Dear MFA Selection Committee,

Imagine yourself closing your eyes, but don’t really close your eyes because I mean this as a metaphor. Picture a classroom full of twenty-three snot-nosed kids working on their “What I Did for Summer Vacation” essays. You are a teacher with plantar fasciitis and a bad hangover. You look through the psychotic handwriting of sixth graders and see the one shining jewel; the title is “Wet Hot Balls: My Summer Volleyball Extravaganza.” That day, crowned with three gold stars, a writer was born (it was me).

In my previous applications you learned about my compassionate activism for the cause of men’s rights, my ventures in substitute teaching, and my triumphant return to the world of waiting tables. Well, let’s be honest, you weren’t impressed. This time I’m going to get down to brass tacks.

Some of my influences: the sexy boriquas of Junot Diaz’s fiction, Benjamin Percy’s badass Batman voice, and the weed farm in T.C. Boyle’s Budding Prospects. All of which inspire me to sack up, drink my coffee black, and write about real issues that real men with real mustaches face, such as the story enclosed in this application, “Santa Claus and the Never-Ending Case of Erectile Dysfunction.” Spoiler Alert: Mrs. Claus is a lesbian.

You should know two things: 1) I’ve done exhaustive research on all fronts of your writing program and 2), I’ve got to tell you, you would love my schnitzengruben. No innuendo intended, not at all. On the contrary, I’ll come right out and tell you I’ve seen photographs of your tenured faculty and they’re a batch of good-looking people that I’m willing to drink with on a regular basis.

Regardless, the harsh reality is that I’m working a dead-end job, making less than enough to pay back my student loans, and I’d really like this MFA gig so I can defer all further payments indefinitely. A little stipend would really go a long way, which would certainly be a determining factor on whether or not I accept your inevitable offer of admissions. Inevitable, of course, because of the relentless flow of applications I have sent forth, and which I will continue to send forth until admitted or, rather, until the end of time (whichever comes first).

Here’s a taste of my teaching style: I. Will. Blow. Your. Mind. But I’m open to any pedagogical suggestions. Enclosed in my application is a sample lesson plan, “Hink Pink Stink Link: An Introduction to Intermediate Rhymes.” Due to my guidance, eighteen pre-k students can now rhyme like a motherfucker, which also rhymes with “trucker.”

On a side note, you may or may not have seen the GRE scores that have cost me hundreds of dollars to send to you each year. I just want you to know I forgive you if you haven’t looked at them, and, if you have looked at them, that I can explain (upon request).

Anyway, I want to be a part of your crowd that uses the big words; just thought I’d mention that. I’ll be wrapping up now. You know everything you need to know. Do the right thing — I’m just saying.

Until next time,
You know who I am.