by Roxane Hudon
This is the sequel to How To Not Find A Job
Oh Hello again, world!
You probably remember me, I’m the 26-year old failure of a journalist searching for herself at the bottom of a scotch glass. Unfortunately, it’s not bottomless and when you hit the floor, you just kinda lie there for awhile, staring up, wondering if it’s worth the climb. It’s kinda nice down here, comfortable, you can yell things out like “I’VE GOT NOTHING TO LOSE, I’M FREEEEEE!” and no one will notice.
I once again find myself at the crossroads of unemployment, although, thankfully, I have a lot of experience amassed from my time in Scotland. Along with my previously documented unstapling skills, I am also now a certified smoothie artiste who has no qualms with saying “FUCK YOU” to unpaid writing gigs, because if you’re not going to pay me, why should I keep pretending I care, don’t you know I am the owner of ballzmontreal.com, does that not impress you? Clark Kent quit journalism, and that means nothing, so, you know what I mean?
Aside from learning the perfect balance between frozen fruits, yogurt and juice, I’ve also gathered a solid crew of misfits, which clearly demonstrates my keen eye for character and/or just proves that I’ve sat under many tables until kindred spirits have crawled on their hands and knees to join me, because they agreed it looked like a fun place to play. Don’t kick the underdogs while you’re having your meal, grown-ups, you’ll spill our imaginary tea.
I think the aforementioned qualities and quantities point to me as the ideal candidate for any position and I’d like to be considered for all of the following jobs.
The United Nations
To Whom It May Concern at the United Nations
I am a recent enough graduate of the School of Journalism, a field of study I pursued, because I was foolish enough to believe it had the power to change the world, and I think that tasteless brand of foolishness and bland idealism makes me the perfect candidate to join your noble institution.
During my scholarly years, my favourite part of writing essays was always concocting good introductions/conclusions. I’d come up with a clever, unrelated way to lead into my topic for the intro and conclude with some kind of joke referring to all the nonsense I’d written. Often, there’d also be a schmaltzy line thrown in promoting peace on Earth and discouraging a doomsday vision of the future. I once wrote there was more to peace and love than “hemp pants,” which I think you’ll find is true. The middle part was just full of long-winded sentences and stuff I’d make up and associate with appropriately titled books I’d find on Amazon. I would follow the same procedure for any class or subject, it all came back to “hope” and as long as I handed in my essay with enough confidence, I could get away with it. Also, if it was the last essay of the semester, it was very important to scrawl a “Happy Holidays!” followed with a happy face.
All this to say that, after diligently reading all nine chapters of your Charter, I think it could use a little humour and make-believe. I mean, if Article 2 of Chapter 2 is going to state that “All Members shall settle their international disputes by peaceful means in such a manner that international peace and security, and justice, are not endangered” it could use a little more pizzazz to spruce up that bullshit and if I could sum myself up using only two words, that would be “pizzazz” and “bullshit.” Wyclef Jean once famously stated “no fightin’” in Shakira’s hit song “Hips Don’t Lie” and that’s probably something you should think about. A giant, golden sign with the words “World Peace” appeared on the ground after Madonna finished a rather glitzy and emotional performance of ‘Like a Prayer’ at this year’s Super Bowl, and that’s probably something you should think about too. I’m just sayin’ “All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood” may not get the people going.
Me and you, we are the same. The people are asking “What about Bashar al-Assad?” just like they were asking me “Why are you so academically lazy?” People will ask these questions, my friends at the UN. If you hire me, my first order of the day will be to call up Garry Marshall and get him going on the star-studded extravaganza that will be The United Nations film, with countless inter-weaving plots that will see Ban Ki-Moon/ Jackie Chan kicking ass, Vladimir Putin/ Mikhail Baryshnikov igniting his passion for dance with a Chechnyan ballerina, David Cameron/ Hugh Grant being a bumbling, posh arsehole who comically ends up in a pile of horse shit, Stephen Harper/ Will Sasso riding a bear dressed as a Mountie, because no one cares about Canada anyway, Barack Obama/ Denzel Washington giving great speeches, but also teaching a bunch of ragtag football players that race doesn’t matter, only a mutual love for Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell’s “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” At the end, Anderson Cooper/ Ryan Gosling will wink at the camera and coyly purr “It ain’t all hemp pants, guys and gals,” to wrap up his story about how the UN just saved the world.
The future is ours, my friends.
To Whom It May Concern at the International Society for Krishna Consciousness,
I am a recent enough graduate of the School of Journalism, where I learnt absolutely nothing of value, except to lose myself in society’s promulgation of all that is immoral. Drinking a lot of caffeine and alcohol became an important part of my identity as a would-be journalist, and, just as all career prospects have shunned me, I would like to shun all addictive habits associated with these career prospects, cleanse my soul, etc.
Before I convince you I am the right person for your movement/organization/ fun dance party, let me tell you how we met, Krishnas. As a cinema student in my CEGEP days, I spent a lot of time in the editing suite, cutting up images for my groundbreaking mockumentary entitled “Dancecore,” (I’d like to say “more on that later,” but no, that’s the last you’ll hear about my groundbreaking mockumentary entitled “Dancecore”). By happy coincidence, you’d often have your chanting reunions in the room next door. I’m not gonna lie, you made it quite difficult to focus on sound, when all we could hear was “HARE KRISHNA HARE KRISHNA KRISHNA KRISHNA HARE HARE,” so, instead of doing our work, we decided to start singing along, but we’d also steal your weird, oatmeal cookies that tasted like gyprock. And so, my first introduction to you was through procrastination and thievery and I apologize for that, but I’d like to think that those cookies embedded in me a sense of calm and eventually pushed me on the road to becoming a better person. Okay, okay, so the tip of my big toe is barely hovering over that road, but that ain’t nothing, Hare Krishnas. Later, during my university years, I’d see you singing in subway stations, mumbling to yourself on the bus, sporting that unique knot-hairstyle and toying with your secret Hare Krishna bag and I’d smile, thinking how not far at all I’d come from my Dancecore/ gyprock cookie days.
I think I’d be an ideal candidate for the Hare Krishna venture, because I’d like to start applying your four principles (no meat, no illicit sex, no gambling and no intoxication) to my life, I’ve had too much of all four. I used to be a vegetarian, but with old age, I’ve stopped caring about anything and whatever stopped me from eating questionable pink bacon or endless slices of chorizo in the past really seems meaningless right now. Opinions require effort and getting out of bed at productive hours, but I could give it a shot. As for illicit sex, I used to care for that as well, but it’ll be easy to quit. Young people are all about the sex and throwing it around and having it everywhere. I can’t be bothered anymore, for that also requires too much effort, and movement and pretending to care about the person boring you with a foreword and an epilogue. Just do it quickly and we can all sleep. Sleep is peace, my friend.
I respect your stance on gender. I’ve noticed I never see any female Hare Krishnas, I hear you think we are morally and spiritually inferior. I, for one, can attest that’s probably true and maybe it would do me some good to serve a few bald men in dresses for a while, bring me down a notch or two. I’ve been left untamed for far too long, my brothers.
The other day, as I walked with a friend, I told her if I lost my teeth, that’s when I would become a junkie, that would be my turning point. But the turning point could go the other way, Hare Krishnas, ‘Fuck It’ has two faces. I could fall face first in the gutter, or I could don a light-coloured robe, shave my head and tell everyone how transcendental I am. It’s a thin line, but one side offers free food, which in a coupla years, will probably be considered as “benefits.” I have no prior experience playing the Mrdanga, but I’m a fast learner. Looking forward to hearing back from you. I’m tired of trying to understand myself, you’re right, I just want to sing the same words on loop, bang on some shit and play with pebbles in my pocket, until nothing and everything makes sense, until nothing is nothing, until I am nothing, until I am Consciousness, Consciousness is me and Krishna holds me close, pets my head at night and tells me everything is going to be alright.
Hare Krishna Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna Hare Hare
Hare Rama Hare Rama
Rama Rama Hare Hare
The British Monarchy
To Whom It May Concern at the British Monarchy,
According to my research, if I wanted to address a letter to Her Majesty the Queen, I have to open it with ‘Madam’ and end with ‘I have the honour to be, Madam, Your Majesty’s humble and obedient servant,’ but it also specifies that “This traditional approach is by no means obligatory. You should feel free to write in whatever style you feel comfortable.” On that note, take heed, Madam.
I am a recent enough graduate of the School of Journalism, and since I had nothing to do back home, I decided to try evolving as a human being somewhere else. Yes, Madam, I’m sure you’re having a good chuckle behind your velour gloved hand right now, as you’ve surely notice the Return Address is located in Glasgow. Evolution+ Glasgow=?. Listen, Madam, we couldn’t all be chosen to be Queen, destined for a life of waving and hats, no, there can only be one, so please reserve your judgment for the night, when you’re sitting in your boudoir polishing your porcelain or whatever a Queen does at night. Do you watch television? Embroidery? Do you ever freak out, get wasted and start running around Buckingham in your underwear yelling: “I’M JUST A FUCKING SYMBOL TO YOU!”
I know, this is not about you, but rather, about me and why you should hire me to be a fellow Royal, but I think it’s fun to get to know your future employer/ mother. I think I’d make a great Royal, because, once, while I was sitting in a bar, I joked that my life mantra was “Aim High, Stay Classy,” but my mother always said “t’es belle, t’es capable,” so why not make this mantra a reality, Madam. I’ve applied to many lowlier positions in your great country, and instead of letting constant rejection bring me down, I’ve concluded that I’m too good for them and I should aim for the top, the best position available, the British Monarchy. “Aim High, Stay Classy.” “T’es belle, t’es capable.” Appearance and demeanour-wise, I am no Kate or Pippa Middleton. Values and selflessness-wise, I am no Diana. Worst comes to worst, I may have a bit of Sarah, Duchess of York in me, but, worst comes to worst, I’ll get fat and shut the fuck up.
I’m interested in this position, because it has everything I look for in a career: 1)idleness 2)easy money 3) funny hats. Also, no one really talks to you, which suits me fine. Social relations are for the young and hopeful. I’m growing old and angry and just can’t be bothered anymore, just wave at you from a far, and sometimes, be on a boat, and everyone knows how much I love being on a boat, which is another quality that would make me the perfect candidate to become a Royal, Madam, my love for being on a boat. My brash North American accent could also liven up any of your stiff Royal social events and take the attention away from Prince Harry standing naked in a corner, satisfying his stoner munchies with a handful of golden escargots. I’ll immediately distract with my silly North American antics, like saying “cash register” instead of “till,” all of the Royal attendees will immediately be in stitches at how silly “cash register” instead of “till” is and start poking me for more North American barbarisms and then we’ll all roll on the floor laughing at the confusion behind who we’re referring to when we say “Asians,” and then one particularly cheeky Baron will point out that “they’re all bloody savages anyway!” before strolling out for a quick game of polo. Meanwhile, Prince Harry will be knee-deep in the chocolate fountain, fondling himself and yelling about William being the “favourite,” but really “just a bald dickhead.” But no one will be paying attention, because we’ll be politely arguing about football and soccer, you’ll have dozed off already, Madam, because it’ll be past 2 p.m. and you’ll have chugged your glass of milk.
In conclusion, I’d like to be considered for this position, because I am ready to enter a new chapter in my life, one where I’m showered with money, shrouded in mystique and worshipped for no reason.
“Aim high, stay classy.” “T’es belle, t’es capable.”
Success is surely imminent.