PUT IT ALL ON RED

Dear Mr. Lopez,

I write to apply for an analyst position within your organization, the Latin Kings. As a summa cum laude graduate of an Ivy League institution with majors in Economics and Business, I can maximize your quarterly earnings while hustling hard in the street.

I know what you’re thinking–another white kid trying to prove that she is “gangsta” by writing you a formal cover letter? I assure you, Mr. Lopez, I don’t need to prove anything. In college, I tutored inmates at a local prison in preparation for the GED, and most fellow volunteers I talked to said they were doing it to “help someone out” or “find desperate men that would be willing to settle.” Not me. I used that opportunity to market myself to the gang world, and I have the prison tattoos to prove that I’m legit (and I can’t tell you how difficult it is to get a rudimentary tattoo done in the five minutes your supervisor, Scott, gives you for a bathroom break). I don’t want to brag, but let’s just say several lesser gangs have approached me with work offers. I had to tell each, “Naw, man, my dream is to work for the Latin Kings. When you stop being a pussy ass bitch, let me know, and I’ll have you come work for me.” This usually did not go over well and is the reason I wear an eye patch.

Does an eye patch make me gangsta? Of course not. Does an eye patch plus a don’t-fuck-with-me-attitude make me gansta? No, otherwise my grandmother would be a fucking kingpin. Does an eyepatch coupled with superior quantitative skills and an unparalleled understanding of market forces make me gangsta? You best believe it, son.

I don’t want this letter to be all about my outstanding personal characteristics and general badassery. I also have some great ideas to energize your business. After running some of the numbers, I’m convinced you can start charging people more for your protection from rival gangs. If your customers balk at this, offer some throwaway free gift, like a free Latin Kings tote or travel mug. People absolutely love that stuff, and if a free tote ain’t street, I don’t want to be street.

Also, every salesperson you have on the corner should have an iPad. It does nothing to help you sell more, but it does make you look like the cool, hip drug dealers. It also works as a great indicator of employee loyalty. You definitely want to keep an employee who can fend off a potential robber looking to get a free iPad, and you want to get rid of the loser who will give an iPad away like it’s candy (and I can already imagine the excuses: “He threatened to kill me!”; “It’s just an iPad.”; “Please, lady, I’m only thirteen!”).

I have a lot more where that came from, but like any savvy businesswoman, I’m not going to give you my best ideas in a cover letter. For that, you’re going to have to hunt me down and make me an offer I can’t refuse (which would probably be along the lines of $75,000 plus bonuses and full benefits).

Mr. Lopez, the Latin Kings is in position to become the Google of gangs; making mad money while offering a comfortable work environment with a 50% chance of shanking. I would love the opportunity to oversee this transformation and expansion in pursuit of my own personal goal to keep it hood.

Sincerely,

Melissa

On the front, it says “So I heard you’re turning 50…” and there’s a cartoonish old woman who looks pretty spunky. And when you open it up, bam! It says, “Maybe now you know how your mother felt when all she wanted was to sit for a few minutes and hear about how your day was going before you went out for the night.”

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On the outside, you’ve got something a boy turning thirteen would be into, like a skateboard or an electric guitar. The inside should have the word “radical.”

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The Far Side was one of the funniest and most successful cartoon strips ever, and Gary Larson’s economic, single-panel style is perfect for greeting cards. Let’s see if we can’t force him to do more of those.

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Aging men like golf. So, something with golf.

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On the outside, there’s a menorah – tasteful, not one of those garish ones you see. And on the inside, “Wishing you eight blessed days of Hanukkah.” (Note: Make sure “blessed” is a thing in Judaism. Also, that Hanukkah has eight days.)

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Graduating from high school is an important event in a young person’s life; it can also be financially uncertain. The inside should make light of the fact that there isn’t more money enclosed.

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On the outside we’ve got two children, a boy and girl, in black and white. They’re dressed up like adults, though, with the boy in a suit and the girl in a dress. But the clothes are a little too big for them, which heightens how young and cute they look. And the boy is giving the girl a small peck on the cheek. This sort of card will work for literally anything.

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It’s Greeting Card 101 that sympathy cards shouldn’t have cartoon drawings of Hell. But we didn’t make it this far by following the rules.

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Everyone loves a card that automatically plays a recording when you open it. Especially if it’s Larry the Cable Guy yelling that thing he always says.

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There’s a Christmas tree on the outside. On the inside is a heartfelt thank-you for not making one of those personal, computer-generated cards with a glossy picture of your family on it. God, those are ruining us.

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The outside says, “Congratulations on two beautiful twins…” and the inside says, “…Your wonderful gift to the world.” Artwork can be a mother bird with two hatching eggs or some shit.

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This card is unusual because it’s not for any special occasion. In fact, it’s blank except for an inspirational quote we’ll put on the front. And we’ll have a selection of quotes customers can choose from. Like the John Lennon one about life being what happens when you’re making other plans, or the Jack Kerouac one about how the only people for him are the mad ones. Actually, those two will probably do it.

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Can’t go wrong with a picture of a woman with large breasts.

Jeffery, I know at your age it seems like you have all the time in the world to screw around but I have news for you; you’re three years into The Ringling Bros. Clown College and come hell or high water you are going to finish your damn degree! This is not a two way discussion. I’m here to talk some sense into you.

When you told me you wanted to see the world, I though you meant you wanted a summer internship at Cirque de Soleil. I’d love for you do get some international clowning experience. But I’ll be a monkey’s uncle before you spend a whole year bumming around Europe, juggling on street corners to make ends meet.

Wipe that smile off your face and paint on a more serious expression! Clown College isn’t a right, you know. It’s a privilege. The day Congress passes a Federal Funding for Universal Higher Education in Physical Comedy and Circus Arts Act and writes me a check for 120 grand is the day you’re off the hook. But until then, either you find a way to pay me back or you come home with your Ringling Bros. Wacky Hacky Bachelor of Buffoonery degree.

Look, I know it’s been a tough three years. I’ve seen you after two all-nighters in a row, your makeup smeared and your rainbow wig a mess. But son, I am so, so proud of how far you’ve come. Hell, after high school you could barely juggle four rings for a minute without conking yourself on the head. Now you make a seven ball Mill’s Mess look like a three ball cascade!

You have to think about your future. Sure, it seems romantic and exciting to float around, putting down a hat and picking up some clubs when you’re running low on dough. But trust me; it’s a lonely life. I remember having the same conversation with my dad 27 years ago. I thought he was a square. I threw a pie in his face and grabbed my stuff, expecting never to come home. I can’t possibly thank him enough for taking me back when I came home four months later, destitute and hopeless. I wouldn’t wish that feeling on my worst enemy and I certainly wouldn’t wish it on you.

So listen to me, son. I want only the best for you. It took months of practice to get back my skills, to spin a plate on a stick and balance it on my head or spit water out of my mouth into a healthy mist instead of a steady stream. But I put in the time and effort and come August, they accepted me again at Ringling. I never looked back.

Once you’ve graduated, you can grab the world by the big red nose and honk away. But as you ride on this comically undersized car we call life, you’ll come to learn that there are some sacrifices worth making. You have to accept that, while it’s nice to think that life should a breeze, sometimes you’re the one with the water-squirting flower on your lapel and sometimes you’re the one with a face full of seltzer. So I’m asking you—no, I’m telling you—quit screwing around and give me ten good pratfalls!

Denial: “What? I can’t die this young, there must be a mistake. Your nurse probably just mixed up the test results.”

Anger: “That nurse is so fucking dumb.”

Bargaining: “Look, I’ll pay any amount for you to cure me. I know it looks like I don’t have a lot of money, but I do know a lot of drug dealers, and I’m pretty sure people would pay a lot of money to have sex with me.”

Anger, Part Deux: ”What do you mean it’s incurable?”

Anger, Part Trois: ”What do you mean you wouldn’t pay to have sex with me?”

Drinking: “Look, If you can’t cure me, I can at least drown my pain with my good friend Jack Daniels and then drunkenly text my ex-boyfriends about my impending death.”

Explanation: ”I just keep a bottle of it in my purse at all times in case a surprise quinceañera or fatal diagnosis pops up.”

Over-friendliness: ”Hey, ladies, grab all your nurse friends and come on down to examination room 2! We’re having a party and you’re all invited!”

Faux-apologizing: ”Sorry, doctor, I wasn’t aware that this was a No Fun Zone.”

Depression: ”Well, I guess I’m never going to find out how Cougar Town ends, so I might as well just die now.”

Vomiting: ”Really sorry about that. I’ll buy you a new shirt with all of my drug dealer/sex money.”

Bill Cosby Impression: “Look at my colorful sweater! I was on The Bill Cosby Show!”

Acceptance: ”You know, I’ve had a pretty good run, and I have a lot to be thankful for. Thanks for talking me through this, doctor, and I apologize for the violent mood swings.”

Arson: ”I will burn this doctor’s office to the ground if it is the last goddamn thing I do.”

Placation: ”Please don’t call the cops, it was a joke, I swear! You know what Bill Cosby would say about a situation like this?”

Faux-apologizing, Part Deux: “Sorry, sir, I realize a joke comparing how white people and black people eat jello probably wasn’t in the best of taste.”

Spiking a Football: ”BOOYAH, DOCTOR, IN YOUR FACE.”

Reflection: ”Well, doc, we’ve had one hell of a ride together, but I guess it’s time for me to head home and get my affairs in order. But before I go, are you sure I can’t interest you in a body shot?”

Body Shots: “I knew you’d come around.”