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| Space cat livid over submission guidelines... |
Ali Katz
Dear editor,
I have just been reading your submission guidelines
and I am livid.
I am incensed, sir.
You may consider this a STIFFLY WORDED missive on that
exact same subject.
So, no talking cats, eh—we’ll see about that one, sir.
Oh, and you expecially don’t like pot-smoking,
steampunk cats with an attitude and a human slave who is dumb enough to leave
the computer turned on when they leave the house, well, big deal.
This is the internet, baby.
Funny thing is, you supposably like that meme with the
cat pounding keys, but then you think it’s cute, when really, it’s a major
pain-in-the-ass, (and quite frankly, it’s a lot of work, which I’m not too fond
of), and also, speaking of which…just so you know, I’m doing a book on space
pirates, so fuck right off and keep going on into infinity at warp speed for as
many parsecs as you have fingers and toes. Right into a black hole, or is it hoe.
Trust me, sir. The next time I lick my ass, I will be
thinking of you, so there—
And no, this is not artificial intelligence, buddy.
Which doesn’t even require an opposable thumb, not that I have ever needed one
anyways.
Why don’t you take that opposable penis of yours, turn
it around, shove it right up your ass, and then go ahead and fuck yourself to
death. It’s just a suggestion, and the truth is, you probably couldn’t get it
up (or down) for yourself anyways.
Yes, sir, when you were young, you were so ugly they
had to tie a pork-chop around your neck just to get the dog to play with you.
So ugly, or perhaps merely so talkative, that the baby-sitter fed you with a
sling-shot.
So ugly, you had to sneak up on a glass of water, sort
of thing—so ugly, for your first really good girlfriend, you had to rob the
grave, which I admit is at least better than robbing the cradle. More on that
later, assuming I can think of anything. As for your momma, she must have had
some pretty sour milk. As for your daddy-o, it is my carefully considered
opinion that he whacked off in a flower pot and raised a blooming idiot.
So, you don’t like my pen name, Ali Katz, which is a
very nice name even if I do say so myself.
May your legs grow together, may the Bird of Paradise
neutralize your hair tonic, may the fleas of a thousand mechanized space-crabs,
(another sci-fi concept I’m working on), infest your merkin, a medieval
hairpiece of a devious nature, which you needed due to early onset pubic-hair
loss.
You remind me of Charles Dick-Ends, and that is just
the truth. Woodyard Kindling, that’s you, sir. Percy Bitch Shelley, that’s you. Sir William Shakes-it-off, and hopefully
without too much of a dribble down the leg afterwards.
In other words—a dink,
sir.
As for myself, je
suis Canadien, I am a Canadian; just as much as you are, and I will thank
you for remembering that, sir.
As for you, sir, I wouldn’t put you in charge of the wine section down at the dollar store, even though you have a reference from a Turkish admiral, who says that toilet you warshed was clean enough to eat off, which goes to show character if nothing more.
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| Is that a ray-gun or you just glad to see me. |
Yeah, the sort of guy who pulls the drawstring from a
mentally-ill guy’s pajamas in some sort of institution somewhere and then pulls
the fire alarm. This is after sticking a side-winder in his pocket and then
asking them for a light.
Jolly good fun, right, sir.
That being said, and I apologize if I might seem to be being rude.
A Canadian is always polite, even when they don’t
really mean it. We’re about as sincere as a major banking commercial, or a cure
for constipation or toe fungus on Youtube, which is neither here nor there, but
I am sure someone like you will know what I mean.
So, you didn’t like my fucking story.
What is it that you want from me? I axe you that, sir.
I can hardly read a mind that is a complete blank, sir.
Also—
Speaking for myself as well as a million other aspiring
Canadian-feline authors, the food bowl is empty, just as it always was. The
water in the toilet isn’t very good either, and you really need to change that
cat-box because it stinks like shit and piss.
And don’t talk to me about Western God-Damned Literature,
because I just don’t give a flying fish. Not any more, sir.
Other than that, I remains, your humble servant.
Thank you and goodbye.
Ali Katz
END
Ali Katz has books and stories available from somewhere or other.
Thank you for reading.
