, a short essay by the Russin author Baskin Robbins a greta work of literatur that
won two caldecot medals. Inspired me, alright. My thesis roeport for Ms. Abbot’s english class
titled “Who Moved My Chese? & The Jumping from of Homage to Catalonia: A Constrictive
Comparation”? earned me a C++ and the eulogy “Cletus You need to sturctureyour thoaughts,
and so plese turn back it in with the better second fradt cleaning up grammer, punctuation, sand
pelling.

–Mrs. Abbot”.
I also edited my scool newspaper, the “Bohefus High Vice-Moron”. For seven years. During my
tmie there, I reported on events as dirverse as the
k

your adcepted to Squid County adult
school studying diesel heavy equipment tech! congraduationls!
From there at the age of twenty-six in my heyday and with the prime of youth I moved on tho a-
internship at the local paper “The Bohefus Noon-Time Herald”. Where I checked the
classified section for periodic mistackes at times and at other times refilled the coffee dispenser
and preformed other tasks tc=rusical to the running of a newspaper of 1500-circulation like
cranking the generator on cold mornings. Our editorials arguing fro the sudden and accidental
death of a local miscreant won several community accoldates.l For example: Editor Buffard
Boonfunt had this to say of me: “Cletus is a fine boy, alright. {Goddamn these wasps! eustice,
get me the Raid!} Keeps the toilet klean and when you want him to, goes away.”
During my time at the Noon tTmei herald”. I

revolutioniszed the layout departrment.
You can reach Mister Boonfunt at 55-342
on weekends he stays at his hunterin g cabin
otherreferences are available upn request

BRWEAKING NEWS: NEW YROK TIMES BUIDLING BLOWN UP BY DISSATISFIED EMPLOIYEE

Of the one of the one times that I felt msot enthusiastic about wreporting was when I covreed
a water leak at the main water plant building of the adjacent to the adninistartion buidling of
Bohefus, the “City Hall, if you will. I was duck hunting when the call came in : fiften hours later I
had been on the scene of the story.The water leak threatedned a major fire in the buidling, due
to the fires proximity adjacent to the leak, was not allowed to progreass by fire fitiers. The mayor
was killed. I west all night at the buidling, interviewed admisinatiors, and also fire fighters, to det.
Our paper scooped the story that morning, not counting several local blogs.

It must also be noted that I am highly active in True Not!, an advocacy organization for
linguistically challenged people. As you may be aware, linguistically challenged people are a protected class under US anti-discrimination law. In this regard I am represented by Ebenezer Cohen of Cohen, Steinberg, Cohen & Steinberg, Washington’s most litigious employment law firm.

Please see my bolg atblog.net where I uptade every five to seventeen days, with pictures of cat
doing funny things. and also, I twitter frequently and am familiar with media.
In conclusion, therefore, Jounrnalism is a long and storied profesion, and i have Long dreamt
of occupying it. From the castle of otranto to the Halls of Charles Foster Kane. My idol in
journalism. THey say print Journalism is a dying craft, but I I have I will not give up on the my
dream of being one there her. Journalis-
m needs beople who are filred up about the issues of the day. I am fired pu.

I can also take it easy on the booze (if needed. )

Thank you for your consideration.

Regards

Cletus Theodore Buckhorn, Esq.


My Epiphany

My epiphany started with my nose. I was awake in bed, late at night. I was rubbing my nose, thinking about how ridiculous it was that I had a fleshy appendage projecting from my face.

My next thoughts concerned my ears, two more fleshy appendages, and the tufts of dead cellular gunk coming out of my scalp and face. It was like I was stuck in a clown suit. Just look at the way I walk. Loping forward on preposterous limbs, like a funny little animal.

It slowly began to dawn on me how deeply raw a deal is life.

Being embodied in material form is a staggering humiliation. I am a greasy, inadequate, fragile, demanding thing. Every day I must consume other organisms and extrude smelly wastes from my abdomen. The entirety of my will and boundless idealism is encapsulated in a bloody mass of tissue, one that will shortly shrivel up and die.

I got to thinking about how, ever since I was born, I’ve been marched relentlessly into a mysterious future known only for its cruel surprises and guarantee of annihilation. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m forced forward ceaselessly like a prisoner in a death march.

And while this has all been going on, while I’ve been at the mercy of a tyrannical series of events, I’ve also been at the mercy of space, hurdling along on a grain of sand through an endless, frozen void. I’ll never escape. The proud city I live in is shifted away from the sun every year, thrust through months of freezing weather, then shifted back again to endure a series of gassy storms. I don’t even know where I am.

I don’t know much else, either, about the workings of the world around me. No one can provide me with a convincing explanation. My search for the truth will be frantic and fruitless, and will nonetheless consume me until my consciousness is summarily snuffed out.

In the morning, I went to the laundromat. To get to the laundromat, I had to lope along on my limbs, moving my physical self across the frozen ground, buffeted by cold wind. Going to wash my freshly-deteriorated clothing, I thought about my endless struggle against entropy. Everything is constantly falling apart.

Everything I love and cherish will perish. All of my works will crumble into dust. The cognitive dissonance that these realities ask me to maintain if I am to remain even halfway content is unbearable. What do I have to be grateful for? That my life is infinitesimally less miserable that those of millions of others?

Life is a cruel trap. It’s like being on a sinking ship, lost at sea, all the while compulsively climbing higher and higher into the rigging, knowing full well the futility, screaming “why? why?” at a silent infinity.

It’s time humanity considered seriously taking on these constant humiliations. I envision a day when we are free from the constraints of time, space, uncertainty, physical embodiment and entropy.

The day will come, in the future.