March 30th, 2020 - Futures

Dear TNY,

I’m pretty sure that “Futures” is part of a joke you’re trying to play on the world.

How in the fuck could you label this literature?  How in the fuck can you look yourself in the mirror and say, “Yep, I did a good job editing this,” and not throw up on your reflection?  I stopped reading around the 700 word mark.  In the first couple of paragraphs we have multiple characters, that may or may not have names yet, talking without quotation marks, and there are bulk introductions of other characters as well (this paragraph also includes more dialogue within it that both parties speaking seem to be responsible for).  These are basic fucking mechanics.  If the reader can’t follow what the fuck is happening, that’s the author and the editor’s fault.  Beating this fucking dead horse here at FTNY, but you shouldn’t be publishing shit that looks worse than the trashiest used toilet paper being submitted to MFA programs across this great (stifles laughter) land of ours. 

Ours.  What a funny concept.  It’s not even ours.  Living in fucking occupied territory.  You motherfuckers work on an island that our esteemed forefathers tricked some Native Americans into trading us for beads.  What prestige!

And that’s not even the point.  The point is you are so fucking out of touch that your fiction is a pointless, spiraling endeavor into a collapsing black hole of human deterioration and buffoonery.  I talked to a writer the other day (surprising, I know).  He’s notable.  Awards.  Publications.  PhD.  And I think he summed it up nicely after he said he can’t make it through any of your stories anymore.  What he said was:  I don’t think I’ll submit anything to them ever again.

So, to close this letter out, I’m going to let a Canadian show that has fucking excellent writing do the talking for me.  Wayne and Derry from Letterkenny are gonna let you know what’s what:

Anyone ever tell you what an asshole you look like?

You’re a complete fucking flop, bud.

Pull your finger outta your ass, you fucking pipefitter.

I’d rather be watching a hobo jerk off.

Fuck, we’d be lucky to be watching a hobo jerk off right now.

I’d rather be watching a paper cut in slow mo.

I’d rather be watching ten man lemon party on an IMAX movie screen.

Don’t let grammy google that one.

You know what, you’d be my grammy’s soulmate, cupcake.

You’re bumfluff, bud.

Sing us a song or something; do a trick.  You’re fucking useless.

What’s your laundry folding channel, hun?

I bet you know exactly how many days it is until Christmas, don’t you, bud?

WAIT!  Go fuck yourself you silly fucking butt crusty.

You’re a danish in a donut shop.

You’re a cup of baby carrots, you fucking asshole.

I don’t even know what your name is, bud.

You’re spare parts, bud.

You’re fucking 10 ply.

Until next week.

Nick