Category: Immature Shit

In 2024, the satirical news organization The Onion was acquired (yet again). It is being reorganized and is hiring people to revitalize it and take it in a new, non-moribund direction. 

As of this writing, The Onion was accepting online applications for a few positions, including staff writer. Do they know what they are setting themselves up for? An avalanche of applications (both legitimate and satirical) from a bunch of amateur hacks who think they are funny. It’s like they are directly calling out to me.

I started mulling it over. Should I submit an application? I don’t know. It would be fun to say I did, even though I have no chance, and it would be a waste of time.

Should I submit a fake application? OH, HELL YES I SHOULD! 1000%! I mean, what the hell else am I doing? I’m home, writing funny, immature shit for my own amusement. This little digression falls under that, perfectly. 

So as a joke, I did, although I’m sure they’ll be able to see right through it. 

I created a bio for a 78-year-old retired, Fox News addict. I had ChatGPT generate a fake resume for him (sprinkled with several factual elements) and I wrote up a fake cover letter that was somewhat offensive. As an additional part of the application, The Onion requested 30 Onion-style headlines (ostensibly, as a work sample and to assess fit). 

Below are some of headlines I included in support of my application.

• Area Man Duped into Writing 30 Headlines for Job Scam
• Straight Flush Beats Ironic Flush
• Dietician Persuaded by ‘There’s Water in Beer’ Argument
• McDonald’s Bringing Back McSternum!
• Alcoholic Wagon Driver Back on Wagon
• Real Estate Listing: Large Basement Offers Unlimited Potential for Hoarding Hellscape
• Viagra Joke with Quadruple Entendre Flops in Every Direction

I honestly didn’t expect to receive a response. However, to their credit, three months later, The Onion sent me a short and professional email, regretfully informing me of their decision to crush the dreams of 78-year-old area man.

Oh, the shame! The humiliation! I thought I was being so clever and discreet.

“Where did you get this? I know it’s not yours. Did someone from work give it to you? Was it Ted, from Creative? I knew I couldn’t trust that fucker.”

Busted. There was no use trying to deny it to my wife. Initially, I tried to offset the damage and redeem myself by showing her my Google search history, but that only made things worse.

“But you hate The New Yorker; you think it’s pretentious as fuck.”

“Yes, I hate it – I hate to love it. The writing is good and I was reading it to help me write gooder. I’m sorry. You caught me. Please don’t tell anyone, especially my mom. She’ll accuse me of putting on airs.”

My wife and my mom text one another regularly, which is good, most of the time. However, the next day, my phone rings.

“Hi, Mom. How are you? How’s the weather?” We chit chat for about five minutes, before switching subjects.

“So…your wife tells me…”

“Hold on, Mom. I can explain.”

“So, you think you’re hot shit because you can sit down and read an entire 9,000-word article with ten-dollar words?”

“Wait, Mom…”

“Your father and his father both read Big Jugs, for the articles. That not good enough for you?

“You know, I picked up a copy, just to check out this trash mag for myself. You should be ashamed. How could you? Your father didn’t work his ass off so you could defile yourself with The Talk of the Town! That doesn’t even make sense. None of us live in New York City. Who cares what goes on there? What kind of dirty magazine is this, anyway? I don’t get it.

“Are you turning into some wannabe New York snob, like their mascot – some snooty New York asshole looking at some dumb butterfly through his stupid glasses?”

“It’s a monocle. Oh, no.”

“I DON’T CARE WHAT IT IS! IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT IT IS!”

From that point on, I kept my mouth shut and took the L as my mom delivered a blistering lecture that included a revisionist family history and a few digressions on class culture. I just hope all of this will be forgiven and forgotten before the family gathers next Thanksgiving.

“Hi, Grandpa. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Tom. It’s good to see you. So…your dad tells me…you get your rocks off with…The New Yorker? “

Author’s note: This is entirely a piece of fiction. First, if I were to read The New Yorker, I would read it, in shame, away from home, in a corner, at the public library. Second, my mom is actually a very open-minded and reasonable person and wouldn’t have said any of the things above. Third, my dad didn’t read Big Jugs; he read Penthouse. Grandpa read Big Jugs, for the articles.