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The Editor
March 8, 2003
Dear New York Times Book Review,
Surely you’ve heard of me and my little novel, “Clams Casino.” The literati are ranting about it. The Borders stock boys are raving about it. The Starbucks laptoperati are ordering twice as many Tazo Chai lattes just thinking about it. George Plimpton called the book “Vonnegutian.” Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. called it “Plimptonian.” Jonathan Franzen is appearing on Oprah Winfrey’s show just to endorse it. Ashton Kutcher is learning how to read just so he can read it.
How much more do you need to hear, N.Y.T.B.R.? What’s it take to get a review from you guys?
I mean, seriously, you guys are dropping the ball here. I never complained when you ignored my groundbreaking début, “Mi Casa, Su Mama,” even though Dave Eggers said it outstaggered, outheartbroke, and outgeniused anything he’d ever read. And my sophomore effort, “Pulling a Door Clearly Marked ‘Push’,” despite being snatched up for a big-screen treatent by two-time Oscar-nominee Frank Darabont, was completely glossed over by you guys yet I said nary a word.
But “Clams” is different. We’re talking Great American Novel here, guys! How can you not dignify this earth-shattering, mind-boggling, awe-inspiring, life-giving, 100% cliché-free masterpiece with a simple half-page review? You really dropped the ball on this one. You better get crackin’ before I start winning Pulitzers and Nobel Prizes and new awards they have to invent just to properly bestow upon “Clams Casino” the honors it deserves.
Sincerely,
Joshua Abraham
P.S. You need a bribe or something? Just say whose palm needs greasing, I will grease it.
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© 2003, Yankee Pot Roast |