Friday, April 23, 2010

Dear Sirs,

I sent you guys a manuscript almost two fucking weeks ago and haven’t heard dick yet.  What gives?

When are you going to publish my motherfucking children’s book? I sent you guys a manuscript almost two fucking weeks ago and haven’t heard dick yet. What gives? I’m sitting here playing with my nuts like a fucking squirrel, shooting off e-mails every hour, and all I get is the silent treatment. Two fucking weeks. That is unacceptable. Time is money. We need to get this fucker on the shelves, gentlemen.

Here’s how I figure it’ll break down: I want an advance in the mid three-figures, plus a nice signing bonus on account of all the ball sweat I shed on this bastard already.

Don’t try to pull any funny stuff, either. You turd-nibblers aren’t dealing with some corncob off the short bus here; I know how your little racket works. I’m offering you quality product at a decent price. The story I have crafted, Tommy Tater and the Land of Enchanting What-Not, will sell beyond your wildest expectations. It’s got everything: adventure, swordplay, talking vegetables, whimsical shit. It’s rollicking. A fucking romp. And affordable. You’re getting a bargain and you know it you cheap sons-of-bitches.

Yet there seems to be a holdup. Is it because it doesn’t have a wizard? Add a magic wand, I don’t give a shit. No vampires? No problem. Go ahead and put some pasty-faced douchebag in there too, no skin off my ass. Have you peckerwoods even read the fucking thing yet? Fuck you. It’s so adorable you’ll crap.

Have you peckerwoods even read the fucking thing yet?  It’s so adorable you’ll crap.

Speaking of which, I also want a slice of the merchandising pie, and believe me, I smell pie. Imagine Tommy’s mug plastered on all sorts of cheapo Asian shit: T-shirts, stickers, thermoses, you name it, it’ll sell. And Ernie Eggplant? Get the fuck outta here. Kids will love that little puke. Put his ass on some caps and blankets and—bam! The mind boggles.

So what’s it going to be? Are you going to keep busting my chops, or are you going to wake up and smell the money? I am not unreasonable. Be sensible and get back to me, O.K.? Do not make me come looking for you because that will not be pleasant, my friends. Publish my motherfucking children’s book. Pronto. It will be a worthy addition to your literary empire. That is a promise.

With Utmost Sincerity,
Sean Murphy

P.S. I am willing to do publicity.

Sean Murphy is a writer living in Tucson, Arizona. His work has appeared in print and online in Opium, The Onion, Nerve, The Tucson Weekly, and What the Hell Are You Eating? He is currently working on a novel and would appreciate a little quiet.

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