February 14, 2009
Dear Tin House:
First off, let me just say that you have my vote assured for stiffening any city or state law penalizing the theft of heavy metals from businesses for the purpose of selling the coveted material on the black market to make a quick buck. This practice is despicable. As publisher of a fine print journal housed in a tin can, businesses like yours will be the first on such a thief’s agenda.
As a recently laid off employee of a publication that is also housed in a tin can and distributed through metal boxes, and one who is now in search of temporary work, I would like to make the following proposal: Let me guard your property. I have very few credentials in private security, but I do know how to wield a baton, furnish a knife and drop-kick a bouncy ball (I wasn’t first pick on the playground for nothing). These are all skills that could protect your house from a lack of tin, which, if I’m not mistaken, is the primary element that covers and protects you and your fine works of literary mastery.
I am not asking for you to publish my work as trade for my abilities as a night watchman. Believe me, I’ve already tried (and failed) at that. From slush pile to intern’s desk to recycle box, many of my pieces were too brash, too vague, too full of genre and satire for your eminently high standards for quality writing. Think nothing of it. I still want to guard your tin shack from unseemly characters with dollar signs in their eyes, and I ask for only a small sum of money for my troubles. I offer steep discounts for my work—-would also, in a pinch, accept an unpaid internship—-because we are, after all, in the grips of the Great Apocacession.
I look forward to your enthusiastic response.
P.S. To offer you proof that I am serious and diligent, I will Google search for an image of a thief with dollar signs for eyes.