Riding In Cars With White Supremacists

Dear Skagit Valley Herald,



I read in Sunday’s paper that you are looking for something called a Digital Content Manager. I have no idea what that is, but I can imagine what it might involve, and I think I’d probably be a lot better at it than that rag-tag team of syphilitic bums parking their Albertson’s carts in your office for eight-hour day-picnics and calling it journalism. Your leads read like fridge magnets arranged by demented children. Your cutlines read like meat tags in the world’s vaguest deli. Your paper is dying of ad cancer.

On a good day, I wouldn’t have even been reading your paper. On a good day, I would have been watching Million Dollar Homes in my underwear. But guess what? Sunday was not a good day. Sunday was a bad day. And by the time Sunday night rolled around and some vagrant hag chose to throw your paper on the bar floor rather than use it to wipe spilled gin from her skirt, I was just desperate enough and just broke enough and just drunk enough that I found myself circling your classified ads with soulful longing while the cover band played a Mariachi version of Wild Horses so beautiful it made me cry, and I knew I had reached my bottom. Digital Content Manager sounds like sex on the hood of a Pontiac when you realize your second minimum wage job pouring drinks for Republicans at a golf club is slightly less satisfying than your primary minimum wage job serving pancakes to Canadian corpses.

I’m doing this for me, Skagit Valley Herald. Not you. You need me, sure. But not as bad as I need a vacation from the freaks.

I want you to know this, Skagit Valley Herald: I’m only applying to your aesthetically and intellectually appalling paper so that I won’t have to listen to a white supremacist dishwasher explain why he only fucks married women. As Digital Content Manager for the Skagit Valley Herald, I won’t have to listen to that shit ever again. And if I’m assigned to some sort of white supremacist dishwashers beat in South Everett or some other unfathomable ghetto of the human condition, I will simply trade that beat to a less skilled reporter in exchange for oral sex.
 
All this writing has me tuckered out. I’m going to bed now, but I look forward to reading your official job offer in the morning, or whenever I finally get around to checking my email again, which probably won’t be for at least another six days, because I have a lot of drinking to do and absolutely no rent to pay. Because I live with my parents, who are themselves recovering journalists, which is why they can’t afford nice things.

Thanks for keeping such a limp finger on the indiscernible pulse of a dying industry, Skagit Valley Herald.

Thanks for being there.




Sincerely,
Molly G. Morrow

MIDNIGHT PSA: Wearing A Mexican Swimsuit On Your Period Makes You Racist In A Weird Way

 By David Schwimmer, Library Town Fashion Critic/Sexpert






Ladies, if you're like me, then you're on your period pretty much all of the time. You're probably eating a hot dog sans sauerkraut right now, thinking about David Schwimmer in a banana-colored onesie. Why can't my boyfriend's hair do the David Schwimmer? And then you reach for the ugliest, comfiest pair of panties you own. But ladies, whatever you do - don't reach for that Mexican swimsuit!


Wearing your Mexican swimsuit when you're on your period makes you racist, for the following fear-based reasons: 

A. You're admitting to yourself (and the world, if you're one of those nocturnal she-wolves that prowls the aisles of Safeway looking for Popsicles at three in the morning while you gush blood from the hole God left in you) that you're too lazy to change a tampon,*

B. Being Too Lazy To Change A Tampon = Being Mexican,

C. Mexico has a monopoly on hideous swimsuits because Mexico is too poor to shop at Target and France took all the hideous pants, and

D. You wouldn't have bought that Mexican swimsuit, you fool, if you hadn't forgotten your American swimsuit in San Diego, having decided at the last minute to tag along on your parents' day trip in hopes of scoring some sweet, cheap, Mexican smack from a "Pharmacy"/"Farmacia"/"Lobster Shack"/"Store That Sells Snake Bracelets And Only Snake Bracelets."

So ladies, next time you're tempted to just camp out for four or five days in those taxi-yellow swim trunks with the fake gold military buttons and the polka dots that look like someone burned them off a gay clown with a blow torch, remember your Mexican friends. Remember black market Xanax. Remember the Alamo. Whatever it takes. And then get out there and show the world that women can still be functional, friendly, productive members of society even though they are literally menstruating twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three-hundred and sixty-five miraculous, weepy days a year. 




*Idea for massage clinic that caters to women on their periods: "Popsicle Massage." We sell you delicious popsicles while you get your uterus kneaded like artisan bread dough.

Withdrawal

O! Beautiful bank teller!

I know,
I know the last thing the world needs is another part-time poet
Loving you from a vast distance,
Touching the pen because you touched it,
Licking the wounds of slips and deposits
With gummy melted candy suckers
Shoved deep down in my pockets.

But your face
When you dropped and shuffled and clicked
The presidents all in a row,
How the skin of it white as piano keys -
No flats, all sharps, an echo -
Sparkled with this faint sweat,
A cashmere sweat,
A Bank of America sweat.

I knew I would be poor forever and ever.