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