|
|
Spite presents:
A Welcome Back
From Will Hines, Editor
Spite Magazine was dormant for more
than a
year. This October it returned. Our publisher instructed editor Will Hines to
welcome readers back with a brief witty letter. Instead, on the morning
of the issue's final deadline, Will stomped into the Spite offices,
reached into the front pocket of his worn blue
corduroy pants and pulled out a crumpled piece of wide-ruled notepaper.
Following are the contents of that paper. Readers, welcome
back.
October 22, 2001
Dear Readers:
It was when I was eating the triceps of my servant Woodley last week that I found myself thinking about the class struggle. Woodley had been with my family for years. Indeed, his father had served my father throughout the 50s and 60s until my father ate his father. You'd think they'd learn, the Woodleys. But no, they just keep pouring the brandy and sweeping the garage. "Maybe Marx was right, Woodley," I mused as I scarfed his knee tendons. "Very good, sir," droned Woodley.
* * * * *
As dawn broke Sunday morning, my love and I were dining on a scrumptious bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats and a side of individually wrapped cheese slices. "This is disgusting" she quipped. Then she jauntily spit on me and ran off with all of the elbow patches for my sport coats. Later she cooled off and came back to slap my lips up and down until they made the sound of a thick rubber band twanging in front of a huge fan. Ah, bliss. I leaned over to kiss her, but she was busy quilting a list of my shortcomings out of the cat.
* * * * *
"I just got beeped," I told my friend. "Can I call you back in two minutes?" "Oh, there's no hurry," he said. I didn't call him again for twenty-three years.
* * * * *
Later that morning, I had a breakthrough in writing my play. I had been thinking of it as a way of to examine my relationship with my father through fishing, when in fact it was really the exact opposite. Except that I had never fished, and my father and I got along quite well and were very boring.
* * * * *
But it didn't matter. My days became a torrent of creativity. I would write new material after breakfast, stop for a tall glass of lemonade, then revise until dusk. I would revise, revise, revise -- never stopping to eat or talk to people because I was inspired with the belief that I could hone a diamond from once-hopeless rough drafts. It was all very productive, although I assume you understand that by "write", "revise" and "lemonade" I actually mean "masturbate."
* * * * *
My job interview at Goldman Sachs went well, except for the part in which they didn't like me and the other part in which they never called me. Still, it was better than my interview at Morgan Stanley, since I never had one.
* * * * *
Yo, fat kid! Why you so fat? I mean really, you weigh quite a bit more than the average child.
* * * * *
"How are things going with your girlfriend?" I asked my brother. "How should I know?" he said. "She left me fifteen years ago." It was a tactless question on my part, but I was trying to catch him in a lie. He always hid his true feelings for our friendship behind his many love affairs. That, and I didn't really know his girlfriend had left him because I had been too busy dating her that entire time.
* * * * *
Hey! Relative of mine! I can see right through you, you know. You're sitting at the computer in your "study" which used to be one of your children's rooms. You're scanning through these pages, barely reading them, hoping for a mention of yourself or a good embarrassing picture/article of me. Well, forget it, okay? This web site is a serious work of art! Oh, maybe you're right.
Warmest Regards,
Will Hines
October 22, 2001
|
