Dear Prof [Blah Blah], I am writing because I was present yesterday at the [blah blah Hotel] for a scheduled interview for the position of [blah blah] at [blah blah College].However, much to my dismay, after following your instructions to the letter, I discovered the hotel did not know the room number and had no record of anyone from [blah blah College] at their hotel.The Thick of It is a British sitcom, satirising the inner workings of modern government, that finished its fourth (and final) series in October 2012.
The first email, on June 3, 2016 was from Rob, who was relating a request from Emin, a person I knew from the 2013 Miss Universe Pageant near Moscow.
Emin and his father have a very highly respected company in Moscow.
Though your actions betray a stupendously indifferent and callous attitude towards job candidates who travel thousands of miles and spend hundreds of dollars to meet with you, perhaps you can imagine my disappointment.
Moreover, neither you nor anyone on your staff has tried to contact me since yesterday to explain this unprofessional and, frankly, despicable behavior. THEN THEY REPLIED WITH SOME LAME-ASS EXCUSES AND “HEARTFELT APOLOGIES.” BUT I AM SIMPLY NOT HAVING ANY OF THAT. HERE’S WHAT I WROTE BACK: Dear Prof [Blah Blah], Thank you for your message.
The intelligence official, who said he was willing to give the Trump administration the benefit of the doubt when it took office, is now deeply troubled by how things are being run.
“They ran all of these executive orders outside of the normal construct,” he said, referring to last week’s flurry of draft executive orders on everything from immigration to the return of CIA “black sites.” After the controversial draft orders were written, the Trump team was very selective in how they routed them through the internal White House review process, the official said.
Because , you know, if she did that, she'd be dead. And she'll never get another story, or even a fucking whiff of a story as long as she kept her sorry, hack bitch face lingering around Westminster, because I would call every editor I know - which, obviously, that's all of them - and I'd tell them to gouge her name out of their address books so she'd never even get a job on hospital radio where the sad sack belongs.
If you want me to sell the apples, I'll sell the apples, and if you want me to sell oranges, then I'll go and tell people that the apples?
I am glad to hear the search committee did not intentionally stand me up on Saturday in LA.
However, your explanation is still vexing from my point of view.
I do not know what to tell you I’m just trying to find a reason not to go out every evening I need someone that’ll help me think of someone besides myself I need someone I leave through the front door with ‘Cause we don’t wanna hide no more Plus you’re not shy no more Neither of us wanna play the side no more No, I’m not alone Even though nothing was the same Let me get your ass alone Let me make you say my name Say my name [Chorus: James Fauntleroy] Say my name, say my name When no one is around you Say, “Baby, I love you” If you ain’t running games Say my name, say my name You actin’ kinda shady, baby Why the sudden change?