Dear Mister Colonaphan:
First, remove that rotted, polyester imitation of dead beaver from your head. It's not hip. Second, quit snapping your fingers on the main beat, the half beat or the off beat. You ain't got rythym. Third, your facial peel didn't remove the liver spots or the crateriferous pock marks. You still look like Mons Olympus.
We contacted your old workplace and coworkers. They referred to you as "butt-kissing weasel" and created a "shrine of shame" in memoriam. One item we shrank in horror from was the Capri Pants Celebration for all secretaries. Plaid is dead. Disco is dead and Capri pants should be dead unless you're a creepy pervert or serial rapist.
Your former staff told us that you sucked up to the big boss and took special assignments that no one in the Division was prepared for. They said that you took no blame for failures and let coworkers out to dry, to twist in the wind. Worst of all, you served them white chocolate with minty bits and said your wife handmade it special. That was a lie. Lady Godiva had a sale that week.
Finally, Devo was never rock and roll.
We pronounce you insufficiently groovy. We cannot hire you but we can stamp you "returned for regrooving." We are an avant-garde, cutting edge dot com. Your elevator never let the basement. Perhaps you can find a 12-step program for losers. We pity them. Please, never darken our doorstep again in this millennium.