April 7th, 2025 - Marseille

Dear TNY,

You published “Marsielle” on a Sunday instead of your traditional Monday, and I’m here for it.

But I’m here for the early publication, not for this story.  I skimmed it.  Because…

Let me tell you a small story.  The other day I really had to shit.  And I was busy working a breakfast over, making the bits and bobs and drinking my coffee and I had to put all of that on pause and rush off, last minute, to relieve myself of the heft inside me.  And I looked at the throne, after I shut the door, and was not that interested in sitting down to do so.  Why?  Because there was a goober of feces on the OUTSIDE of the bowl.  On the starboard side (as one sits on the commode, but you probably surmised that from the usage of starboard).  It causes a fella to question things.  But the shit was tantamount to a train approaching a stalled car on the tracks, so it could not be stopped.  Business was done.  I got up and dragged overly-fluffy paper across the dense forest of my thick ass hair.  And when I turned around to flush the toilet, I eyed that devil’s food chocolate cake colored matter, the size of a pencil eraser, I sighed, unrolled a mitten of TP, and dispatched the offending matter, returning order to the world. 

I’d rather do that 10x than read this piece again.  I skimmed, at best.  This was “Ladies’ Lunch” lite.  Just a bunch of boring fucking women doing boring fucking shit, absolutely driving the reader to suicide. Just so that I’m not slinging shit without data, I want you to take this next bit in. The zenith of conflict in this story revolved around these women being older (according to them) and their interaction with a man named Vincent. And after he left, this was stated: “Oh, my God,” Lisa said. “What if . . . what if he thought we were just a bunch of aunties?”

That’s it. That’s the fucking conflict. You guys can eat that devil’s food colored shit I cleaned up.

I did come up with a theory for why you like this type of story.  I think it’s because your life is devoid of real color and/or richness.  Like, when did you stop biting savagely into decadent fruit and letting the deluge of juices run across your chin and onto your blouse?  When did you forget this life is about getting filthy and rolling in all the textures and smells and tastes?  When did you get so motherfucking beige, you cunts (cunts meaning dumb motherfuckers in this case, I don’t care if you have a front butt or not)?  You think this shit is interesting because you can relate to it and you can relate to it because…drumroll please…your life is devoid of interesting shit and you are underexposed, hoity-toity twatfaces on H.M.S Titanic (not steerage) and I wish to Christ that you’d hit a fucking iceberg so you could have a full reset on what fucking matters in life and your former self, Captain Banalagawea, would die off and you could return to form as a regular as human that wasn’t so goddamn worthless.

But alas, your head is so far up your ass that you are seeing out your mouth at this point, and that seems to be an irredeemable position.

But huzzah!  You’ve done it!  Your mom would be proud of the classism that you worship at a level even higher than the wages you get paid!  Congratufuckinglations, you’ve wasted your entire reason to breathe on this planet!

Fuck the fuck off.

Nick