June 14, 2005
My Sorry Butt (or, Filling in the Blanks)
A year or so ago, somebody posted a thread at a writer's forum I then frequented, lamenting a rejection that had just been delivered. As every writer knows, ALL rejections suck, but this one was particularly painful in its terseness, its obvious "rubber-stamped" nature, and - most heinously - in the lack of physical skill apparent on the part of the person doing the rubber-stamping. Entire sections of text were missing from the missive, leaving the recipient forced to try to interpret the true nature of the communiqué. Most troubling, really.
Working 'round the clock, Hell Toupee's massive team of forensic Photoshoppers has labored to recreate the following facsimile of the perplexing document.
The 'Sorry but' letter
As you can see, the letter is bathed in ambiguity. And perhaps in an overly liberal dose of Old Spice, but that's just conjecture. At any rate, it leaves some hard questions unanswered.
Is this a rejection?
Is this a request?
Is this a coded message from the pathetic victim of some insidious sex-slavery ring that uses literary agencies as a front?
Okay, so maybe that last one's a long shot. But let's do some extrapolating.
Being a glass-half-full kind of guy, I'm inclined first to treat this as good news. To that end, let's try filling in the blanks, and see what this letter might really say.
But also being a realist, I acknowledge the possibility that this is indeed a rejection letter. So again, I'll make a few attempts at reconstructing this enigmatic document.
Or maybe it said something like:
The most depressing option, of course, would be the following:
I guess his mom never gave him the speech about having something to fall back on
After losing 20 of his best chickens when Tennessee police raided an illegal cockfight, gamecock owner David Webb lamented, "I've been around this stuff all my life. Everything I've ever known is a chicken fight."
In Other News
Hell Toupee was identified as the only blog in the world not running a joke about Michael Jackson.
The Daily Haiku
Today's offering is a poem about the literary hand grenades we create only to ultimately hurl at ourselves:
Tuesday's Guilty Pleasure
Watching Fran Drescher on TV.
With the sound turned off.
Working 'round the clock, Hell Toupee's massive team of forensic Photoshoppers has labored to recreate the following facsimile of the perplexing document.
The 'Sorry but' letter
As you can see, the letter is bathed in ambiguity. And perhaps in an overly liberal dose of Old Spice, but that's just conjecture. At any rate, it leaves some hard questions unanswered.
Is this a rejection?
Is this a request?
Is this a coded message from the pathetic victim of some insidious sex-slavery ring that uses literary agencies as a front?
Okay, so maybe that last one's a long shot. But let's do some extrapolating.
Being a glass-half-full kind of guy, I'm inclined first to treat this as good news. To that end, let's try filling in the blanks, and see what this letter might really say.
Sorry butler was late in delivering message. Now
we'll have to fly you on the corporate jet to sign the book deal in time.
Thanks for theatrical rights to your story - we're picturing Keanu Reeves in the lead role. Whoa!
But also being a realist, I acknowledge the possibility that this is indeed a rejection letter. So again, I'll make a few attempts at reconstructing this enigmatic document.
Sorry but we don't usually publish this sort of thing, so I'm afraid
we'll have to return those rather, er, revealing photos you sent.
Thanks for the unsolicited and unexpected glimpse into the world of the double-jointed. We really had no idea.
Or maybe it said something like:
Sorry butter got smeared on this, but the deli was out of napkins, so
we'll have to make do with your manuscript, which came in handy in the bathroom, too. Note to self: Buy more TP. Anyhoo...
Thanks for the submission - glad you didn't send it in on a disc.
The most depressing option, of course, would be the following:
Sorry but we've stolen your idea. So now
we'll have to have you killed.
Thanks for the idea. Sorry about the killing thing.
I guess his mom never gave him the speech about having something to fall back on
After losing 20 of his best chickens when Tennessee police raided an illegal cockfight, gamecock owner David Webb lamented, "I've been around this stuff all my life. Everything I've ever known is a chicken fight."
In Other News
Hell Toupee was identified as the only blog in the world not running a joke about Michael Jackson.
The Daily Haiku
Today's offering is a poem about the literary hand grenades we create only to ultimately hurl at ourselves:
Essay SE
What lurks inside you,
self-addressed stamped envelope?
Blessing, or a curse?
Tuesday's Guilty Pleasure
Watching Fran Drescher on TV.
With the sound turned off.
