Dear Mr. Motzko,
Can I have your job?
Usurper, Class of 2004
Usurper! Mendicant! Shapeshifter! You can have my job after you have extricated yourself off of the three-pronged trident of logical deceit that you have carelessly constructed.
Item the first: you seem to be laboring under that this job is freely given like so many titular archbishoprics. Like the eyeless mole people coursing beneath our streets, this is a life that you are born into. While I may have unwittingly drawn a parallel to the secret existence of the teachers’ labyrinth below R-hall, do not take the concept of destiny with a grain of salt. Frankly, salt is killing me through elevated blood pressure.
Item the second: do you really think that you are up to the task? This job requires heavy lifting, the ability to communicate with animals and the fortitude to wear rash-inducing pancake makeup for hours upon end. Make no mistake, my future doppleganger, this is no cream puff job. The filling is made not from sugar and lard but from the tortured pleas of the masses. You can really get fat on the masses.
Item the last: if you are to assume my position (i.e. asleep in front of the fireplace in a burlap snuggie), who will take your position? Too often when I hear the words “college students” they are not immediately followed by the words “protest in the streets.” You collegiate types have gone as soft and bland as fat-free Oreos.
In my day, we didn’t complain about the soul-crushing limits on salad bar visits by cyber-weeping on Twitter. We solved that problem with a hysterical rant delivered through a flaming megaphone.
Until you 14th graders can lay down the hackysacks and show why you are members of the phylum Chordata, I’m taking this gig to the grave with me. In other words, you can have it sometime in the year 2146.