Dear Mr. MacLean,
We regret to once again inform you that The New Yorker Magazine will not be using your poems or short stories in any upcoming issues. We recognize your clear commitment to the world of literature and we understand how difficult it is to write truly creative and original fiction. We do indeed admire your steadfast determination to progress as a writer. However, in our professional opinion, you are simply wasting your and, more importantly, our time.
For instance, this is the fifth week in a row that you have submitted the poem “Ass Dicks.” Although the aesthetic experience of the poem is quite phenomenal in the sense that the reader does feel as though they are directly in contact with colons and penises, it is not an experience that we would ever knowingly force upon our readers. Furthermore, we refuse to publish any piece of poetry that, however ironically, contains a subtle congratulatory nod to Joseph Stalin for winning the American Civil War. Although we understand the artistry of your deeply convoluted and nonsensical metaphor (which you have assured us has more to do with Stonewall Jackson than Joseph Stalin) the editorial staff at The New Yorker unanimously feels dumber for having read it.
Moreover, it is with deep regret that I inform you that your collection of short stories “Handicapped Lesbians” is never ever going to be published in our pages. Not only is it offensive to people with both physical and mental handicaps, but somehow you have written a short story prominently featuring lesbians that is completely devoid of sexual titillation. We believe that this might have something to do with your penchant to use the adjective “sand-paper like” to describe almost every single physical feature of each character. Even Blitzen the one legged, blind, lesbian’s face is described as “sort of like sandpaper”, which is difficult to fathom considering that Blitzen is later identified to be a St. Bernard.
Finally and most essentially, stop sending us your nude pictorials. They are beyond disturbing. At the New Yorker office we actually pulled straws to determine who would write you this letter simply because none of us – and I truly mean none of us – wanted to describe your naked form. Let me begin simply; it is like someone collected the worst features imaginable, purchased some sort of industrial diamond maker, and literally squeezed all the horrible things in the world together to make a single human figure. For the longest time, we were unable to determine whether the things on your back were nipples or slices of salami. We were, of course, horrified to find out that your back was in fact your face and the nipples your eyes. Please, for the love of all that is holy, abstain from sending us these photos. At one point, I could quite plainly feel my eyes bleeding. It was an overwhelming experience.
Best of luck,
The New Yorker