Dear Hiring Managers of the World,
I am writing to inform you that I’ll no longer be writing cover letters for minimum wage, part-time, seasonal, or temporary jobs until you explain to me why you’re so obsessed with these disgraces to the written word. No one sounds like a cover letter. If you do, you should be spanked with the fourth edition of The Elements of Style.
To start the letter, I gotta give you my address. Are you gonna send me a stripper in a cake if I get the job? If so, I like red velvet. The stripper can be any flavor.
Of course, you don’t list the intended recipient in the job listing. I have to stalk an ugly person on LinkedIn. That they’re never gonna read my letter makes this pointless and creepy. In the job post, can you at least name-drop the AI that’s gonna scan my letter for keywords like “willing to get abused for fifteen bucks an hour”?
Adding the date is a waste too since it’s gonna be months before you respond, if you respond. You get a free pizza when the delivery guy is half an hour late. It’s taken you three months to read two pieces of paper. Where’s my free pizza?
On to the opening salvo: “I am writing to you today to apply for the X position.”
First off, “I am writing to you today” is redundant. And of course I’m applying for the position. Why else would I be writing to you? To wish you a Merry Fucking Christmas?
Next I gotta brag subtly: “Because of my extreme tolerance for bullshit and my vast experience in sublimation…”
And follow it up with fan fiction: “I believe I would be a perfect fit for your retail services consortium.”
The second paragraph is my last relevant job. Despite how replaceable I was, I gotta describe myself like the whole ship would’ve sunk without my ass keeping the captain’s chair toasty.
To remind you what real work is, since being a hiring manager is more of a posture than a position, work is something you have to be paid to do. I’ve only ever worked so I don’t have to live in a refrigerator box.
What did I learn at my last job? That I have to put up with middle-aged babies with god complexes so that I don’t end up living in a refrigerator box.
Third paragraph: education i.e. the gilded turd a hedge fund masquerading as a university sold me. Ah yes, the good old days of hitting the bong—I mean, books.
Fourth paragraph: my hobbies, kinda. I have to talk about how I breastfeed displaced kookaburras or how I enjoy reading The New York Times. You know, lies.
Final paragraph. Same as the first, still the worst. I have to repeat what was written up front because around the third paragraph AI application readers are struck with amnesia.
You wanna hear how I have “attention to detail” and “communication skills”?
When you require attention to detail, can you please spell-check your listings? Year has an a after the e, and precision doesn’t have two z’s. When your company’s name is spelled three different ways, can you bold the correct spelling?
Communication skills? Bitch, what?
Despite you not responding in a reasonable time frame, I’ll forgive you for spelling my last name wrong. But when you call me Darnell or Daveed or DaQuan, despite every communication having DANIEL emblazoned on it, I get miffed.
Riddle me this, hiring managers: Why are you obsessed with this well-margined toilet paper? My résumé lays out everything in goddamn bullet points. I managed to navigate your early aughts application portal without snapping my laptop in two. A ten minute interview would make it clear that I’m not a moron who needs an asinine writing exercise.
In sum, I am writing to you today to inform you that you can kiss my ass. I’m gonna accept a salaried position in the most booming industry in America: fentanyl. Don’t need a cover letter for that.
Sincerely,
Dan Dellechiaie