D.A. Schulman : Writer/Illustrator/Creative Director

An Easier Way To View The Crumplings™

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Sat, 30 Sep 2017 20:50:00 +0000

View all previous issues of The Crumplings™ leading up to the latest, Issue #6, below. Or click here.

The Crumplings™ (Issue #6)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Sat, 30 Sep 2017 19:54:00 +0000

He burns for her...

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[This is a direct continuation of Issue #5]

Selected Poems (#3)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Thu, 14 Mar 2013 13:19:00 +0000

[View #1]

Selected Poems (#2)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Fri, 09 Nov 2012 15:35:00 +0000

[View #3]

Selected Poems (#1)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Tue, 30 Oct 2012 15:54:00 +0000

[VIEW #2]

Alternate Tracks™ (#11)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 12:11:00 +0000

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Alternate Tracks™ (#10)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 11:52:00 +0000

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NEXT STOP [CLICK HERE]

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Alternate Tracks™ (#9)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 11:54:00 +0000

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Alternate Tracks™ (#8)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 09:31:00 +0000

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Alternate Tracks™ (#7)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Sun, 21 Aug 2011 09:34:00 +0000

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Alternate Tracks™ (#6)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Sun, 31 Jul 2011 12:49:00 +0000

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Alternate Tracks™ (#5)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 13:05:00 +0000

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Alternate Tracks™ (#4)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Mon, 04 Jul 2011 17:50:00 +0000

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Alternate Tracks™ (#1 - #3)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Sun, 12 Jun 2011 13:59:00 +0000

First Stop:

#1 - Stand Clear Of The Closing Doors

#2 - Making A Connection

#3 - Planet Green Sweater

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The Crumples™ (Issue #5)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 10:39:00 +0000

An early 20th century painting learns a hard lesson when she exhibits herself at the wrong venue...

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[CLICK HERE to view Issue #6]

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The Crumples™ (Issue #4)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 09:42:00 +0000

Just when Napkin Man thought his adventures couldn't get any less adventurous...

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[This is the direct continuation of Issue #1.]

[CLICK HERE to view Issue #5]

The Crumples™ (Issue #3)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Mon, 24 May 2010 10:01:00 +0000

The biggest one yet...

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[CLICK HERE to view Issue #4]

The Crumples™ (Issues #1 and #2)

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Mon, 26 Apr 2010 10:06:00 +0000

What happens to rejected art? What happens to doodles sketched in the margins of legal pads and on napkins in fast food restaurants, or canvas portraits deemed mistakes and discarded? What about outlines, rough sketches, and first attempts that never see the light of day? Whether their “Creator” is an established artist, a child with a crayon, or a love-infused Romeo with a pencil and notebook--where do their creations go? The garbage? Most share this fate: They're crumpled into balls and tossed into the paper basket.

But what about the ones that miss the basket?

They live on, tossed out of our world and dropped like paper meteorites into another. It’s a world much like our own, except everyone and everything is made of, well, paper. The characters they will meet are revised, finished, and drawn on far better stock. Our "rejects" flatten themselves out as best they can and try to find the meaning in their lives that their Creator could not.

They’re called, “The Crumples”. This is their story:

[If you'd like to Zoom In on an image, click on page. Once page is selected, click on image. Click back button to return to story.]

[Napkin Man's adventures continue in Issue #4. CLICK HERE to view.]

[CLICK HERE to view Issue #3]

The Girl w/500 Faces

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Mon, 22 Mar 2010 10:48:00 +0000

Warning: ADULT Content

[If your boss walks by, click Panic Button in right margin to eject you from this story.]

The Girl w/500 Faces

D.A. Schulman

We walk to the park; I pull and he drags. Walter’s pink puppy paws chafe against the sidewalk. I swore I’d never pull him, that I’d be all about positive reinforcement; but after three weeks, I’m a noose with feet that drags his furry four-month-old ass. He fights me all the way—half-choking—searching for his booty, as I search for mine. Every girl who slingshots herself past me on her g-string whispers, "You are not ready."

   I’d only seen her once and that was six days ago. She’s not as pretty as my fiancée and I wonder if she’ll forever belong to no one. She’s twenty-one, or at least that’s what she said. And it wasn’t me that she was attracted to as much as it was my wingman, Walter; and I would never have Walter if it weren’t for my fiancée and that makes me really hate myself.
   I swore that after tonight, if she didn’t show, I’d forget the whole thing. It isn’t like we planned to meet. She asked if I’m usually in the park with my puppy around this time and that she hoped to see me later this week. Then she did this wink thing with her jawbreaker eyes that I imagined changing colors with each lick. She tossed her dark hair from the side of her face, exposing four silver hoop earrings on her left ear. Jeans tugged on her in all directions like she was in some secret harness in a Peter Pan play waiting to be lifted to the sky.
   But my favorite part was her teeth, or really the mouthful of metal hiding them. There was something about her metallic grin that brought me back to my first kiss, when rubber-bands, like fireworks, shot out of my mouth as secrets were unbuckled.
   She was more than her braces, though. She had qualities that even the conventional man would appreciate. Legs so long they deserve two knees each; they begin at my navel and could wrap around me twice. On her lower back lives a tattoo of a crucifix—an old promise she made with God—forgotten behind a white tag stained pink attached to a red g-string. It stuck to the upper half of her sweaty cross. She had another tat peeking from where her cleavage met her blouse. I think it was a cherry connected to something that looked like one of those stickers you’re supposed to scratch and sniff. She was like stale icing on a Christmas cookie and she was using what was left of her sweetness to lure me back here so she could suck all the infidelity out of me in one apocalyptic squirt.
   I’m sitting right where we were—on a park bench near Hell Gate Bridge just off the East River. I stare at my feet in my sandals. A tuft of hair grows out of the joint of my big toe. I hate that. I saw that on my Dad when I was little and all I wanted to do was shave it off. But now I let it grow, and strut around like an untended lawn. My feet are framed by leaves that have fallen prematurely and lie in gravelly graves with pieces of green and white broken glass mixed in. Picnic remains are tossed to my other side: a half-eaten beef burrito stabbed by a broken plastic fork, a noodle mayo salad on a wet paper plate, an opened potato chip bag crumpled in a Baskin Robbins cup, and one of those soda plastic things that dolphins get their heads stuck in.
   Across the river, the lights of Manhattan remind me that I’m living on the wrong side. The buildings are like legs to a glass case in the sky displaying stars that shine with the coldness diamonds do in engagement rings I can’t afford.
   A dead pigeon lies beside a tree to my right on what’s left of its rotted back. It looks different than when I first saw it six days ago. Now it’s covered with black bugs and small yellow worms. The movement of these snot-filled creatures make the pigeon appear more alive—or less dead—than when I first saw it. Walter tries to pull me toward it. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that bones from dead things can splinter inside puppies and kill them. I snap his leash and yank him back. His puppy throat gags. I tie his leash to the iron rail on the side of the bench. He attempts to move the bench (and the sidewalk it’s attached to) toward the dead bird. And just as I’m wondering what death smells like, I make out her shadow, her personal dark cloud melting over concrete, bending over dead leaves, and devouring plastic spoons and bottle caps. Streetlight and moonlight fight to outline her as the Earth revolves her to me. The girl w/500 faces.

   I recall what the bald guy with the nipple ring at the gym told me. He said that I’ll never stop looking at girls because I’m a guy and that’s okay; but I never thought I still would once I found my someone.
   I don’t know how long it takes her to reach me because everything about her—every nice smelling something, every dirty something else—sticks me in her spilled honey. All I think about is her walking down the aisle to my wedding of infidelity, marrying me back to myself.
   I untie the leash from the bench and hold it with my left hand while I sit, my legs spread apart. Green paint chips from the rotting wood tangle into hairs on the underside of my thighs. I’m like some frat boy who thinks his junk is too big and the only way he can sit is to spread his legs and lean back to avoid poking himself in the eye.
   Her heels scream, “Click Clock!"
   "Hi," she says, and with that single word I hear a crack in the glass carrying everything I hold precious.
   "Hi there yourself,” I mumble, having never put those three words together. I kick a half empty coca-cola can to my left and its sugary insides, more syrup than liquid, pool onto the concrete. Enter gnats.
   She says, "May I have this seat?"
   It's not a seat. It’s a bench. She’s being cute. Splinters poke my right thigh. I motion for her to sit beside me. I say nothing. She doesn’t need to know I was expected home ten minutes ago, that it doesn’t take this long to walk Walter, that I’ve committed my heart to my fiancée (who is waiting for me), and that secretly I worry about promising myself to her—my someone—because she can’t change faces and bodies the way the girl w/500 can.

   She scoots herself toward me. I feel the little denim hairs of her skirt—that she cut to be even shorter—press against me, and I close my eyes and imagine a brush painting her tattoos on my skin. And just when I’m wanting to tell her how afraid I am to make big decisions that are “forever” things, like tattoos and marriage, her right hand lands on my left thigh, casually, as if I were part of the bench. This isn’t a kind of friendly two-tap in any way. This is a deliberate motion that gets me biting the inside of my lip and tightening my asshole.
   And that’s when I know that I’m no longer controlling this ride: I’ve passed her the keys, the bench has grown wheels and she is driving, taking me to an undisclosed place. And at first, as I look out to Hell Gate Bridge and the East River, I want it to feel like we’re sailing on some kind of romantic something, like the bench grew a mast—but this isn’t the case. I’ve been carjacked and I wish this girl will take all my fantasies (that exclude my fiancée) and turn them into reality so I won’t want them anymore.
   Her fingers burn holes through my army pant cut offs. I imagine I’ll have a permanent handprint, and that it’s no longer denim brushes on her skirt bottom that paint my tattoos on, it’s her hands finger-painting my flesh, engraving lines into me that bend when I breathe.
   “So,” she sighs, “you’re quiet.”
   She whispers as if not wanting to disturb the hush that our collision has created. Her hand on my thigh sucks every thought that isn’t her out, and half my vocabulary with it.
   “I’m not quiet, I’m just…”
   I’m just what? I’m just about to get married.
   “Oh, we have ourselves a shy one, do we?”
   She says this with a kind of southern drawl twang thing like New Orleans just fucked New Jersey. And she speaks like there’s more than one of her, like there’s this whole underground brothel cult of women vacuuming all the infidelity out of the race of man, or that she’s here to supply the only eroticism, the only fantasy I will ever need. And I will do everything in my power to ration it so it may last me the rest of my masturbatory life, ridding me of the girl w/500 faces so I can embrace the girl with only one.
   “I’m not shy,” I respond. Then resorting to a line I used in high school I add, “I just think some things surpass words.”
   “Like what?” she asks.
   “Like us,” I quickly reply, not knowing what I mean.
   She fires back, “So, what do you think we should do about it?”
   I’m now in some badly written porno and I’m thinking maybe pornos aren’t really written that badly after all and that maybe this stuff actually does happen. I imagine a fast forward button I can press to get through this crap dialogue. I cross her right arm awkwardly with my left, and then realize I need to go behind it—which I do—and my left hand lands on the flesh of her right thigh.
   “Ooh, Mr. Aggressive,” she coos.
   There is this quiet standstill, as if everything is holding its breath before drowning in the East River that’s overflowing with her honey.  We turn away from each other and stare out at the bridge and the river and all the engagement rings shining in the sky.

   Her hand moves to the inside of my thigh. Both of us are looking straight ahead. Her right knee is cool between my left thumb and pinky—the finger man was supposed to have evolved out of by now. It finds its primeval self in her warmest place. The heat I feel makes me think less about her sexually and more about how we have a warmth that comes from somewhere and we don’t know where, and I’m sitting here wanting her, which would have been okay around the time of the creation of man with a need to populate ASAP in order to build an army to defeat dinosaurs or some crap, but now it’s completely unnecessary and I blame evolution that I haven’t evolved out of my pinky and my—
   There’s nothing subtle about my throbbing junk worming its way down my left shorts leg—the same leg that belongs to the thigh she is maneuvering her hand onto. I wonder if she notices what’s there. Sometimes it camouflages itself against my thigh like some washed up James Bond who wants nothing more than to finally be caught.
   But she finds Mr. Bond, as if she’s always known the places he hides, and she was onto my game when I suggested six days ago that maybe I’d see her here again. I feel sad for her that she needs to play games and that she doesn’t have somebody waiting for her at home like me. Then I feel her small hand through my shorts grab me. She giggles.
   “Ooh, somebody wants to come out and play.”
   For a moment I think how clever she is and that maybe she’s a writer too, but then I realize everything she says sounds brilliant because her hand is in my pants. I feel the denim press against the top of my hand sliding up her skirt as I try to return the favor. Just as my middle finger reaches to feel her, she stops me and says, “Whoa, I don’t think so.”
   What?
   “You’re being bad,” she teases. “We can’t do that here. Follow me.”
   She stands and begins walking, still holding onto my member like it’s my leash. I follow. I’m holding Walter’s leash but he walks in line with her.
   Worried someone might walk by and see her hand on me, I remove it, and playfully swing it, our fingers locked together right where my ring is going to be. It makes me nervous, like she’s going to feel remnants of the wedding bands I’d tried on at the store, which is really stupid, because even if she could, I don’t think she’d care. The long grass is cold against my feet. I hold Walter’s leash tightly in my right hand and stroke the leather with a tenderness I normally share with the hand I’m holding. She hums a tune to herself that sounds like a song a birthday girl might sing when it’s time to open the presents.
   As we near Hell Gate Bridge and the stone archway beneath it, she veers to the left. Walter stops and sniffs the sand. I tug him forward tangling his leg in the leash.
   “Walter, let’s go!”
   “Come on, boys,” she says, and says it like she’s our mother and we’re on our way to a family picnic, and for some Oedipal reason, this further turns me on.
   We follow her under the arch; she guides us towards the inner wall and leans against it. It’s covered with bubble gum and graffiti informing me Rick is “phat”, Natasha “wuz” something, and Tammy and Jorge are “2getha 4eva”. She places one foot against the wall, stares at me and smiles. Her teeth are grey in the half-light; her metal reflects Manhattan.
   I stammer and blush and feel my ears get red because I know from the movies I’ve seen—and from the four women I’ve known biblically—that this is when the man kisses the woman. Walter tugs on the leash; the leather jerks in my hand and I say, “I should tie him somewhere.”
   “He’s okay. Let him go, he’ll stay nearby.”
   “No, I should. He’s a puppy.” I search for a tree, anything to tie a leash to; the side of the concrete bridge, a big rock—anything. But trees don’t grow in the sandpit under the bridge.
   “I’ll just hang onto him,” I say.
   “That’s a shame,” she says.
   “Why?”
   “I was thinking you might want to use both hands.”
   The porno begins again. She’s the teacher and I’m the innocent student on a field trip learning about bridges.
   “My God. Do I have to do everything?” she groans.
   She grabs my shirt as if she’s about to punch me and pulls me against her. Walter and I lurch forward. Her tongue reaches me before her lips do—all 500 tapeworms lunge down my throat. Walter tugs free; I step through the handle of his leash and grab onto her waist for support.
   My head arches to accommodate her tongue descending down my throat. It’s as if she’s on autopilot, and it reminds me that she doesn’t know my name. She grabs my right hand and pushes it up to meet her breast.
   She breathes, “Yeah, you like that, huh, baby?”
   It feels silly she’s calling me “baby” because I’m pretty sure I’m older than her, but I still squeeze her breast as she holds my hand to it. Not only is it bigger than my fiancée’s, it’s the biggest of the four sets I’ve felt in my life. I’m surprised that bigger doesn’t make them better—just mushy. She pulls my hand away, which I don’t understand because she’s the one who put it there. She turns me with a karate motion and starts unzipping my pants faster than I ever have, defying everything I’d learned about running the bases by earning the trust of a woman. She drops to her knees and pulls down my shorts with a practicality that feels clinical. I spring out of the fly of my boxers.
   “Yum, yum,” she whispers.
   I’m conscious of how outside we are and how exposed I am. I lift my leg to catch my shorts on one knee and say, “Whoa—I don’t think…”
   “No one’s here. Don’t worry, baby. Puppy will guard us.”
   I don’t like that she calls him “Puppy”. I look around to Walter who is chewing a mound of yellow weeds growing out of the sand. I straighten my leg; my shorts drop. She puts me into her mouth like she’s drowning underwater and just found her snorkel. I hear Walter chewing his cud as she devours me. I see the shadow of her head bobbing against the wall.
   Chew.
   Suck.
   Chew.
   Suck.
   I want to stop. But I’m a people pleaser and what if I hurt her feelings? She’s obviously insecure to put herself in this position with men.
   Chew.
   Suck.
   “I want to… stop… I want to…”
   Suck.
   “What do you want, baby?” Her tongue’s doing a weird circle thing that my fiancée has never tried.
   “I want to…”
   “I’m so wet, baby. I’m dripping.” She stands up and grabs my hand.
   Chew.
   “Feel me. Feel how wet.” She pushes my hand up her skirt and I don’t feel panties. Walter is chewing and coughing and sounds as far away as everything else. She turns around and bends over, pressing against me.
   “Come on, baby. I want you inside me.”
   She hikes her skirt and the denim hairs lay against the top of her tattooed cross. She plants one hand in the sand and reaches the other around to navigate me into her. It makes me think how good she must be at Yoga. I look down at her body doing what mine can’t. I see no leash on my foot. My mouth goes dry. I scream, “Walter!”
   My left foot loses its sandal, my legs are caught on my shorts, and I trip forward. My junk, still wet from her mouth, hits the sand followed by my chin. I look up and see Walter’s white tail wave in the distance. I call his name again. He turns.
   The dead pigeon is in his mouth.

   “Drop it!” I yell. Kicking my shorts in the air along with my other sandal I race back into the park toward him. Naked from the waist down, my balls ping-pong between my thighs. He’s heading out of the park and onto the street but circles back around.
   “Drop it! You drop it NOW!”
   I catch him by his tail and tackle him.
   “You’re gonna kill yourself!”
   He thinks I’m playing. Maggots run up and down the rotting wings. I smell death and every part of me wants to get away from it and every part of him wants to devour it. Grabbing onto a wing, I ram my left hand between his jaws, but all it makes him do is chew harder, swallowing and gagging.
   “God-dammit, drop it!”
   His baby teeth scrape against the pigeon’s beak. He plants his feet in the grass and whips his head in a swooping gesture left to right. My hand goes with it and I hear a wing tear. It sounds like Velcro and makes me want to vomit. I fall backwards with the wing and the back of my head slams against a rock. I groan. Walter turns toward me. I’m lying on my back half-naked with my arms spread out like I’ve been crucified with some symbolic wing in my hand. I let out another groan, a little too dramatic, because that’s what I do.
   It’s laying still that makes Walter interested in me again. He saunters over, and just as he’s about to press the dead bird up against me and lick my face with his maggot tongue, I grab his leash and pounce on him. I pry his jaw wide open from behind; my bare balls slapping up against his backside like I’m some dog fucker. Walter coughs. The broken beak presses into my wrist, followed by a clump of feather, bone and flesh. I loosen my chokehold. He rolls onto his back and submits; and so do I, the two of us alone. Panting.
   It’s quiet. I don’t know where the girl went, or the faces. All I feel is the grass on my back, the wind on my balls—and something closer than touch.

Extended Benefits for Justin Krum

noreply@blogger.com (D.A. Schulman) — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 13:45:00 +0000

XXXX XXXXX XXX Apt. XX, New York 11375

September 13, 2009  

NYS Department of Labor
XXXX XXXXXXXX State Office Campus Building XX
Albany, NY 12240  

Re: Justin Krum’s Unemployment Claim; Social Security Number: XXX-XX-XXXX

To Whom It May Concern:

As per my conversation with Ms. Rhoda Rooderamez (sp?), in order to receive Extended Benefits after fully exhausting my initial 26 weeks of unemployment and the additional 33 weeks of Emergency Benefits, I must provide further information. As requested on your website, please find evidence proving I’ve:

Applied to or contacted at least 2 Prospective Employers each week
Kept a record of my work search that at minimum includes: Date of Contact, Employer Name, Employer Address, Method of Contact, and Position Applied For

In addition to your requirements, I've supplied the cover letters to businesses I've contacted, as well as excerpts from my daily journal as further evidence that my focus has been solely on seeking employment. Last minute I’ve also decided to sprinkle in random thoughts I’ve jotted and a few drawings I’ve made since being laid off for your enjoyment. Please accept this additional content as a token of gratitude from one who appreciates the measures taken by your Department to ensure the money distributed weekly is going only to those who are actively seeking work. Since this recession began, I have witnessed people on the street walking about aimlessly. Please know that I am not one of them.

As a side note, I’d like you to know how grateful I am that you’re offering Extended Benefits for millions like myself who have exhausted their Emergency Benefits. After exhausting something with the word ‘Emergency’ in it, one might imagine the next recourse would be a tin cup. What a relief to learn that isn’t the case! And if a new law doesn’t provide benefits extending after the Extended Benefits, (perhaps called, Emergency Extended Extensions or E.E.E.) please know I’m grateful for your Department’s efforts and that they’ve sparked a personal interest to pursue a career in the field of Unemployment. If there are positions currently available, please see resume attached. You might consider my one plus years on Unemployment as fulfilling the work experience required. I can provide your weekly paystubs as verification. Please note: I do NOT consider this request for a job at the Department of Labor as fulfilling my obligation to contact at least 2 Prospective Employers this week.

Oh, by the way, please tell Ms. Rooderamez I’m impressed at how quickly she answered my queries on the phone regarding Extended Benefits. I was wrong to have requested to speak with someone with a warmer tone after I expressed my terror of not being able to support my wife and our newborn son. Ms. Rooderamez had to remind me of the number of people waiting on hold –- just as I had for 37 minutes -- and then kept me on task, responding appropriately to my tears by reminding me several times she wasn’t my therapist. If Ms. Rooderamez happened to write anything negative in my file, please attach this letter with my apologies to her and the rest of the staff, who I’m sure were over-burdened with calls while she was addressing mine. Please let Ms. Rooderamez know that if she is ever in the unfortunate position of being unemployed (kind of like when the doctor becomes the patient), I would be happy to write a letter of recommendation on her behalf. And if you do decide to keep her, please let this letter duly serve as my request for a raise for Ms. Rooderamez. I only ask, out of respect for the millions who are currently out of work, that you kindly wait to grant this request until the recession is over.

In conclusion, it has been a pleasure updating you each week about my activities, although I sincerely hope our relationship doesn’t seem too one-sided and ‘all about me’. One day I hope to have the opportunity to learn about everyone else’s weekly status at the Department of Labor as we find new, exciting ways to work together.

Thank you in advance for your consideration.

Respectfully yours,

Work and Earning Status for Week Ending August 2, 2009:

(I have answered all these questions on a weekly basis on your website which I’m sure you have on record. However, for your convenience, and to fill some free time, which you’re well aware of, I’ve re-typed them for you to avoid you straining your eyes as you go back and forth between your computer screen and my printouts. Please let me know if this is helpful and if there’s anything else I can do to make your workload on my case easier. Thanks so much.)

1. During the week ending 08/02/09, did you refuse any job offer or referral? No* (please see below)

*On the website for Question 1, I was only given a YES/NO option. In regards to refusing a job offer, my answer for this week was “KIND OF”. I was offered one job that involved delivering something in a paper bag from a guy named “Chachi”. I’ve seen him on the corner of my block before. I’m pretty sure Chachi isn’t his real name and that whatever it was that he wanted me to hide in my baby’s stroller and roll down the street was illegal. I’m just going to assume that I won’t be reprimanded for not accepting this kind of work.

2. How many days did you work, including self-employment, during the week ending 08/02/09? 0 Days

2a. Excluding earnings from self-employment, did you earn more than $405? N/A

3. How many days were you NOT ready, willing, and able to work? 0 Days ** (please see below)

** As stated above, I was NOT willing to deliver Chachi’s paper bag in my son’s stroller, so technically on Question 3, I was NOT willing to work for ONE day but again, I don’t think I should be penalized for not accepting work from what I believe may be an underground drug cartel. Let me know if you agree, and if so, I will refrain from bringing up declined job offers of this nature in the future.

4. How many days were you owed vacation pay or did you receive vacation pay? 0 Days

5. How many days were you owed holiday pay or did you receive holiday pay? 0 Days

6. Did you return to work full time? No

Prospective Employer #1:

Employer Name: Alan Koslowitz for City Council, District XX
Employer Address: See Cover Letter
Method of Contact: Standard Mail
Position Applied For: Working on his Campaign Team, preferably doing more than just passing out his flyers and saying his name repeatedly to people on the street that aren't listening.

XXXX XXXXX Street, Apt. XX, New York 11375

July 27, 2009

Alan Koslowitz for City Council
XXXX XXXXXXXXXX Avenue
Forest Hills, New York 11375

RE: Getting You Elected

Dear Mr. Koslowitz:

I was referred to you by a gentleman who was passing out your flyers outside the subway on the south side of 71st Continental Avenue and Queens Boulevard. He said his name was Larry and that you might have a position open on your campaign team.

My name is Justin Krum. I’m a hardworking, passionate person currently seeking work after being laid off due to the economy. I most recently worked for two years as a Sales Representative for Push-Up Ballz, a New York based Company responsible for the creation and worldwide distribution of The Push-Up Ball. Essentially, it’s a sling-like pouch that fits comfortably inside men’s underwear and when worn, bears a striking resemblance to a miniature catapult. Aside from its aesthetically pleasing design, its purpose is to lift a man’s penis and scrotum up and away from his body so they appear larger to oncoming people while simultaneously making him feel more confident about himself. I don’t know if you’ve been in any locker rooms in Europe lately, but if so, you’d see The Push-Up Ball is very big there. Unfortunately, Push-Up Ballz was sued last year by a customer who accidentally strangled a testicle in the sling while playing volleyball. This, in addition to the downturn in the economy, forced them to let me go. However, my experience at Push-Up Ballz reinforced my understanding of how to offer men support. This I offer to you today.

I don’t consider myself a Democrat, Republican, or even an Independent. The reason for my ambivalence is my difficulty in making decisions. I also second-guess everything I do. These are only two weaknesses from a broad palette cultivated over thirty-four years of living under other people’s rule. I’m confident that in the right political hands I will be an asset to anyone seeking submissive people to work beneath them. There are dozens of ways I can be wrapped around one’s finger. I also have experience being preyed upon and can back this up with the number of internet scams I’ve fallen for. I’ve so often been putty in the hands of people in power, I would hardly notice being danced on your strings. For example, I might be swayed to participate in the seedier things that all politicians must do to get into office. Rather than elaborate further in writing, I would be happy to meet with you behind a dumpster or you may call me at a payphone of your choosing. I will walk by Larry tomorrow when the red rooster flies high or crows east or… whatever, at which point he can hand me another one of your flyers, which I’ll expect to be coded with further instructions.

If what I’ve written above regarding the illegal activity between us has been off-putting, please take my words in jest. A report on CNN stressed the importance of differentiating oneself to a Prospective Employer. The problem is, the report was broadcast to millions of others. If we all take the advice of differentiating ourselves to you, wouldn’t it have more impact to not differentiate myself at all? If that’s the case, please disregard all illegal activity laid out in paragraph three.

One can only hope that in our pursuit to prove how different we are, we find ourselves similar in the end, thus fueling a wish to share our possessions with each other, eliminating the need for money and ultimately, the jobs that pay it. But until that day, please find below the contact information for the three references Larry said you would need from me. Unlike the thousands of other references you’ve received from applicants, I have not contacted the people listed below to prepare them for your call. We both know that no one includes a reference to someone who might speak badly of them, which is why, in the spirit of differentiating myself, I have taken this opportunity to do just that. All three contacts listed –- two professional, one personal –- I’m pretty certain share a strong dislike for me.

Thank you in advance for your consideration.

Best regards,

References:

1. Owen Berger – Founder of ‘My Tasty Muffin’; Franchises located throughout New Jersey; Main Office Number – 609.XXX.XXXX; Email: There wasn’t email twenty years ago when I was making muffins for Mr. Berger. However, I found someone’s online profile using the email address tastymuff@aol.com. They live on the East Coast and claim that they “love good muff”. This may be a match. If not, use Main Office Number.

Owen hired me at the age of fourteen and displayed me in the storefront window as I baked wearing a muffin-shaped hat. I’d hoped with his store in the center of the mall, my chances of picking up girls were pretty good. But the pink poofed muffin hat ensured failure. I was a resentful Muffin Man and shirked many duties, such as dealing with flies that got stuck atop the muffin batter in the cup holders as they rolled down the conveyor belt into the oven. They came out with flies baked into the muffin tops, all dead and crispy. Their wings evaporated in the heat and their burnt bodies looked like raisins (which is why I never eat Raisin Bran Muffins). My job was to spot their carcasses and flick them off before customers noticed. I purposely overlooked them to get Owen in trouble when customers swallowed them. It worked. If he happens to mention my “negligence in the workplace”, scream into the phone, “Raisin flies!” and hang up.

2. Betsy Dugal – Receptionist, XXXXbank office, Park Avenue and XXth Street. Note: She may have moved up the ranks during the past twelve plus years, so be sure not to say to her, “Are you the receptionist?” or worse, “Are you that receptionist who got in trouble for letting ‘Justin the temp’ steal pens from the supply closet?” That might start things off badly; Main Number: 888.XXX.XXXX; Email: unknown but I’m guessing it might be bdugal@XXXXbank.com or betsy.dugal@XXXXbank.com or you can try betsy_dugal@XXXXbank.com. I recall she was dating some guy there with the last name Rothblatt who may or may not have popped the question but, if none of the email addresses above work, try all three variations substituting Dugal with Rothblatt. If that doesn’t work try both last names together, first with an underscore between them, and then hyphenated. Good luck!

3. Elizabeth Babashak – Occupation: UNKNOWN; Last Contact: Fifteen years ago; Could only find what I believe to be her parent’s phone number in Maryland, but I bet you could get Elizabeth’s direct number if you call them (but DON’T mention my name): 875.XXX.XXXX.

Elizabeth was my college roommate’s girlfriend. One day I came back to my dorm room; my roommate wasn’t there but she was. I had recently discovered the recording artist, Enya, and played her song, “Caribbean Blue”. I asked Ms. Babashak if she’d like to dance. I don’t know if you’re familiar with Enya, but her music makes one feel like they’re eating potpourri while floating on bubbles. This inspired a modernistic dance with moves I’d never tried before. Elizabeth joined me and as Enya reached the climax of her song, I threw my arms in the air breaking Elizabeth’s nose with my elbow. When she speaks to you and whines (with that nasally voice of hers) about the horrific sound of her nose cracking, how crooked it looked, and how long it took me to find ice, please know she had longed for a nose job her whole life and my dance moves allowed her to get one for free.  

July 28, 2009

To: Department of Labor
From: Justin Krum

Re: In My Leisure

Here’s something you may not know about me: Each day, after exhausting all avenues to secure employment, I find it relaxing to dabble in Haiku. Scattered throughout these pages are a few samples of my work. Please don’t skip ahead, just let each one take you by surprise as they did me when writing them. They’ll reveal that my most inner thoughts have been revolving around finding work and/or dealing with never working again. I hope they also bring you tranquility, peace, and harmony throughout your day. Namaste.

Sun rises

No job on the horizon

Beard grows long

Prospective Employer #2:

Employer Name: Ollie's Omaha Meats -- Jerry Chudley
Employer Address: See Cover Letter
Method of Contact: Standard Mail
Position Applied For: Meat Packer, Band Saw operator, or something where I use a cleaver; any position where I assist in handling animals that are already dead, which I will only refer to as “meat”, so the only blood on my hands will be from wrapping the sins of my brethren into plastic-wrapped styrofoam caskets to be shipped to supermarkets and subsequently stuffed inside the belly of mankind.

XXXX XXXXX Street, Apt. XX, New York 11375

July 29, 2009

Ollie’s Omaha Meats
XXX XXX XXXX Road
Omaha, NE 68130

Re: Packing Your Meat

Dear Mr. Chudley:

It is with a passion to work in your meat factory that I write to you. My name is Justin Krum and although most of my job experience has been in office positions where I was overpaid to sit and pretend to work, I assure you I am no slouch when it comes to lifting things. I have helped a number of my friends move into apartments without elevators, lifting things up and down flights of steep staircases to the point of dizziness, only to be repaid for my labor with a cup of tap water and a slice of pizza without toppings. Experiences like this have taught me the value of real work and how little one gets paid for it. I’m fully prepared for the low wages I assume you’ll be offering, considering that all you require is a high school degree. Although the only meat I’ve ever lifted has been between two slices of bread, (and my late Grandmother once down a flight of stairs, but I don’t feel comfortable calling her meat) I feel my deep appreciation for sandwiches and wraps, basically anything where meat is in the middle, will inspire me to strive for excellence in an occupation where I spend my days lifting, packing, and cutting it. In regards to cutting meat, although my wife and mother-in-law cut our turkey every Thanksgiving (the electric-powered knife scares me) I’ve stood dangerously close, even helping to hold the turkey in place. But, in truth, I do this so I can sneak pieces of turkey skin right when it comes out of the oven. There’s no stopping this meat lover!

You’re probably asking yourself, “Why in tarnation is this Yankee writing to a meat factory way out in Nebraska?” or “Is this some city slicker going through an early mid-life crisis?” or “Why would this fella want to give up his swanky New York lifestyle and move his family out to P.O. Box Nowhere?” These are all good questions that I’m also asking myself as I type this (but in keeping with more of a lower middle-class New York dialect).

To answer, I admire people’s heroic actions, stories of toddlers lifting cars with one baby arm to save trapped parents crushed beneath, or ordinary civilians dashing into burning buildings, throwing hundreds of unconscious people on their backs and then jumping with them off ten stories and landing on their feet. These are stories of people tapping their incredible superhuman strength. I feel my superhuman strength is waiting to be tapped and I think a job where I heave giant meat carcasses would unleash my powers.

Lastly, I should mention I’m an animal rights activist. Be assured this will in no way impede the work I do in your facility. It sure hasn’t stopped me from eating meat. When I bite down on cow, chicken, or pig, I suppress the thought that here was once a beating heart, and instead imagine it grew on some animal tree. So you don’t have to worry about me suddenly having a crazy epiphany on your mass production line, swearing I see an image of Jesus in the blood-stains on some giant dead cow, then slamming the brakes on the conveyor and having some guy accidentally chop his hand off in your band saw, then having you burdened with workman’s compensation claims, hospital treatment and rehab for the armless man, and years of therapy for his family and me. Rest assured I am fully resigned that the day the world ends and the red button is finally pushed, the guy pushing it will be gnawing on a hamburger in his other hand. Not to imply all carnivores are evil, just that everyone has to eat something. If you can’t beat it, you might as well eat it -- and pack it. That’s what I say.

You may have guessed by now that this job is one of the lesser things I aspire to do, as I’m sure it is for you and the portion of your staff that don’t have criminal records. If you do hire me, will you allow me to punch dead meat like Rocky on my days off to alleviate the guilt I’ll feel from being an accomplice to so much killing? I might organize an after-work fitness regiment for my fellow co-workers. I’ve already come up with a couple of catchy names for our workout club: “Jerry’s Meat Packing Punchers” or “Packing a Good Punch with Jerry”. Let me know your thoughts.

Thank you in advance for your consideration.

Best Regards,

Rice and Beans

Stomach hurts from beans

More beans please

Prospective Employer #3:

Employer Name: QForce Financials
Employer Address: See Cover Letter
Method of Contact: Ouija Board (just kidding); used standard mail and a revolutionary tactic I call, “Employing The Chase”. Turn page to F.A.Q. section for description.
Position Applied For: Accounting Clerk on a temp-to-hire basis; working with accounts receivable, accounts payable; basically anything with the word “account” in it.

(Please note that with the following cover letter, I will have exceeded the requirements of contacting at least 2 Prospective Employers for this week. I’m wondering if you grant extra credit, achievement points, or a gold star for this? If not, please let me know if this Prospective Employer contact can be rolled over into another week. I have some personal appointments I must see to and it would make my workload a lot easier. Please advise. Thanks.)        

F.A.Q.(Frequently Asked Question) Section

Question: Hey Justin, I heard you created a new way to get a job and you’re calling it the “Employing The Chase” Tactic. What’s that all about?

Answer: Good question, anonymous person. “Employing The Chase” was inspired by a multitude of women I met before I was married who didn’t like me. It was their rejection –- or the fact that we both didn’t like me –- that made me pursue them. In each case, I fell in love with the chase, not the woman. Due to the high success rate these women had using this technique, I’ve decided to employ a similar tactic to get myself hired. Please review the following cover letter, and if I do get hired from QForce Financials, I will be more than happy to conduct a seminar at any of your locations.

XXXX XXXXX Street, Apt. XX, New York 11375

July 31, 2009

QForce Financials
XXXXX Street; Suite XXX
White Plains, New York 10601
Att: Sherri Klingensmith, Human Resources

Re: Acknowledging and Moving On

Dear Sherri Klingensmith:

I’m writing in regards to the position you have available for Accounting Clerk at QForce Financials. I will not be applying for it and I kindly ask that QForce not contact me about it. There are other job positions that I'm currently exploring. Why should I settle for Accounting Clerk when there are so many other opportunities? I’m only thirty-four. I have half of my life ahead of me, and if I start eating better, maybe more.

QForce needs to find a way to move on. I’m attaching my resume in the hope that it aids in your healing process. Although I’m a shiny, radiant, beautiful fish, (not one of those drabby, gray-colored ones fishermen use to make chum), I’m still just a fish.

QForce deserves someone who would love to be their Accounting Clerk. All I can offer is a feeling of intense like, with the same passion for your job as I would have for a friend or sister.

Thank you in advance for not considering me. I’m so excited for you to find someone more appropriate. Oh, and keep me posted! I’m sure there are some really special prospects out there for you.

And if you do get over me, please know that at that precise moment I may discover we’re either more compatible or I’m more desperate than I thought.

Until then, chin up, QForce.

Your friend and/or future colleague with benefits,

A hole in my day

A vacation I never signed up for

A hole in my sock

July 31, 2009; 9:35 AM
Meeting at Department of Labor w/Diana, the Career Counselor Brooklyn Office

In an effort to achieve our mutual goal of getting me employed, I scheduled an appointment with Diana, one of your Career Counselors in your Brooklyn office. I didn’t catch her last name, but for verification purposes, I can tell you that her hair was short and curly, she might have pink eye (see pic above), and her voice was so raspy that when I closed my eyes and listened, I was pretty sure she was a man. I remember there being two Diana’s in the office so if you call to confirm I was there, ask for the one who sounds man-ish. On the topic of Diana, perhaps your Department might find a delicate way to suggest she pluck the black hair from the mole on her chin. Not the soft, white ones around it that seemed friendly enough, but the thick one in the juice-filled middle that kept shining in the fluorescents. (Again see pic above) If no one on your staff is comfortable approaching Diana, I can meet with her again and, for a nominal fee, kindly ask her to pluck.

Instead of a verbatim account of our conversation, a.k.a. “boo-hoo, poor me, I’m unemployed”, I’ve decided to write it as a scene in a movie. That way you can get an idea of what transpired between Diana and me and, with the help of a little dramatic license, be entertained. Please note in my file that my attempt at writing a scene in a movie is an example of my multi-tasking skills; i.e. while conveying to you the meeting I had with Diana, I simultaneously worked on a Hollywood Blockbuster that, once sold, will not only solve my employment problems, but will allow you to retire early after selling this compilation of my cover letters, or should I say “my earlier works”, on eBay.

But enough talk. It’s time we throw a bag of popcorn in the microwave, turn off that cell phone, sit back, and enjoy. And if you know of any movie agents you’d like to pass this onto, feel free. But please let them know that due to my current unemployed status, I’m not in a position to accept the industry standard of getting screwed on my first deal.

Without further adieu, I present… (drum roll, cymbal crash)

[TITLE CURRENTLY PENDING]

But here are a few suggestions:

Justin: Dangerously Unemployed

A Crumb For A Krum

National Lampoon’s Unemployment Vacation

FADE IN:

EXT. OUTSIDE DEPARTMENT OF LABOR BUILDING

Opening Shot: (Pending budget approval, to be done in IMAX from a helicopter.) We’re overlooking the Department of Labor building. The sun rises behind it. It’s early morning. CAMERA zooms down and in toward a window as if we’re going to crash through it, but at the last second it is opened by DIANA. (Not the real Diana. This part should be played by someone that the camera likes. Think Catherine Zeta Jones.) Window opens and CAMERA zooms straight through it.

INT. THE DEPARTMENT OF LABOR

CUT TO:

JUSTIN speaking with DIANA at her desk. JUSTIN is a young Bruce Willis type with a Clint Eastwood-like squint. HE is sitting with his shoulders back like Han Solo in the Cantina Bar when Luke Skywalker offers him a job at the beginning of Episode IV.

DIANA sits back down after opening the window.

DIANA

Justin, I’ve read your cover letters from this week and I have to ask, did you actually send these out?

JUSTIN

(with thick French accent like he’s in a Dijon Mustard commercial; close up on his lips)

Mais, bien sur.

[Translation: “But, of course."]

DIANA sits up straighter in her chair.

(Long dramatic pause)

JUSTIN (cont.)

(breaking the silence, in English)

What would make you think otherwise?

DIANA, perplexed, nervously diddles with the black hair growing from her mole. JUSTIN curls the corner of his mustache.

[Note: In real life, I don’t have a mustache. I have a beard. It’s not a fashion statement, I just don’t have a reason to shave at present.]

DIANA

Justin, your letters are, how should I say… verbose.

The way she says “verbose” seems almost sexual in connotation.

JUSTIN

Why…

(putting index finger on chin)

Thank you.

DIANA

Justin, may I be blunt?

JUSTIN

(raising single eyebrow)

I would expect no less from the Department of Labor.

DIANA

I think people may be offput by how much information you’re giving them about yourself… upfront I mean.

CLOSE SHOT of JUSTIN. His eyes shift left, right. A small muscle twitches on his face. Audience members, who may have stood up to use the restroom, will quickly sit back down ignoring their bladders.

DIANA (cont.)

Have you tried a more traditional approach with your cover letters? Shorter, concise, to the point?

The way she says “to the point” seems flirty. JUSTIN, a happily married man, ignores her advances. HE lifts a briefcase onto his lap, fiddles with the combination lock, and clicks the buttons on the sides. INSERT SNAP SOUND EFFECT. The briefcase pops open to reveal hundreds of cover letters, copies of all he has written for the past year. He tosses them onto her desk where they sprawl like feathers on a peacock’s tail. DIANA is stunned at the quantity produced by Mr. Krum in his pursuit of employment. She picks up a few letters at random. They’re perfectly up to her standard, as if out of a textbook on how to get a job. DIANA is impressed and even sexually intrigued.

JUSTIN removes the monocle from his eye and cleans the glass with the front of his shirt in slow, calculated circular motions.

[Note: I would only use a monocle if the studio decides this would sell better as a period piece. I can easily set this story during The Great Depression. If contemporary, I can replace this action with having JUSTIN remove a contact lens, flick something off it, spit on it, and pop it back in his eye.]

DIANA

(disguising how aroused she is with a small cough)

Wow, that’s a lot of cover letters, Justin.

CLOSE-UP JUSTIN. His eyes squint as if he’s smoking an imaginary cigarette.

JUSTIN

(with a back to business tone)

Please, call me Mr. Krum.

DIANA

(embarrassed)

Yes, of course. My apologies.

(crossing her legs beneath the desk)

So, Mr. Krum, what was the response from the Prospective Employers to these shorter, more concise, cover letters?

JUSTIN

Would I be sitting here with you, Diana, if there’d been one?

DIANA wipes whitecake from the side of her lip, smearing her fingers with red lipstick. SHE searches for a tissue.

JUSTIN (cont.)

Look, Diana. It’s not like I got laid off yesterday. You’re probably thinking that some of these unconventional approaches may be inappropriate. Heck, they may even unsettle some. Well, perhaps they are and perhaps they will. But I tried your way, dammit!

(Slams fist on desk. INSERT SPECIAL EFFECT OF WOOD SPLINTERS FLYING IN THE AIR.)

JUSTIN (continuing the cont.)

I was concise and to the point for the first couple hundred letters and all it got me was sitting here with you.

JUSTIN turns to look out window. CUE SUBTLE MUSIC. Maybe a dulcimer, or perhaps a Sarangi from Africa that helps the audience emote.

JUSTIN

Nobody is hiring in this economy, Diana. I doubt if anyone’s even reading what I send out. If that’s the case, why not be honest and say everything I’ve wanted to say? That way, when I’m finally stuck out on the bread line with my wife and my son, I can at least know I was true to myself.

DIANA

But Mr. Krum, one can’t help but get the impression you don’t want to be hired to work on Alan Koslowitz’s Campaign Team – or be packing meat or doing accounting work at QForce. Mr. Krum?

JUSTIN’s thoughts drift.

DIANA

(Voice Echoing)

Mr. Krum? Mr. Krum, can you hear me – eeee – eee? Mr. Krum – um – um?

DISSOLVE TO:

Clouds swirling around DIANA’s face melt into a rainbow of colors that form images of JUSTIN’s one-year old son, re-creating moments they shared over the past year while JUSTIN was unemployed. Moments he would have missed had he been working all day and his SON was back in daycare. SHOT of JUSTIN pushing SON on swing in park, sharing goldfish crackers, wiping cheddar cheese fingers and peanut butter smiles. SHOT of SON getting phone service from any object he puts to his ear. CLOSEUP on SON discovering that JUSTIN’s hiccups are the funniest thing in the world. WIDE SHOT of JUSTIN and SON sneaking away from the table and sharing a cookie on the couch (without the bib). CLOSEUP of SON’s hair tickling beneath JUSTIN’s chin as they watch TV. WIDE SHOT of SON in slow motion crashing into JUSTIN’s leg to hug him.

DIANA

(echoing back in)

Mr. Krum? Mr. Krum?

Aerial shot of JUSTIN lying on floor at Department of Labor. DIANA is bending over him smacking his face. The cameraman should freely capture DIANA’s provocative angles.

CLOSEUP on JUSTIN’s pinky finger trembling. An audible sigh of relief from DIANA and the circle of onlookers.

SLOW FADE TO BLACK.

END SCENE

(to be continued?)