Dear Bill Gates,

I am writing to apply for a job at Microsoft. With my degree from a top-tier university and four years of industry experience, I would be an asset to your company because…something, whatever, blah blah blah.

Are you about to delete this application? You should be.

Microsoft probably gets thousands of lifeless, dogshit applications like that every day. And I know who submits them: smiley machine-head cogs — excuse me, “young professionals” — who like to get dolled up and go to Networking Parties. I’ve been to one. It was basically just a low-watt gathering of twentysomethings who like to make small talk, do God knows what on LinkedIn, and act like they’ve never seen a guy shatter a beer bottle over his head as a gag.

It’s like, lighten up. If anybody should be complaining, maybe it’s the guy with the bleeding head, you know? Even if they didn’t ban me for life, I’d never go back. Because they can’t see the Big Picture.

What do I mean by the Big Picture?

Well, I suppose I could explain. Or maybe, just maybe, I could pump my brakes for a hot second and realize that the guy who created the BIGGEST COMPUTER COMPANY in the FUCKING WORLD knows EXACTLY what the Big Picture looks like. We both do.

I’m looking at you right now. I just Google Image searched “bill gates fun confident boss.” More than 200,000 results. Excellent. That’s Big Picture volume, as expected.

Now let’s switch it up. Let’s see what we get when I search “bill gates fumbling dipshit.”

Hmm, still tons of results, I admit. But that’s not the point. The point is I’m using my Personal Computer to stare into your eyes. Into your Windows™ to the Soul. (This is the kind of shit I can bring to the table tone-wise for ad campaigns and speeches.)

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Do you know what I see when I look at you, Bill Gates? I see a guy who didn’t need Networking Parties to build his empire. I see a guy who looks like me, except a bit toadish. I mean that in a good way, like, you don’t let it hold you back. Kind of like how I don’t let my ex’s remarks about “realistic life goals” hold me back. It’s like, thanks for the sage advice, Jenna, but if I wanted to nosedive into the whirlpooling middle, I’d become a regional bank manager. Like your new boyfriend. Glenn.

What I’m trying to say is that you and I are Big Picture guys. We’re men of action. We don’t get bogged down by silly trifles like networking, other people’s expectations, or dumbass little nonviolent criminal charges from some Cinco de Mayo party. We see what we want, and we go for it — even if it entails snatching a guitar from an uncooperative Mariachi so everyone at the party can finally hear “Tequila” played the good way.

And that’s why I’m looking forward to starting at Microsoft. As you have gathered by now, I have Big ideas. The first one is a web series. It stars that delightful little paperclip man from older versions of Microsoft Office, the one who would troubleshoot and declare helpful tips. Remember? The series is about all the dark, twisted shit he’s been getting up to since being rendered obsolete. Sort of like Breaking Bad meets Windows 98 meets my nightmares.

I attached the pilot script below. I also included some of my other writings. You’ll enjoy them because I get down to the bottom of real shit, like the 1997 Phoenix Lights UFOs. (My uncle Dimitri was a taxi driver in Tempe in the 90’s and he witnessed everything that night. He has a photographic memory and is prepared to answer any questions your team has regarding the enormous silent triangle ships.) But we can discuss that during our interview.

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God Speed,
Stephen Johnson

P.S. I just read your Wikipedia page. Apparently, you’re no longer the CEO of Microsoft; you’re a Technology Advisor, or something like that. No problem. Just have your assistant send this to the right people. 

P.S.S. Your assistant should be made aware that stealing anything from my “Obsolete: Paperclip Petrified” script is highly illegal. That said, I do appreciate good notes. It never hurts to have a second pair of eyes look over your work.

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