An Open Letter To David Duchovny (Incl., Full Resumé)

Mr. Duchovny, It has recently come to my attention (as well as the attention of everyone else) that you are in rehab for Sex Addiction. First off, let me say congratulations; that's super great. Probably the best addiction to have behind heroin. I mean, they die young and look pretty haggard, but you know those guys are happy like most of the time. I imagine it's much the same with a sex addiction, especially for someone who can get sex so readily. Is rehab just a big 24-hour orgy, or what? Because that’s all I hear from Lohan. Again, congrats. But the reason I'm writing is that, as you are probably aware, your character in Californication also suffers from a sex addiction. Quite a coincidence. I hope I’m not jumping the gun when I assume that after this whole rehab thing dies down, you’ll probably become a paranormal investigator. And when you do…please, Mr. Duchovny, let me be your Scully.

I've already talked to Gillian Anderson, or rather the person at her gate, more than thirty times, and I've been assured by him that she's not interested in paranormal investigation. If you don't believe me, I've got the restraining orders to prove it. She’s just a terrible woman. That leaves the door wide open for her replacement, and I’d like to be the first to submit a resumé. As we in the paranormal investigation business like to say, BAM:

Michael Swaim Height: 6’4” Weight: 185 lbs. (not counting aura) Hair: Sort of like the guy from Oasis Eyes: A piercing and unearthly brown Objective: To obtain work as the scientifically-minded, skeptical partner of paranormal investigator David “Mulder” Duchovny. Selected Accomplishments:

Was one of six people to see the second X-Files movie opening night, and still maintain that I liked it, despite all logic to the contrary.

Am in possession of a number of David Duchovny’s and Gillian Anderson’s personal garments, which can be returned if I should attain the desired position, or else simply used as inspiration in the field.

Saw a vampire once. I’m pretty sure. He had his mouth on another guy’s neck, and he was dressed very fashionably.

In High School, was voted “most likely to investigate paranormal activity.”

Once watched every episode of The X-Files over a three-day weekend, and still didn’t understand who the cigarette-smoking man was.

Own the album Californication.

Work History: 2007-Present: Paid Cracked blogger, specializing in news of the paranormal (will occasionally cover many other topics). 2006-Present: Managed sketch troupe “Those Aren’t Muskets!” in the hope of accidentally recording footage of a ghost. Efforts so far unfruitful. Troupe name is a reference to the famous utterance of the “Gaberdeen Witch” as she was hung in 1782.

2003-2006: Unemployed. Paranormally. 2000-2002: Night shift bag checker at Ralph’s Market of the Strange. Witnessed no less than three ectoplasmic manifestations and one dimensional vortex in the mayonnaise aisle. All past lives-Present: Seeker of The Truth. Place of employment: Out There. Special Skills:

Can play the X-Files theme (and only the X-Files theme) on acoustic guitar.

Can also render the same on paper: Wah-wah-wah-wah-WAH-wah. (Deedledeedledeedle) Wah-wah-wah-wah-WAH-wah. (DeedledeeDEE) WAH-wah-wah-wah-WAH. DUNdundun. Created by Chris Carter.

Willing to satisfy Mr. Duchovny’s sex addiction twice weekly, on the condition that I am allowed to wear rubber gloves.

Some accents.

And just in case that sterling resumé isn’t enough to sway you, I’ve taken the liberty of providing an excerpt from a little piece of fan fiction I like to call “The Curse of The Were-Mummy.” I think a quick read will help assure you that I’m the only man for the future job. ... “But isn’t that the point?” Mulder persisted, placing his hand on the butt of his gun like the biggest badass you’ve ever seen. His face seemed tortured with a yearning for Truth; a Truth that forever eluded him. “How do we know it

wasn’t a demonic force that stole the stereo out of this TransAm?” Mulder’s partner paused, smirking skeptically. “Science,” he muttered, and slid into the driver’s seat of their black Escalade like a snake slithering through a pat of honey butter. Mulder laughed bitterly. “Agent Swaim, always the skeptic.” “Doctor Agent Swaim,” he corrected, starting the car’s engine with a deafening roar. “Now come on…we’ve got a werewolf to kill.” And as they tore off into the night, Percy Faith blaring full volume, Mulder felt that for once, maybe the Truth…was in here. ... I await your phone call, Mr. Duchovny.

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When not writing for Cracked, Michael searches for his lost sister as head writer and co-founder of the ongoing paranormal research group Those Aren't Muskets!