The [Subtext] of a rejection email from hell (Part two and three)

On Wed, Oct 31, 2018 at 11:36 PM Dave Pork <dave.pork@porkshrewpress.com> wrote:

I'm 46 [the gall of these brats to get all ageist with me, after I've given them a fair assessment of their writing abilities, fucking ungrateful, that's what they are].

 

But holy fuck, let's fight about our life experience [I already told you about that crazy shit Bowie had me do, or did I?—he was The Thin White Duke then, and fucking coked out of his gourd, spouting Supernatural-Nazi/Nietzsche-Aryan-Purity-Übermensch/Anti-Christ-Jungian-psychobabble and buying up every satanic Crowleyite book in LA, and I wasn't sure if he was really onto anything actually mystical or magical or if we were both experiencing a Philip K. Dick level of psychosis and about to find out Lovecraft was right all along—the short version is we almost redid the Manson murders, and there were some orgies with Morrissey and Charles Bukowski—both of whom fyi have huge dicks]. I got arrested for murder in Memphis [just to watch the guy die ya know like Johnny Cash shit, and yeah I don't have the balls to wear all-black, there's too many murder-hungry yokels here in the desert, but if I did, well then I'd be in all-black, and that's some fucking edgy shit, that and murder! That's right, I'm a fucking murderer and a literary critic, so the two worse people on the planet had a retarded baby, go gucking sue my flucking azz, for the record Bret did actually kill a shitload of hookers, me and him both, and Chuck Paleofuck got involved too, there was so much blood and alcohol, I felt like a vampire on crack, ass crack that is, I think we started drinking blood and eating raw animal organs, which reminds me again of my beloved—pedophile he may have been, but great artist!—Günter Brus].

 

Fuck that [and that and that and this and that, damn, I'm like the new fucking Gratude Steene]. You're writing like you ain't done nothing [and nothing is nothing is nothing, put that on my fucking tombstone pizza, in the kitchen with the some kinda blue Dylan blues]. You write like you're supposing [supposing what you ask, I don't fucking know, like you're supposing that you suppose (italicize that last suppose, cause I can't find the fucking button in this email, though I do think italicizations suppose (italicize that last one too) too much of a reader (and italicize the reader (and the writer (which is me))), like what is the fucking significance of said italicized supposition (okay, italicize this whole fucking digression), is it better (italicize) than other words (italicize), isn't that's what's this' all is about, the superiority complex of italics, the power of little pretty words to impress the Other and win the Nobel on italics (between (nested) parentheses) alone?)]. And I don't give a fuck what you think you're doing [I don't give a fuck about literature, there, the truth is fucking out, everyone I've ever published sucks ass basically, and they're going to die someday, profound I know]. I'm responding to what you did [like here I'm drinking fifths of whiskey all alone on halloween and like you're some fucking tricker treater coming to my door but you leave a flaming bag of shit and rather than stomping it out, I come out my front door butt-naked, still clutching my handle of whisky and I just scoop the bag up, flames and all, and while staring the little brats down, scarf it all in one go in front of them, and the little pussies start vomiting up all that unearned candy right in front of me, and we're all Viennese Actionists in that moment, and the world's perfect and raw and... something indescribable, ineffable, something like the fucking Tao de Dingaling].

 

Also, fuck off. Fuck the hell off [of me—I'm going to hell, I hope there's beer in hell, I hope satan likes my lit crit, I think we might be buddies, if he's like the satan in South Park, yeah, I think we'd really get along]. There's hundreds of thousands of you [people that is, fuck, there's too many people, why does no one ever bring that up, it's so taboo, like fuck there's 7 billion of us, there really should be less... I'm not saying genocide exactly, I don't know what I'm saying, but someone has to die, more people should die, like a lot more of you, and not me, not yet, I've got a lot more lit crit to do, if I'm going to be pals with the horned one because Bowie taught me the right spells and all and like start writing for South Park, god I love that show, you see I've been rejected too, that show rejected my rants as too risque, well AHA! that says something, I mean that's a compliment, better a one than you'll ever get, so hey I know you're taking this kind of as unkind or whatever, but ya know that's just the way it goes, I'm like your Vader father and I'm teaching you about the world and the whole damn universe and you're just crying like a pussy, losing your hand, and falling down some shaft, and yeah you got some friends who save you, some boring fake nice friends, and you know you wanna bone your sister, and kill that poser Solo, and maybe fucking Jabba would be kinda hot, I mean that's a big fucking tongue, but please friends are fucking overrated, absolute literary power trumps some stupid whiny friends], all of you thinking you've done something awesome [I shit on your fucking kindergarten gold stars! I shit on all the stars! I'm in the gutter shitting myself looking up at myself shitting on stars!], and you think you're the only one to craft a clever bit of bullshit [well guess what I'm the fucking king of clever bullshit! Fuck yes! Team America! Kill the Fucking World Already!]. I'm super not interested [in life, in literature, but I fucking love South Park]. Fuck you [and me]. Fuck off [and on and up and down, a fuck is a fuck is a stupid fucking fuck]. Go send somewhere else.


 

On Thu, Nov 1, 2018, 1:19 AM Dave Pork <dave.pork@porkshrewpress.com> wrote:

Steve [my little meat puppet co-editor] is mad at me for my tone at attitude [that's right, I said it right, like when a tone gets at a certain attitudal pitch, like altitude, like I'm on a mountain, and I'm a giant, and I'm pissing on everyone below me... fuck, that's how god must feel like when it rains].

 

He is, of course, correct [fucking little doctorate in English suckup shitnose teacher's pet], that we should be kind [because everyone's so fucking PC these days it's ludicrous, I mean what happened to fucking American satire, I mean like Trump gets elected, and people are just freaking out, because they didn't know that shit was a thing, but I live in fucking Arizona, I mean it's a thing, and I AM NOT a nazi, I have never been one, but I went to a meeting just to check it out, and I will say there is a certain male camaraderie there, that's all, I mean they're all assholes, and I mean if you're going to be an asshole at least be a witty one, not a retarded one, and yes I do belong to the GNAA (I'd spell it out for you, but you'll just have to google it, I'm not getting accused of being a bigot on here), to me a true troll can trace their lineage to none other than Socrates, or Diogenes, or if we're trying to be less sexist and shit, maybe Eve, yeah Eve, she gave god the finger, she was the first troll, she was a real babe, sorry, that was sexist, whatever, I publish women! Sometimes. I mean it's all shit anyways, I'm just trying to get them to sleep with me, come down to Arizona and give a 40-something a pity-hand-job like Louis C.K. or some shit, like jacking off in front of people is bad, but hey that guy's fucking hilarious, you heard that one about how he'd like to fuck a baby deer, or wait, I mean he'd fuck like 10 bleeding AIDs dicks in some alley to kill a baby deer, hah! Yeah that's it, and fuck, hahaha, please kill bambi]. But I got other feels [that's right I know internet slang, like TFW your life is fucking meaningless], I got other thoughts [of fucking genius]. I want us to do fucking amazing shit [that involves actual shit, I told you about the performance art right?]. Do the best [be the best we can be, like the fucking army or some NSA level shit, like hacking into hot women's phones and watching them all day and sending them dick pics cause it's funny, that say they're from their boyfriends so it really fucks with their heads, cause they've never really looked at their boyfriend's dicks before properly, they just let them put it in, like these gross little Stranger Things slugs that can never get enough, and want to mind flay every hot woman in the world, and fuck the feeling's mutual, I don't idolize vaginas, I mean they're mounds of open flesh into a world of wage slavery inducing children, I mean WTF, genitals are disgusting and Alien, like in the Ridley Scott movie sense, I should stop having sex... oh wait, I already did that, and now goats won't even give me the time of day, though I do think their vaginas are kinda prettier], do unprecedented and inconceivable work [that's not even possible, like that literary journal that rejects everyone as a statement, that's some new shit... like a club that won't let anyone in, that's also really amazing shit, that type of inclusivity to be honest: gives me a hard-on].

 

My expectations are unreasonable. I want all of us to do better [not that I ever will, I'm already more than half dead].

 

Also, Your. [Let me stop to pour another drink] Not Enjoy [ing, sorry, I'm fucking wasted] You're Whiskey [that's right you are what you drink, you are whiskey, and I'm a hissy, shitty, whisky whisking in the wind, how's that for fucking Joycean], it's enjoy your whiskey [that's the motto of my country, with one resident: who's one genius fucking lit crit/indie publisher].

 

But also, it's whisky [as to excuse my "appalling behavior", "uncouth" of a "publisher of my stature" and "respect in the community"—oh fuck all that, as Baudelaire said: one must always be drunk, not on words, but on fucking whiskey, and whatever piss they drank in 1850s France, was it absinthe? That shit tastes like mouthwash and battery acid. O those fruity-tooty French—tho they did know how to troll somebody, didn't they? Then they'd just blame it on the absinthe or hash. Yeah like real Rimbaud-like, peeing on some asshole's bloated poetry—tho he'd never apologize, so neither will I. That's how gentlemen trolls roll mofo. You wanna ride this lit mag's whip, you wanna twerk out a novella on our crotch, you wanna drink the purple moon doodling drank outta a non-royalty chalice of egomania?—you gotta write hard to play hard my boi. Otherwise like Artaud said: all writing is pigshit.]

 

[See you next season in Hell,

Your Masochist-in-Pen,

 

David Pork]

Andre von Bismarck Breton

Send that rat bastard yr vitriol

Detroit, Mi