Tom Joyce's chamber of the bizarre

Many thanks to my friend Dave for making me aware of this Craigslist ad, which I am honest-to-freakin-God not making up:

Emotional Writer Needed For Support Community for Affluent Individuals

Special community for people who have earned a lot of money or been born into a wealthy family needs a blog ghostwriter. The focus of the community is providing psychological support for the problems money brings — family tensions, unfulfillable expectations, boredom, etc. To do this you must be intimately familiar with the problems faced by wealthy people. If you grew up wealthy or through some other means can write detailed blog posts on this topic, please get in touch.

The posts need to be highly personal, emotional and have a strong editorial voice. These are anything but generic lectures. We are looking for 3 posts per week and each post pays $30. If you’re interested, please send a brief cover letter with some suggested topics so we can see that you really can come up with specific topics which touch the hearts of people from affluent families along with some writing samples of your personal, emotionally charged writing. It should all be pasted into the body of the email. We can’t open attachments. Thanks!

 

Here’s my application. I would appreciate any feedback:

I am responding to the request for a blog ghostwriter serving your special community that provides psychological support for the problems money brings. I believe that I am qualified. For I myself have felt the ache within my heart that comes with being born into wealth, and would like to bring succor and comfort to those similarly afflicted.

Yes, I was born into money. My father was a wealthy entrepreneur who pioneered the use of orphans’ tears as industrial lubricant. My mother was a heavy hitter in the fashion industry. I assume you’re familiar with the Bulimiqúe line of designer emetics?

I grew up in what many would consider comfortable circumstances. Champagne mimosas to go with my Fruity Pebbles. Servants fighting with claw hammers for my amusement. I attended exclusive boarding schools, was summarily spanked by headmistresses, and tipped accordingly.

Starting from young adulthood, my life was a glittering panorama of trendy nightclubs, casinos and resorts. Monaco. Dubai. Atlantis. (Oh, it exists. Don’t laugh. Hard to get a decent vodka martini there, but it’s one of the few places in the world where the hookers are willing to give you a “Tijuana Bassoon Solo.” Tijuana, surprisingly, is not one of them.)

Yet the suffering inherent to my lot in life tormented me night and day. The family tensions. The unfulfillable expectations. The boredom. The incessant whining of those crybabies complaining about picayune annoyances such as lack of access to basic nutrition and health care. How I wept inside at the tragedy that was my existence!

I recently remarked upon this to a friend. We were at a resort in … oh, I forget the country. All I remember is that the natives were distastefully short and swarthy. But they did have a nice restaurant. One of those places where you can go up to a pen full of albino snow leopards and pick out which one you want for your entrée.

Anyway, we were sitting at a table. My friend was tucking into his albino snow leopard stir fry, and I was snorting a line of Peruvian flake off a tragically beautiful Victoria Secret model’s cleavage.

“You know,” my friend said, “if only there was a blog devoted to alleviating the anguish of those such as us.”

“That’s it!” I cried. “That is my mission in life! To be a literary champion who speaks out against the cruel oppression of the rich in our society! For we bleed, my friend. We bleed. Yet what is the heart that pumps that blood if not a heart of fire for the songs of freedom and mercy that course unto the night eternal?”

“I … didn’t really get any of that,” my friend said.

“Sorry,” I replied. “That’s the Peruvian flake talking.”

And so I offer my services as your scribe. Your champion. Your villain’s banana. Wait. Did that last one make any sense? This Peruvian flake is kicking my ass. Damn! What were we just talking about?