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To Whom It Must Concern
906 words

To Whom It Must Concern

Mr. Sperry, first I'd just like to say that these last four years at Big Round Pie Marketing and Sales LLC have been quite the roller coaster. I learned a lot. I learned, above all, how to sell pies and pie tins, with cold-calling strategies and conversational tactics that apply as well for other round or semi-cylindrical objects, like steering wheels or trash cans or tires.

Secondly, I'd like to thank you for the confidence you’ve shown in me, most recently by offering me the position of General Manager of the Big Round Pie Marketing and Sales LLC Softball team. Remember pulling me aside last night as I was leaving the office? You really didn't have to do that, and shouldn't have. Probably you know this.

Before you say anything, Mr. Sperry, (you can't), I'm aware the offer wasn't a promotion. Coaching a softball team is a different job altogether. One that pays nothing. I was honored to be considered, but the real honor is mine, in saying this:


No, Mr. Sperry, I will not coach your softball team. That's not all. I have a confession to make. You'll be glad you're sitting down.

I confess: four years ago when you flew me out for my interview, the man you intended to fly out wasn’t me. I don’t mean he wasn't me in a “I’ve grown up since then,” kind of way or an “I didn’t realize who I was until now,” kind of way or an “I was just a kid” kind of way. I mean that man wasn’t me because I jumped that man in the casino parking garage, grilled him about the interview, stole his suit and driver's license, tied him to a trash truck and drove it into a gorge. Next morning I got on a plane and showed up for the interview in his place.

Soon as I got here I knew this was the place for me. I had to work here. Not work in a “fingers to the bone,” or “sun-up till sun-down” kind of way, but work in a sort of “foster a culture of corruption and fear as a means to an end" kind of way.

It really has been a wonderful four years.

I can’t accept the position of office softball coach, Mr. Sperry. I hate softball. Also, you said you want to be able to pay me more than you’ve been paying me, but that's impossible. I don’t mean impossible in a “mission” kind of way or a “that looks too hard to try to figure out how to do” kind of way. I mean impossible in an “I’ve transferred all of your money into my accounts” kind of way. I used a lot of the money to buy this trash truck. Which, you might have noticed, I’ve been tying you to while narrating this letter I wrote.

To Whom it Must Concern, I wrote. Well, are you concerned yet, Mr. Sperry?

People will always love Big Round Pies, Mr. Sperry, and I’ve learned that as long as you put yourself in a position to be a seller of pies, the effort needed to market these pies is ridiculous. Remember last year you ran a promotion where we put prizes in the pies? People sliced through and bit and chewed up concert tickets, and the undamaged tickets' ink was smeared and unreadable? We had to throw away every pie and couldn't admit the winners to the venue. And you couldn't admit you were wrong. All because you had a picture in your head of people bobbing for tickets, like it'd be a fun game.

I'm not the guy who knows the best ways to sell things, but there's something about the way you ran Big Round Pie that moved the clock inside me, wound it up. Ticked me off. When I get ticked off I put people on a list and tick them off.

So I’ll be taking it from here, Mr. Sperry. I’ll be taking it (and this time I mean the trash truck) from here all the way up into the desert and over a cliff into a gorge. If you survive the trip, still alive tied to a trash truck at the bottom of a gorge...well, that isn't a very nice way to be still alive, is it?

I'll be the new owner and operator of Big Round Pie LLC, Mr. Sperry. You'll just be ground pie. I'm poised to step in, and other employees are poised in step behind me, and still others poised--forgive me, poisoned. Actually, don’t forgive me. I don’t deserve it.

We'll sell tires. Steering wheels. Other things people who drive trash trucks need on a regular basis. It's time I seized the means of production for the refuse community. I refuse to miss this opportunity for a pun, even in a serious situation. I haven't written a letter in years. B. There's one. O. There's another one. It's exhilarating, writing letters, not your BO. No need to be nervous, just accept it.

There may be vultures who take a passing interest in you on our way to the gorge, but they're too slow to pick on you.

Scream if you'd rather ride in the compactor.

Scratch that. Still scream, but the thing I said about vultures was misleading. We'll be going slow enough for them during most of the trip.

Pay what you want

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