A lost little writer summoned me not so long ago, sending me an instant message.
"Greetings, John. My name is who gives a fuck, because it's four in the goddamn morning.
I was wondering how one does submit to your lovely publication?
I'm a huge fan and have been reading it for a while."
I typed back.
"Yes, and apparently you failed to notice in all your awe of reading this monstrosity that has become the bane of my existence.
On the fucking annoying ass zines home page, there is a little section that reads submissions.
That describes this intricate process that involves you leaving me the fuck alone because when the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the four and my hands are on the gun.
It is probably best to leave me the fuck alone you stupid bitch.... okay!"
There was a pause, as first, like any true modern idiot, there was a wow emoji. Followed by a profound message as you would expect from any lit person who apparently forgot to take their meds or had consumed too much paste and crayons as a child.
"You know you don't have to be so rude, I mean your magazine really published some low-class work like that piece yesterday from that pervert, I can't remember his name."
"Oh, that would be me, and thank you. I really think my ode to fine asses and unionized hookers is really refined.
No?"
"You're a dick."
I felt myself stiffen slightly as once again I did love a woman handing me such deeply engaging compliments."
After a moment, I hearted her comment and sent her the zines email along with some basic guidelines and a poo emoji because I wasn't sure if it was shit or ice cream, and after smoking my prescription crack, I was really getting the munchies.
And like any self-respecting writer would do, who I had deeply offended.
She sent me her submissions in a matter of seconds.
And that, children, is how poetry zines work in a nutshell.
As I promptly published that crap because the magazine was really an ancient demon that demanded work every day, or it would never free my soul from eternal damnation.
I'm kidding, it's because she has a fantastic rack, and it was after all sexual harassment Saturday, and although I wore my finest mini skirt and heels, still the editor of my magazine didn't pay any attention to me.
Ugh, men, they're all a bunch of piggish bastards!
No wonder I was still a lesbian after all these years....
Poetry, yeah, I could have taken a different route, maybe landed a real job.
To have the extravagant things like a home that wasn't a cardboard box behind the Walmart so I could steal their Wi-Fi, but I had Poetry.
Fucking poetry and goddamed poets asking stupid fucking questions I exploit to pen poems to post and fellow editors to snicker at and question if I really am the devil.
Dear Santa, please give me a pistol for Christmas so I can shoot the outside speaker that won't stop playing that fucking Christmas music.
Or do I have to pose as a sick man once again to have the Make-A-Wish Foundation tell me that dealing with poets who drain your very life force didn't make me eligible for their services.
And even if it did, they really couldn't arrange Sabrina Carpenter to have sex with me.
Oh the tyranny, memories all alone in the moonlight.
Cheers, children, stay crazy.
Sincerely,
The Mad Editor.
John Patrick Robbins, hates humanity yet enjoys long conversations with himself and his beloved house plant Mitch.
He drinks only the the finest of whiskeys and smokes the highest quality crack that his next door dealer does supply.
He pens Gothic stories and poems when not dealing with life force draining writers constantly asking him stupid questions like.
"Hey John, I know your busy but would you mind reading my 5,00000 page poetry manuscript its a book inspired by the voices in my head and dedicated to my AI girlfriend whom is currently not talking to me because even she thinks my poetry sucks."
When not trying to find a suitable liver donor he enjoys sleeping endless hours due to severe depression and lack of a suitable light fixture to hang his fat ass from.
He pens deep works of art but still must pen these idiotic poop,poop, fart writes to amuse his audience of stoners and burnouts who believe while he is a total recluse and borderline serial killer of course he hates everyone but them.
He currently is on vacation at the Shady Pines mental health facility where he specializes in fingerprinting and plotting a riot to escape.
He likes boobies and fine art created by even finer asses.
He loves you all minus the love.
You got to the end of this which means you deserve a reward so please take a clock radio into the shower because it's a hell of a buzz.
Cheers and the voices are correct everyone is out to get you.
Skál.
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