An Imaginary Pitchfork Resignation Letter


Dear Pitchfork,

It’s with a certain degree of bitterness I tender my resignation to you today. But bitter cynicism was what you hired me for in the first place so I can’t imagine that frustrating anyone too much. Moreover, in light of some of the editorial board’s recent comments to me, it’s become clear my resignation isn’t so much a suggestion as an essential, non-stated command.

The tension began running high with a discussion about early 2000’s garage rock. I was conversing with the writer assigned to the “Listening to Coldplay gives people AIDS” story over cups of fair trade, Intelligentsia Coffee and made an offhand quip about thinking Angles isn’t a half bad Strokes album at the end of the day. And Is This It? is more analogous to the Jefferson Memorial than the Lincoln one when it came to being a landmark album. My fellow writer caustically shot back, “And I bet you’re drinking Peet’s today too, aren’t you?” Before I could answer in the negative, his scalding organic ground coffee was thrown all over my ironic Genesis: Invisible Touch Tour t-shirt. Our discourse prior to this had been civil.


Upon complaining to my superiors, I was assured action would be taken. Little did I know this action comprised of my coffee-throwing colleague’s Instagram profile pic being put on the wall, attached to the moniker “Employee of the Month.” Upon further inquiry as to this supposed prank, I was informed this was no joke but, indeed, a decision handed down from the Editor-in-Chief himself who, apparently, had his eye on me. Coupled with this, I overheard him saying something along the lines of “that shit’s a Rolling Stone sympathizer” to my more immediate supervisor.

I was assured my “error” would not cause me to be treated unfairly but I’ve had my last three reviews scrapped  in order to “make room” for no less than three separate celebrations of Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music.  We’re a goddamned website! What’s all this “make room” bullshit?! This was followed by the rest of the staff writers throwing weekly parties to which I was not invited because I was, quote, “Probably a secret Bowling for Soup fan.” My tickets to SXSW were “misplaced” and I was lucky enough to receive a personalized cancellation from Vampire Weekend frontman, Ezra Koenig, for our  interview on November 3. His email, which I have reprinted here in full, read: “Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma? Probably  you, asswipe. No interview. I’ll see you in hell.”

All of this work-related cruelty has since found a way to balloon out into my personal affairs. My girlfriend of three years left me after I had one too many craft beers and admitted I found the characters in Ghost World to be kind of annoying. She also took our pet parakeet, Bowie, on the grounds I’d only ever listened to the greatest hits compilations of his namesake. Which is a lie. I’ve seen Labyrinth too.


My parents disinherited me after I confronted them on their lies that they’d raised me on a diet made up exclusively of CBGB’s punk bands and one Big Star LP. I distinctly remember some Eagles songs playing on our vacations to Greenwich Village as a youth. My sister hasn’t spoken to me since my apathetic reaction to I Heart Huckabees.

So allow me to make myself plain. I’ve had at least three cups of Folger’s coffee in the last two months because sometimes I can’t tell the difference between that and the stuff they make on French Presses. I listened to Channel Orange forty-three times last year and I still think it’s just kind of okay. And for God’s sake, what is the deal with everyone and hating Coldplay?! They are catchy and they make me cry and believe in love.

I understand my resignation here has garnered me the nickname “Nixon” around the office. My life is in shambles but it’s better than living a lie. Someone discovered my Culture Club boxed set and I knew that would be the final straw. I’m not completely sure who Deep Throated me on this one but if it’s who I think it is, he should probably remember the time I was with him drunk and he said Pavement was for dicks.

My Oasis-loving Ass


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