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My Interview With the CIA

15 Apr

Tuesday I had a job interview with the CIA. I drove up to the CIA Dallas office, apprehensive yet hopeful. I put on my Mavs Fan For Life t-shirt, turn my Cowboys hat backwards on my head, throw on my Rangers jacket and blow my nose on my Dallas Stars hoodie and began the walk to the offices. I wanted to look full of spirit for my interview. I have to change though, when the men at the door say that what I’m wearing isn’t appropriate attire for a formal appointment, so I go back to my car and put on my suit. I look fantastic.

“Hello. I’m here for my interview.” I say, nervously. My back and legs are covered in a cold sweat– my crotch, several small drops of urine.  In my stomach, there are butterflies. Probably because of the nervousness–but more likely because of the handful of butterflies I ate out of the flower beds adjacent to the sidewalk. I thought eating them would give me positive, butterfly-like energy. It didn’t. It gave me the runs and feelings of guilt and shame that I haven’t experienced since that one time I yelled out “Hey everybody! Wait for the hilarious bloopers!” at the end of “the Passion of the Christ.”

“Who are you here to see, young man?” The receptionist asks me. God, they’re already trying mind games with me. ‘Who am I here to see?’ Are they kidding me? I want to reach out and open palm slap this woman, but I won’t. No. I’ll do ’em one better. I’ll beat her mentally. No, I’m too scared.

“I’m here to see…the government?” I put my two hands up in order to make the “me no know” motion. She laughs. I think she wants to have sex with me.

“What kind of business do you have here, sir?” She seems impatient. This hurts my feelings a little bit, mostly because  the eating of the butterflies has made me very, very sensitive.

“I have a job interview,” I say.

“Ok. That’s fine. If you’ll just have a seat, Major Peters will be out any moment.”

“Thank you.” At this, I lift up the pen that is chained to the desk and, in a manner that can only be described as ‘sextreme,’ wrap the chain around my pointer finger and make a jacking off motion with the pen. Then I rip it off the desk at the point of climax, and with the essence of cool I lean over and say “…Oops…”

We bone.

Approximately 15 minutes after I ejaculate I am asked into a small room by a Major Peters. He’s a nice man–tall, clean cut, eyes stern yet inviting, as if he knows that everyone he’s looking at has something important to do. I automatically hate him.

“So, Mr. Irion, I see you applied to be an OOR officer overseas.”

“Yes sir. I would very much value my time in the Gaygency.” I snicker.

“Excuse me?” He said. He’s still smiling, but with a tinge of confusion.

“Gaygency. Remember? From ‘For Kyle the Bell Tolls.’ How many people called you guys about my job?”

“P…nobody. Mr. Irion, nobody called about your employment here. And I have no idea what ‘For Kyle the Bell Tolls’ is.” I burst out laughing at the point of someone not having read my material. I’m laughing almost to the point of hysterics. My gut starts to hurt. I spit up 3 butterflies.

“You haven’t read it yet?” I asked, “You still on that Easter one? Cool, man. You’re busy. You’re busy.”

There are several moments of markedly uncomfortable silence. I decide to just break the ice and cut to the chase.

“When do I get my check?”

I’m violently removed from the CIA offices by two burly, gay men.

Ugh. They weren’t really gay.

The Central Intelligence Gaygency lived up to its name today. I didn’t get the stupid job, but I didn’t want it anyway. I still have my friends, and that’s really all that matters!

Also, I’m going to need a place to live and some food to eat once I graduate–so–if I could get you guys to maybe leave addresses for me to stay at–that’d be great. I need a home. Adopt me.

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