Once upon AEA dreary, while I waited, weak and weary,
For interviews with seniors dull and bore,
So exhausted, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my hotel door.
“’Tis some undergrad,” I muttered, “tapping at my hotel door;
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, January but felt December,
And my flaccid, shrinking member seemed a ghost with hope no more.
Two thousand miles from my girl, with my hand I gave a whirl,
But this left me wanting something, truly something so much more
Something I’d not find on Amazon or in any brick-built store
Yea; I seek an S.F. whore
Thus to craigslist I did turn and through the listings I did burn,
Thrilling—filling me with excitement nonesuch heretofore;
Yet I stopped; my thoughts collected, as my johnson un-erected,
HRM interview at half-past four!
That’s what matters; nothing more
Yet my JMP’s a bore.
There I sat, my pits a-sweating. Jacket on, and fully dreading
That my interviewer might critique as none before.
She read my whole JMP, not merely pages 1-3
Tables with red ink were dripping, as my confidence was slipping
She saw that my signs were flipping, and quoth after further nipping:
“Low field journal. Nothing more.”
Recoiling in utter shame, vowed on the spot to change my name
Quick left the suite and scaled the stairs to my assigned fourteenth floor.
Smashed laptop screen and rent the sheets. Grabbed Spotify and donned the Beats
To take my mind away from ‘drear, got room service and downed five beers.
Then saw the schedule blinking on my LG G4:
Just one down. There are TWO MORE…
Sobered up, the next day brighter, full of sleep and no all nighter.
Showered, clothed, and ready for my second reaming on all fours
This time MRM, and pleasant. And today I’m fully present.
But they scorch me like a pheasant, treat me like a wretched peasant.
Rehearsing the HRM diagnosis of yore:
“Low field journal; nothing more.”
The JMP is not so bad, just an unlikely row I’ve had
From HRM and MRM, who joy in pain they cause galore
But later on is LRM, and certainly they will (ahem)
Be fairer to a JMC even with a weak JMP
Alas! the words that leave me sore…that rip regmonkeys to the core:
“Low field journal; nothing more.”
I run with tears of sadness; oy! FIECKERS were right, there is no joy.
Soon find local KFC: biscuits, drumsticks, spuds/gravy
Bemoan my sorry state but then--scribbled on my conference guide
Distracts me from the chicken fried—
Yes, Cornerstone! with open slots, for ABD job-haver-nots
Six figures quick; expense account; no tenure hurdle to surmount
What’s not to like? I sign my name. Don’t tell advisor (oh, the shame)
But joke’s on him: no MBAs! no twisted letter-writer maze!
I’ll work some weekends, so will he; but I’ll have impact, just you see
Ghostwriting, data manufacture; and maybe truth at times will fracture
Is it so different from TT? “We’re all LaCour”…or so it seems
Thus my job market did conclude
Despite the feedback, ah, so rude
That JMP was useless, better cut off; stopped and throttled 'fore
I wa