What Everyone Should Know About Trying to Get a Job at The Onion

I am, by nature, an optimist. Give me a problem and I'll show you how you can squint tightly and see that problem as a solution to some other problem. Basically, I try hard to meticulously nip out the negatives from any given situation, not unlike gristle from a steak. So, when-fresh out of college and over-flowing with positivity and pluck-I heard that the Onionhad offices in Chicago, the city that I was currently residing in, I felt a sense of duty and purpose wash over me. My employment, hereto unknown and largely unwanted, displayed itself in awesome fashion.

In a mere manner of days, I had worked and re-worked together a collection of humor pieces and fake news that I just knew the editors of the Onion would adore. I revamped my resume, debating internally-and probably externally-whether Ariel black or Book Antiqua font better captured my spirit and promise. Finally, I decided that I was as ready as I could be and went with Book Antiqua.

The plan was simple: I would extract the address of the Chicago offices from www.theonion.com, don my new graduation gifts (suit, leather briefcase, etc…), and charm the pants off the front-room assistant. After that, I was a shoo-in. How could they possibly turn me down? I was young and so very talented. And more importantly, I was supremely confident-so supremely confident that I refused to even examine the possibility of them not wanting to hire me.

What I didn't know at the time: The Onion maintains a small, static staff of writers in New York that generate the content for the paper. Positions open up rarely (once every couple of years) and are filled by people with entire resumes full of applicable experience. The Onion does not accept unsolicited submissions and does not solicit for submissions ever. They don't look at resumes. They have a large, large dumpster for "recyclables."

Even if I had known the above facts, I probably still would have made the trek. And make it I did. I rode the bus for 50 minutes sweating my tail off in a cheap wool suit. My nerves were frayed. Still, I pressed on. My future was worth more than any momentary discomfort that this foray might provide.

I got off the bus at around noon on a humid, hot Chicago day. But, I didn't let the dampness of my clothes dampen my spirits. I culled together my strength and personal fortitude and charged toward the address I had written on my hand and burned into my brain. As I neared, however, I found the buildings in the surrounding area a little short to accommodate a suite number like 7344. The highest story seemed to 3 or 4 tops. No seven floor complexes anywhere. Scanning diligently for the address, I noticed that the office must be in a tiny strip mall-along with a Subway and Domino's Pizza.

Walking into the complex I suddenly spotted the address I had been searching for. I gripped my courage, pushed on and looked down: It was a UPS store. The "suite" number I had been looking for was, in reality, nothing more than a PO Box. A keen sense of being duped ran quickly up my spine. And I suddenly realized that, considering who I was dealing with, somebody might be watching this scene unfold with uproarious laughter. Defeated, I beat a hasty retreat. I never again entertained notions of writing for the Onion and, to this day, I cringe when I walk past a UPS store.