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LITERARY CODA

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January 21, 2004       |       Today's Terror Mood Ring: Apocalypse now.       |       Happy Birthday, Plácido Domingo!

Crockpot.

THIS IS THE ULTIMATE Y.P.R.*

*"Ultimate" doesn't always mean 'best'; sometimes it means 'last.'

BY
Yankee Pot Roast



Goodbye, mama and papa
Goodbye, Jack and Jill
The grass ain't greener
The wine ain't sweeter
Either side of the hill.

"Ramble On Rose," the Grateful Dead

Friends, Romans, carniefolk:


Life is but a series of adventures and it is time for this (mis)adventure to come to its inevitable end. Y.P.R. has been a part of your lives from nearly eleven months now. Over the course of that near year, we've shared good times with each other. Remember when Josh ate all of those olives? He threw up for hours and now he can't even walk by the olive store without gagging. There was the time that Nick found those sweaty old gym socks in the back of his desk drawer. He couldn't stop vomiting for days because the stench was so putrid. Also, remember when Geoff fell face first into that vat of months-old blue cheese dressing? He's still vomiting! All those good times. All that vomit.

It's been fun, this thing of ours. It really has. But the time has come to move on to things bigger and better. Y.P.R. will cease operations, effective immediately. This is not a joke. We’re out. Kaput. Over. Done. Gone. Sayonara. Adiós. Au revoir, Auf Wiedersehen, arrivederci. Lata, alligata.

You may be asking, "Why? It seemed like the good stuff was just beginning," or "This all just seems so senseless. Why now?" or "I just gave those bastards my money for Graphology. I hope they aren't moving to Guatemala to become cattle ranchers." This decision may seem to your outside eyes as capricious and arbitrary, but Y.P.R. assures you there are reasons. Oh, there are reasons. The time & effort it takes to craft such an endeavor, even a modest one completely devoid of high-tech gimmickry, is exhausting our spirits. There are too many submissions to read, and reading too much pixilated literature gives us headaches. It probably causes blindness, too, but trust us on the headaches.

Also, we'd been totally ripping off Haypenny's gig this whole time and since they've thrown in the towel, what choice is there for us, really? If they feel it is the right time to go, then we feel the same way. Not only is there going to be a dearth of witty lit for us to swipe, but also we'd like to adopt their classy sign-off by going out with a bang at the top of our game. And since it's clear Y.P.R. ain't never getting any better, today is as good a day as any to shut down the site. The Oglala Lakota Sioux tribe has words for that: "Hoka-hay". It means "Today is a good day to die," or something approximate. We learned this from a movie. We think it was "Flatliners."

Do not try to stop us, loyal Y.P.R.colytes. Do not flatter us with kind words; do not beg us to reconsider. Trying to stop us would only further infuriate the goddess Fortuna, and we cannot afford to be looked upon any less favorably than we already are.

To all of our dear readers, our contributors, our friends and enemies, the corporations we've antagonized, the celebrities we've celebrated, the stereotypes we've mocked, the clichés we've milked, the boundaries we've broken, the writers we've satirized, the Web sites we've parodied, and the Neal Pollack we've roasted, we say to you: thank you, sorry, good-bye and goodnight. It's been fun. We ask that you never return to this URL. If you do, an intense sorrow is likely to befall you, and no one will be there to ameliorate your grief. Some doors lead to dark and mysterious places, friends. You might not want to open them. Our Internet friends will carry the torch. They have the accumulated knowledge and the wherewithal to continue what we've started with our little journal of literary satire. Don't cry for us. We are already dead.

Your humble working boy,
Y.P.R.

P.S. This is not a joke. We mean it: Over and out.


SOME PARTING WORDS FROM FRIENDS & FOES

“When I lost my funk, Y.P.R. was there. When Nicole needed heroin, Y.P.R. was there. They astound me with their generosity. I'll miss them.”

- Lionel Ritchie

“Damn! Those Y.P.R. motherf*ckers were funny cats. Shut yo mouth! Jive!”

- U.N. Secretary General Kofi Annan,
doing his terrible Shaft impression

“Connie wouldn't let me read it but I heard from all my friends that Y.P.R. was really hysterical. I'm kidding. I have no friends.”

- Maury Povich

“I'll miss Y.P.R. They were easily among the top 2- or 300 literary satire journals on the Web.”

- Winnie Mandela

“I'm going to miss George dearly. He had a wonderful sense of humor and was a beautiful writer. I'd known him for years ... wait, Y.P.R.? What the hell is that? I was talking about George Plimpton. Ah, screw all of you, I'm going for a drink.”

- John Updike

“Y.P.R. was the only journal who would publish my 'Sunglasses At Night' parody. I'll miss them dearly.”

- Corey Hart

“Y.P.R. was like a rotten outbreak of hemorrhoids: nagging and all over my ass. Good riddance to Y.P.Crap. De-funct. And so it goes. Speaking of which, here is a picture of an asshole:

*

- Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

“I love Y.P.R. They are strong but gentle lovers, and they can last all night long. Ooh, rock me, Y.P.R.”

- your little sister

“I love Y.P.R. They are strong but gentle lovers, and they can last all night long. Ooh, rock me, Y.P.R.”

- also, your mother

“I'm so glad I invented the Internet. Thanks to me, Y.P.R. is possible. Blah, blah, blah. Bo-o-o-o-ring.”

- Lou Ferigno,
doing his Al Gore impression.

“Since I am the Gov-ah-nah of Cah-lee-fore-knee-ya, I demand that Y.P.R. stay on the In-tah-net.”

- my grandmother

"I fucked Y.P.R."

- Paris Hilton

"Me too."

- Monica Lewinsky

"Yup. Same here."

- Brittany Murphy

"Ditto."

- Arianna Huffington

"Hell, who didn't?"

- Abe Vigoda

"I married Y.P.R.! For hours!"

- Britney Spears

"Stop ripping off our bits, assholes."

- the ghost of Haypenny,
angrily rattling its chains




Don't write to Y.P.R. Don't write for Y.P.R. Right on, Y.P.R.?

Crockpot.


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