Dear Madam,
I presume you will not reject me on the grounds that I am not a woman. To be honest, you would be a damn fool to do so. For starters, you would be opening yourself up to a legal battle that will rage all the way to the Constitutional Court. I am close to several of our top judges and I can assure you that at the end of the day, I will walk away with Truworths and you will be lucky to escape with the clothes on your back.
Having said that, let me also say that you won’t find a harder-working and more loyal employee than I. My wife, Brenda, is threatening to abandon me unless I get a job and I can honestly say that I have never worked this hard to find work. By the end of the day I am so exhausted that I have to sit down, put my feet up on the dog and quaff flagons of foaming lager just to be able to feign conversation when she comes in after a shift at the fish factory, or wherever the hell it is that she works.
I have always fancied myself as a bit of a model. When I was younger, I would dress up in my mother’s skirts and blouses, cover my face with makeup and put on a bit of a show for the family. Everybody would laugh, of course. But it was a year later, when I turned 21, that I realised they had been laughing at me and not with me. Sometimes it hurts so bad that I have to dip into the goodie bag and whip myself straight.
Your advertisement says that I will be “required to attend fitting sessions of sample garments”. When I first read these words, a frisson of excitement rippled up and down my spine all tingly and kundalini-like. The requirements of the job are redolent with memories of the precious moments I spent with the Marquis de Sade. I am talking about his writings, naturally, and not the Marquis himself. I am not that old.
I see you also require that I have a passion for fashion. Oh, but I do. And not just that, dear lady. I also happen to have a flair for hair, a lust for bust, a yen for men, a zeal for veal, a verve for lurve, a craving for slaving, an ache for cake, a quiver for liver, an urge to purge and a fever for beaver.
I notice that I will also be expected to juggle appointments, tasks and work to deadline in a demanding environment. Please. When I was on the border fighting the communists, I once walked across a minefield juggling a bottle of brandy, a grenade and a dead terrorist’s head. I find it hard to imagine that your environment would be any more demanding.
“To qualify for this role you need to be a size 10/34.” This pleases me. I am far more suited to playing a role than playing a human clotheshorse. However, I do not understand what 10/34 means. Men don’t attach numbers to their size. Well, some do, but I see no need to brag.
Let us look at the rest of my vital statistics.
Coming in at 1.95m, we can safely say that I surpass your height requirements. I have a small problem in the breast area, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a bag of silicone. Towards the end of the month, my waist is the required 69cm. However, after payday it has been known to balloon to around 104cms. My thighs are firm and well-rounded but, like other men, I do not have a top hip and a lower hip so I am unable to provide you with those measurements.
I am enclosing a photograph of myself modelling a little something that I whipped up last night. I expect that by spring, everyone in Pretoria will be wearing it.
Yours in fashion,
Dr Ben Trovato (Ph.D. Fash.)
BEN TROVATO – Durban Poison 