Die Hard Police Officer John McClane Prepares His Cover Letter for Admission to an M.F.A. in Creative Writing Program
Look, I’ll level with ya: I’m not writing this goddamned essay for any reason other than my wife Holly, so let’s get that fuckin’ straight right now. Guess I gotta find some way to express myself or some shit, and being as our marriage isn’t exactly what’d ya call a fuckin’ walk in the park anymore, I figured, fuck it, I’ll give it a shot. I’ll tell you what … I don’t know a rat’s ass about your school or anybody who went there—Ernest Fucking Hemingway, Steinbeck, or the whole goddamned New York Times Best Sellers list—I don’t know, and I could really give two shits. Holly said something like, “John, you gotta get in touch with your imagination, John, you gotta express yourself more,” and I was like, “What the shit you think I’ve been doing my last 20 years as a cop?!” Seems like every Christmas season I gotta deal with some kinda bullshit—first the Nakatomi building, then the goddamned airport and running around in the snow with those fucking scumbags. That whacked-out Simon shithead, too. Now I gotta write this fucked up essay ’bout how creative I am and, shit, over the break when I could be spending time with the kids?! Christ.
Fine, fuck it. Listen, if you don’t let me in to this program it’s gonna be a fine fucking shit-storm in the life of John McClane, I’ll tell you that much. Story of my goddamned life. Guess a guy can’t take out a few fucking deadbeats without his wife tellin’ him he’s got an anger problem. Look, all I gotta say is that I go my way, you go yours, and we’ll be fine. I can’t stand fuckin’ know-it-alls marking the shit out of my stories like I was in elementary school. I had to listen to all sorts of fucking blowhards in the academy and lord knows I’ve met my fair share of high-up cocksuckers in every city I’ve worked in since then. If you were fuckin’ smart, let me run the workshops. I’m not gonna sit and listen for five fuckin’ hours a day while some asshole in a tweed jacket and glasses talks about “voice,” and “imagery.” We do it my way, we’ll cut that bullshit in half, the stories will be ten goddamned times better. We do it yours, and we’ll be fucking 70 years old ’fore we get even one goddamned story published.
If nothing else, you oughta accept me because I’m stubborn. Holly said something about a lot of writers being stubborn. Well, if that’s the case, then I’ll be the James fuckin’ Joyce of your program. You don’t deal with shitbags like Hans Grüber and Colonel Stuart and come out alive if you ain’t a little fuckin’ hardheaded. Also, I got good analytical skills or whatever the fuck you call ’em nowadays. Remember all of that Simon fuck’s goddamned tongue twisters—no, wait. That’s not what they were, what the fuck you call ’em again? Riddles! Yeah, riddles. Pain in the ass. I had to solve those fucked-up riddles, all while running around the entire goddamned city with some other guy with an anger problem who I met just that morning. All that and I had the worst fucking hangover of my life. So, if that ain’t keeping a sharp mind under pressure, then fuck me in the ass with a corn cob.
Look, let’s cut the bullshit. I don’t get in, Holly’s out the damn door. I’ll dance, do the “yippee-kai-yay, motherfucker” routine whenever you want, whatever. Just admit me to the goddamned program, will ya? Taking the G.R.E.s was enough of a pain in the ass, and finding a couple of friends who weren’t pissed as all hell at me to write recs was like looking for a goddamned ice cube on the fucking sun. So, for Christ’s sake, give a guy a fucking break, will ya? How about a little Christmas spirit, huh?
10 a.m. — The Hotel Yorba.