Dear Potential Employer,
I’m married to my job. When you hire me, we get married. I am a plain but devoted wife. I wear fresh-ironed, simple-patterned dresses, and bake unhealthy but delicious cakes and cookies. You gorge yourself upon them all morning, idly turning the pages of the N. California edition of the New York Times, face smeared with a vacant, sugar-stunned expression. Knocking back your untouched coffee in one shot, you stagger out the door, downhill to the office. You are mine.
GUEST POSTSCRIPT: I’m all atremble here squattin — literally squattin, and no I don’t mean squatting — in the very buttock-trough of our dear leader — I mean, øur dear Ms. Premientoe, sorry. Yes, atremble, yes, postscript, yes it feels delicious. BREADSTIXXX OUT.