Grooming James Thurber (Another Rejection by The New Yorker)
The New Yorker
Attention: James Thurber
Building where Guy in a Top Hat Decides Between Words and Cartoons
New York, NY
July 12, 2023
Dear Mr. Thurber:
I understand that you’re dead, but this is hot copy, and in 2023 dead isn’t as dead as it used to be. Even up isn’t as up and might even be absolutely, inarguably down. It’s a gathering riot down here (… or up … act now and you decide where you were shipped)*
I won’t bore you with details, but just imagine the sane world captivated by the charms of one small mob that insists spinach is broccoli while a combatant small mob calls out the spinach-is-broccoli mob for spewing mistruths and then — by way of inadvertent metaphor — accidentally half-endorses the spinach-is-broccoli mob by throwing a hissy fit over daring to call either either. Important advances in science and industry are on hold. Professional absurdists are out of work.
Anyway, there’s no chance in hell this very important thought piece on our modern state of affairs (enclosed by way of this underlined word here … just press on the word and be amazed) is getting by your bow-tied successors at the grand old magazine. The days of even pretending to be editorially edgy are on hold during this temper tantrum of reality, and any editor with a decent salary and retirement plan won’t so much as use the term “reality” for fear of getting canned over the term’s smug certainty and existential threat to at-risk and marginalized delusions.
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I need an editorial end run from an old-school institutional heavyweight with skin in the game. You, even if your skin’s long gone and fed to the worms.
The good news is you don’t even have to haul yourself into the office to get right to work. People in this business work from where they please nowadays while the old guard comically pays rent on empty offices and complains (another absurdity for another day). Still, it might be best to go into the office anyway. When the first staffer freaks over seeing the ghost of James Thurber, just say you’re actually quite alive. Then shout, “Boo!” Mess with them.
Get this piece in there. Over the goal line. I’ll take the heat for the misogysportreferencing** and leave you to the dirty work. I’m also calling up your old pal Orwell, as at the very least his sturdy catchwords “goodthink” and “unperson” are getting all muddled up with these nuts.
Thank you for your consideration.
— Mike
*I digress, but you’re dead. Surely you have all the time in the world. Join Team Alive and become too busy to read this nonsense. It would be like you never read this letter.
**Good Lord … don’t ask.
