Thursday, March 4, 2010

What ever happened to Barbara Mao?

“Trading Barbs with China — of tires, chickens and unintended consequences”

— recent headline in the WSJ

Like most Americans, I’ve been forced to drastically cut back. While I still subscribe to The Wall Street Journal, times have been so tough, I’ve been only able to read the headlines.

I was more than discouraged to glance at the above WSJ banner from February 10, 2010: “Trading Barbs With China.”


Why are we shipping our Barbs overseas?

Being a smidge to the right of Attila, I’d have no problem swapping Senator Barbara Boxer (D-Pasadena Doo Dah Parade) for Barbara tse Tung, Mao’s long-lost identical twin sister.

While fighting elbow-to-elbow with Chairman Mao Zedong for the control of the Mainland in post-World War II China, Barbie Z mysterious disappeared after a heated and sometimes publicly violent debate with her brother over the color of the jumpsuits the billion-plus Chinese would some day wear. Barbara, who had cornered China’s mauve dye industry by 1948, wanted that indefinable “not pink, not red, not purple, not brown” hue to be China’s official color for the People’s Zombie Pajamas. Mao felt it was demeaning to call jumpsuits “pajamas” and trotted his sibling into a concentration camp to “…ahem, think more about Feng shui until the next Ice Age.” For decades, Barbara tse Tung was tied to a chair and subjected to hours of daily torture. Military intelligence officers showed her Sherman-Williams samples containing only one swash, “The People’s Dark Ravishing Avocado,” Mao’s favorite color, while asking: “Gosh. I can’t decide. Which one do you like — this one or this one?”

The roots of the feud between Mao and his sister went much deeper. Dr. Holly Peño, a fellow from the Washington-based Bob’s Prestigious Sino Research Center penned The New York Times bestseller, “China, Bad — The Latest 9,000-Page Snoozefest About How Asia Will Sit On Then Eat Us.” Mrs. P noted: “Perhaps the greatest slap to the face of Chairman Mao occurred when his sworn enemy, Taiwan strongman Chiang Kai-shek married his interior decorator, Zazu Pitts (no relation to the zany actress of the 1940s). The couple swore their vows in matching mauve jumpsuits with pleats that Mao’s sister Barb herself designed,” wrote Dr. Peño.

“Mauve is just not a happy color,” Mao said, in his famous 1952 speech at Zhongnanhai while a billion Chinese tried not to roll their eyes and snicker. Until his death in 1976, Mao was well aware that his unasked-for nickname of “Chairman” meant “82-pound head with a bad haircut” in the Sinitic languages.

Now 117, Chairman Mao’s sis recently emerged from a commie brain detox center (outsourced in Alabama) sporting a permanent and disinterested Zoolander stare at some distant horizon, not unlike our very president.

As far as one Barb trade goes, exchanging a libertine goat-slaughtering devil worshipping United States senator for a 64-pound centenarian commie intellectual whose only contribution to the world was to introduce the thigh pocket is a no-brainer. Besides fitting in at the home of the Boxer Rebellion, if the West Coast senator were banished to China, it would result in a special California election where someone more conservative, like Sean Penn or Alec Baldwin would be able to serve. Granted. While neither Mr. Penn nor Mr. Baldwin are conservative, they are master craftsmen in their field and can at least act conservative.

But that’s just one Barb.

But what about trading others?

What about Barbara Feldon, that leggy and wisecracking straightwoman from that classic TV series and solemn tribute to the CIA, “Get Smart?” What sort of Barb would we get in return for this national treasure? Who will China ante up when we boat over the likes of Barbara Bush, Barbra Streisand, Barbra Mandrell, Barbara Park, author of the beloved Junie B. Jones series or Barbara Walters, journalism’s answer to Elmer Fudd?

Are we expected to give up Barbara Eden, a completely unutilized national defense icon who, with the mere crossing of the arms and blinking could neutralize Iran’s entire and burgeoning nuclear weapons facilities? What will we get? Barbara Smyth-Wang: homeopathic clerk from the population center formerly known as Peking?

What are other unforeseen ramifications in this U.S.-China exchange of Barbs?

Will Mr. Obama create yet another useless layer of administration by appointing a Barbara Czar, followed by sub-Barb Czars, under-Barb Czars and Barb Czar support staff housed in some billion-dollar building, all spending merry days overseeing the proper counting, weighing, molar inspecting, tricep-pinching, bar-coding, shipping and handling of our beloved Barbs?

We must not trust the Chinese.

Too dim is our memory of the 1950s debacle in which China faced a crippling shortage of Debutante Balls. Secretly, the U.S. traded Debs with China. We were almost ready to send an armada filled with Debbie Reynolds, Deborah Kerr, Deborah Harry (she’s actually 83 today) and Debbie Nixon (Richard M.’s long-lost identical twin sister who disappeared after being used in the federal government’s “X-Files” experiments involving testing of a poison lipstick to assassinate Argentina’s Evita Peron). Dumb luck, just before the trade, U.S. intelligence discovered that China was shipping us women who were not actually named “Debbie.”

Let us stop the madness. Trading Barbs with China is a bad and lopsided arrangement. I’d much rather wake to WSJ headline: “U.S. Trades Michelles With China.”

That, indeed, would be good business.

Like some benign goddess, the First Lady could wander the Mainland, stamping out childhood obesity with but the wave of an asparagus wand and twittering admonition: “I declare thee thin-thin-thin!” In return, the United States would be blessed with Michelle tse Tung, Mao’s great-granddaughter and sizzling haute couture icon who invented Dark Fox Purple, which, as you know, is touted as the hot new jumpsuit color for China’s fall fashion lineup.

(c) 2010 by John Boston

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Honey. I Did Not Sleep with Michelle Obama.

“Dream as if you’ll live forever.

Live as if you’ll die today.”

— James Dean

I’ve noticed something. Men are different than women. Bow. Smile wanly. Bow some more. Accept roses. Wave. Thank you. I now will stand on stage at Oslo, Norway and accept my Nobel Prize for being a Brain Scientist.

Women possess boundless qualities and if not achieving sainthood they certainly flirt with it. But we men spend our lives wading in dark, unfamiliar waters of womanhood, churning with little wiggly nuances, riptides and bitey creatures from the deep. There are days I feel one gender is from the chromium-based atmosphere of the planet Rigel N-13 in a galaxy yet-to-be-discovered and the other gender is from Earth.

Being firmly entwined in a loving, nurturing, supporting and ever-growing relationship with my Viking goddess beauty queen, I’ll never cop to which gender lives on Earth and which gender paints their face, tries to appear taller than they actually are and has cooties and I’m not talking about Anabaptists.

I am loved exceptionally well by a tall, sexy, debilitatingly beautiful Teutonic blonde who is so sexy she’s Three-tonic. She’s funny, affectionate, kind, considerate and, most fortunately for me, chronically near-sighted. Bonus, she’s one hotsy-totsy curvy woman. I love her. Something’s been bothering her.

I know because for the past week, I’ve asked: “Is something bothering you?” and she, like the opera protagonist Camille says, “No.” Maybe not today, but soon, a low-pressure front will merge with a high-pressure gradient and create a planet-ending storm.

The other evening, we’re out to dinner. Being a woman, she has The Gift. With impeccable timing, she waits until my mouth is full so I can spit out 12 pounds of salad after she quietly accuses: “So. Who’s Theresa?”

Why did that make me panic?

All guys have been there. For one fleeting moment in our mangy dog lives, we’re innocent. Life’s a warm swim. Then, your softer counterpart lets slip a seemingly innocuous Spanish Inquisition query light years beyond Left Field.

I stopped chewing. Every guy in the restaurant stopped chewing. It’s like that silence right before a million wildebeest stampede at the watering hole.

My show-stopping girlfriend dabs her mouth. There’s a neutral, bureaucratic chill to her voice, like she’s a cop laconically going over notes before asking: “We found a dead body in the trunk of your car. Don’t insult our intelligence.” She slides a yellow legal pad across the table. “Write it out. You’ll feel better. John.” She cups my hand with hers. “You can leave prison still a young man. C’mon, pal. Play ball. Who’s ‘Theresa?’”

I’m breathing through my mouth.

And what did I do with Theresa’s corpse?

My mind races, like a Rol-o-Dex on steroids. Or — for the benefit of new demographic of younger, gender oppressed Internet-friendly males in a relationship — like an iPhone on mocha latte half-half with 16 hits of espresso.

DO I know a Theresa?

There’s my long-missing half-sister, Teresa, without the “H.” I think she’s dead. There’s Mother Teresa. Likewise, dead and sans “H.” There’s Casa Teresa, the home for pregnant unwed mothers 18 and older in Orange County, California. I hide the panic. Did my eyes dilate? Sweet merciful saints. WHY do I know that? Calm down, damn you, you’re a comedy writer. You’re supposed to know stuff like that. I make a mental note to never, ever scream “Casa Teresa!!” in my sleep. My leggy partner chews slowly, in feigned, Oh-No.-I’m-Not-Peeved-At-You-Sweetheart way only women and serial killers can pull off.

“No, John,” she says, tossing her hair out of her face and laughing ice cubes. “Theresa. With an ‘H.’ An ‘H,’ John. Like the ‘H’ — in ‘Ho.’”

J’accuse. She didn’t mean 33 percent of Santa’s chuckle.

I know they don’t have dramatic radio mystery bass “Boom-boom-boom” organ music piped into the Soup Plantation. But I heard it anyway. A waiter sped by, mouthing, with a Spanish accent: “¡Que muerta! Be careful how you answer, amigo...”

“Honey...” My hand cuts the air with small rolling gestures. “I don’t know a THHHH-ree-sa,” I sputter, like Sylvester the Cat. “I don’t know a Four-ree-sa, a Five-ree-sa or a Reesa’s Peanut Butter Cup, for that matter.”

I smile. I blink.

Crickets blow ice clouds into their tiny hands. Unless you’re starring in a James Bond movie, never attempt humor while a woman is interrogating you.

A long moment passes. She’s the stern principal. In our booth, I’m feeling my trousers shrink into little boy shorts and my feet no longer reach the floor.

“OK. Fine. What.” I finally ask, too tired to insert a question mark.

We stare at one another for five minutes. Her posture is erect, superior, confident, as if she is about to deliver the case-solving evidence at the 58th minute of “Law & Order.”

“So,” she says, the “Puny Earth Male” silent but implied, “You’re telling me you do not know a woman named Theresa...”

I stare forlornly at sprawling buffet. My chili. My baked potato. My corn bread. Colder than Mother MacBeth. We could just as well be holding this Women’s Deduction Clinic about the lovely and talented Michelle Obama.

“John. Do you know OF Michelle Obama?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you and Michelle Obama occupy the same continental land mass?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Therefore, it is this court’s findings that, three oughts-are-ought, carry-the-one, you KNOW— like in a woman taken in adultery Biblical sense — Michelle Obama. Ladies of the jury. I submit my boyfriend had sex with the First Lady and ask...” lowers her head for dramatic intensity “...for the Death Penalty.”

Gavel bangs. Defendant Guilty. Women cheer. Guy Court is over.

My cell phone rings.

Dear Comrade Boston:

While it is not normally within the realm of the Oval Office to stick its ever-expanding nose into the private lives of citizens, I couldn’t help but notice that you mentioned my wife in one of your infantile fantasies.

Let me say this unto you now: That was very, very, very stupid of you in a stupid-stupid sort of way and by golly rief, I’m going to do everything within my power to make sure you’re the only guy in America without health coverage. And then I’m going to send over Nancy Pelosi with her goo-goo-googly eyes and have her crush you with her ample thighs, the rhyme unintentional.


Barack Obama

President of These United States.

P.S. My handlers have informed me that possibly, I may yet again have framed my consideration of a choice of words in a direction along the compass toward an incorrect horizon. Although, if it’s any consolation, John, sometimes, at night, and I’m mad at her? I call the missus ‘Ma-bama’ while she’s sleeping. Get real close to her face and mouth the word. Hey listen. Me, Hugo Chavez, that flea-bitten goat-boinking mufti who runs Iran whose name escapes me, the Tea Party, Asia and the growing unemployed are getting together later to have a beer and apologize to one another. Six work for you? And sorry about the length of this text message. As president, I just have a really big cell phone screen the size of a plywood sheet and get carried away.

Being a Republican and passive aggressive, I punch in: “6:20’s better” and turn back to my sweetie.

“Let me level with you. MY species —” I overtly gesture, Indian style, “— to YOUR species. I — am a guy.”

She’s disinterested already.

“Honey. I think about things like: ‘Hey. I wonder what the beet crop will be like this year?’ Or: ‘Why in the heck would the entire Green Bay Packers get suspended four games for taking diet pills? Isn’t it in their best interest as NFL players to stay big as the budget?’”

“I don’t know. Honey.”

When woman banishes the word, ‘Honey’ alone, to the end of a sentence, it does not mean, ‘Honey.’ It means, ‘Asshole.’

I tilt my head. I look at her reassuringly. I have no idea what I just said. I’m certainly not inferring that, with women, like with dogs, it’s the tone of your voice that counts, along with slightly tilting your head to the left while raising a paw. She folds her arms, as if considering if she can ever trust me again.

“I had a dream,” she finally confesses.

I did not blurt out in the crowded restaurant: “Oh HOLY MARTIN LUTHER KING cripes I HAD A DREAM and EGYPTIAN midgets without their underwear IS THIS WHAT THIS IS ALL ABOUT?!?!”


I’m a 21st century guy.

I inhale a jagged breath through my nostrils.




Psycho-anthropologists speak of faraway rainforest shamans who recognize no differentiation from the sleeping state and real world. Apparently, ditto with women. My appetite’s gone but my sweetheart digs heartily into her dinner. The story unfolded. In my beloved’s dream, she was building a house. Me, The Mr. Man, was not helping. I was with the M.D.T.

That would stand for Mystery Dream Tramp. In this episode, it’s the MDP is Theresa.

And that, ladies and gentlemen was the whole damn dream.

I didn’t even get the benefit of any tawdry and steamy details.

“So I take it in your dream that Theresa didn’t even scream: ‘It’s the rapture! I’m cross-eyed for life! John, you’re the entire Chatsworth porn industry and a six-pack of Dr. Pepper!”

Not even looking at me now, my date chewed and shook her head. No. The dream only lasted four seconds. “And Theresa was homely. And a brunette.” She seemed to take some great moral victory over the hair color.

In her dream, my honey “just knew (squint, pursed lips) I was up to something.”

And that was it. I’ve been in semi-trouble for a week. Semi, because she makes it all better by smiling at me.

If I had a disturbing dream about the president, I wouldn’t throw a drink in his face or sock him. And perhaps the only time in print I’ll use the phrase, “Bless Barack Obama’s heart,” I’m sure if the commander-in-chief had a disturbing dream about me, he wouldn’t give the cold shoulder until he unveiled himself on MSNBC as the antichrist. In fact, if either one of us were to have a dream about the other, we would have the manly resolve to jolly well not mention it.

You know why?

Because we’re guys

From Planet Earth, gosh darn it.

Or at least it’s ours until Michelle and my sweetheart from the chromium-based atmosphere of Rigel R-13 waltz back into the room, squinting at the two of us over some imaginary thing we did to them in a moment of private REM repose.

Monday, January 18, 2010

No Gorilla Eyes Shall See These Fair Breasts...

“No animal should ever jump up on the dining-room furniture unless absolutely certain that he can hold his own in the conversation.”

— Fran Lebowitz

A while ago, three women sued their former boss. Why? She wanted them to expose their breasts to a gorilla.

I know. Makes you just blink and go, “What?”

This banana-throwing case started when two women quit the Gorilla Foundation. Founded in 1976 to preserve, understand and promote things gorilla-ish, it’s based in Northern California, up in Woodside.

It seems the women’s supervisor — a woman herself — asked the gals to lift their softball jerseys in sororal spirit so that Koko, a girl gorilla, could see their breasts.

Koko is the world-famous gorilla who is smarter than both houses of Congress and all of Obama’s czars and has a larger vocabulary than Al Gore. The creature can communicate using more than 1,000 different signs.

Francine Patterson — and dear me, I hope it’s not my attorney’s sister — is the president of GF. She was accused of repeatedly telling workers Nancy Alperin and Kendra Keller to let their womanhood flap unfettered in the cool NorCal breeze. The reason? Koko asked them to. Later, Koko allegedly asked a third woman worker, Iris Rivera, to show off her Hostess Snowballs. The boss said the gesture would help the women bond better with the 300-pound gorilla-ette.

Boy. Could I have used that line in high school.

“Show me your breasts. It will help us bond.”

Blur of cheerleader fist. Blood spurting out my nose 15-feet in the air in Sam Peckinpah slow motion. Room spinning. Everything goes dark.

What makes none of this work is that there is not a guy anywhere to be seen.

You could run wild with chauvinism, sexist, male lout jokes.

But no.

We’re dealing with four women and a girl gorilla. Five females. Ten nipples. There’s no place to go. A woman asks three other women to show their breasts to yet another woman. And the latter is a few rungs down the evolutionary ladder. Well. Not counting the politically correct in the Muslim nation of Sweden or the entire population of Palmdale.

I’d like to say I’m mystified why the three women didn’t just take the rare, higher, common sense route instead of suing.

Maybe this is just me, but if someone asked me to show my breasts or anything else projecting from my body to a big hairy giant ape, I’d probably consider the request for a moment, blink, then respond:


I surely wouldn’t start flailing about, back of my hand velcroed to forehead, knocking over mail boxes and pretending to be mentally damaged beyond all repair because the King Kong version of Jane Goodall elbowed me and suggested: “Flash the monkey.”

I’ve got a few friends who are not “hearing challenged.”

They’re deaf.

Next time I see them, I’m going to ask:

“How do you say, ‘Show me your pompons’ in sign language?”

You never can tell. Next time you’re at the gorilla cage, or at a deaf cheerleader convention, it could come in handy.

John Boston was named Best Humor Columnist in America by the National Society of Newspaper Columnists. Again. This goes along with his 117 other major national, regional and California awards for writing excellence. Look for his new web page,, coming soon.

Monday, December 14, 2009

New Yorker Magazine Guidelines for 2010:

Stop Writing or We’ll Kill You.

by John Boston

(c) 2009 All rights reserved


TO: Editorial Staff

FROM: New Yorker Magazine Management

RE: New 2010 form rejection notice compliance

Because of unusually heavy editorial submissions during these hard economic times, we have been forced to enact new, get-tough editorial policies to discourage submissions. As of Jan. 01, 2010, staff will use these — and only these — new rejection form letters in dealing with freelance material not meeting NYM requirements. Please read, initial and re-forward to insure we know you’re on board...

Dear Writer:

Thank you for your recent submission to The New Yorker. As the nation’s elite intellectual periodical, we are empowered to bestow upon you your new Indian name: Writing Poorly. We wish you good luck in wandering the streets while hollering: “Manuscript for Sale! Manuscript for Sale!” Damn you for wasting our precious time when we could be sitting with our feet up on the desk, texting.


The New Yorker

Dear Writer:

Hi! I’m Timmy, the 11-year-old Special Education Needs intern in editorial. I’m from Uganda. I lost my spleen in a mime explosion. The U.N. doctors say this is very unusual as we have very few mimes in Africa and the few who are there rarely blow up. One of the writers who regular walks across something desolate and writes 400,000 tedious words on his experience brought me back and I’ve been sort of adopted by The New Yorker editorial department. They are nice people, except they wear powdered wigs and pinch snuff. I’ve also noticed they don’t laugh, instead, they sort of just push their glasses back onto the bridge of their nose and snigger. Anywho. Your unread manuscript, although I’m confident it has merit, has been forwarded to me and I am feeding it to my pet monkey, Zimbweebwee. Zimbweebwee likes your work very much. Could you send more for him to eat?

Your pal,


The Ugandan Intern Without A Spleen.

Dear Writer:

We appreciate you sending us your recent story idea. Usually we don’t respond personally to each query. We used to get thousands. Every few seconds. We were unjustly busy, our own writing suffered and we took to telling everyone we met so. Eventually, word got out to the writing community that we had elevated the V-SAP (Viciously Smug And Pompous) bar so high that now, we only maybe get two or three submissions a year. That gives us more time to respond to each query and possibly offer some editorial critique to help you with your prose. Ready? Here goes. You suck canal water. Yeah, you. Don’t just stand there, eyeballing us. Go feed your laptop to the farm animals of Middle America where you evidently live and stop writing us.

Don’t Go Away Mad. Just Go Away.

The New Yorker

Dear Writer:

We are forwarding your manuscript to Charles Manson, along with your home address and a letter to his parole board suggesting they let him out early so he can hunt you down and kill you.

We remain, oh so cozy on the Inside,

THE New Yorker

Dear Writer:

We’ve asked Broadway star Jude Law to dress up real over-the-top like a big fat opera lady singer in flip-flops and personally croon your rejection letter. Mr. Law?

“Who... is getting published... Not You... Not You.

Your prose... is really bad... It’s poopie poo... Poopie poo.

It’s only... a New Yorker intern’s... point of view... point of view...

On the inside... of your flabby thighs... you can chew... you can chew...”


Best wishes for a green tomorrow,

Van Jones,

Currently Unemployed & Guest Rejection Czar

Dear Writer:

It is a rare treat to read such wonderful material. You are blessed with a unique voice, one that takes the reader to marvelous worlds. The mark of editing good prose is you reach the end of the story and not only realize you haven’t been editing, you’ve been wonderfully lost, involved and transported to an enticing, delightful new reality of craft and magic. Understand we read thousands of manuscripts and you made us laugh out loud AND cry — within the same paragraph! This work is unparalleled. You are not an artist. You are a master. Frankly, were we to publish this benchmark in literature, it would only serve to encourage other good writers outside the New Yorker family tree and our insufferable literati cocktail party circuit to approach us. Do you have anything else, say, about 1.5 million words (first graf) describing a metal cup, sunrise in Siberia and asking directions from a grizzled peasant in a meat hat?

The New Yorker

(Reminding you it’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice.)

Dear Writer:

Sorry but your work doesn’t move us. That’s okay. It’s not you. It’s us. We’re products of public and private university system gone terribly awry. Nothing moves us. Each of us in The New Yorker Editorial Department weighs exactly 123 pounds. Man. Woman. No more. No less. We wear all black, consume nothing but over-priced coffee and alleged prose from H.L. Mencken wannabes. We have terrible posture and are suicidal. God. Please hear us. Someone bring back Jonathan Livingston Seagull to cheer us up.

For The New Yorker,

Bucky Dent

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Actually, Bucky Dent has neither penned any prose for this publication, nor has he acted as an editor. We just like to write, “Bucky Dent.” It’s liberating. And what’s that little Punch ‘n’ Judy hitter Bucky Dent going to do? Sue? Lift his little hemmed Bucky Dent skirt, dash out of steno pool and charge the mound?)

Dear Writer:

We are pleased to announce that The New Yorker Magazine has accepted your 500-word paragraph, completely as is. A check for $27,519 will be delivered tomorrow by 10 a.m. via messenger to your home. We don’t mean to impose, but would it be possible for you to deliver some random think piece on a regular basis — say, weekly? Obviously, being the main anchor of New Yorker’s new editorial page 3 will require a higher stipend. Is $50,000 per essay, along with expenses, okay by you? Oh, painted whores of Babylon. We’re sorry. We thought we were writing to Steve Martin, who really needs the money.

Kiss off. And stay kissed off, you poser. We know Steve Martin. We are friends with Steve Martin. And you, sir or madam, are no Steve Martin.

The New Yorker

Dear Writer:

As devout Christians, we feel compelled to share that we reject Satan and we reject your stupid manuscript.

The NYer

Dear Writer:

While your manuscript on life during the Early Pleistocene epoch was beyond compelling, it is difficult to believe that you, the author, are actually “Mr. Homo Erectus.” What is it with writers and this fatal flaw thing? If we have erred in implying you are an immature little donkey girl scout, please accept our apology, Mr. Erectus.


Mr. I. Karamba and Mrs. Kaye Sirrah-Sirrah

Editors-in-Chief, The New Yorker

Dear Writer:

Thank you for your insightful article and recipes in “Excuse Me! Are You Done Eating That?” Unfortunately, Al Gore published a similar article, “Hey Buster! Are You Done Eating That?” way back yonder in November of 2007. Mr. Gore, as you know, is up for another Nobel Peace Prize for attempting to eat absolutely everything so it doesn’t go into landfills. And how uncanny. His story was word-for-word to your piece. If you’d like, we’ve got his private cell phone number in our Rolodex and would be more than happy to contact him to negotiate splitting the article fee we’ve already paid him.

The New Yorker

Dear Writer:

How dare you.

For The New Yorker Magazine,

Maya Angelou

P.S. You know anyone with some really bad Polish poetry, in the original Polish? We’re fresh out and are paying $100,000 per line. And it doesn’t even have to rhyme or meter out. Ha ha.

Dear Writer:

We RAN that story, dummy. We KNOW Barack Obama is not an American citizen. We KNOW he was born in Tiera del Fuego and raised by Druid Eskimos, curiously so far from the North Pole. You know HOW we KNOW the president was NOT born in the United States? We KNOW because we ran a special 360-page edition of The New Yorker that featured 200 pages on Mr. Obama being the anti-Christ. Granted. That fact was brought up well within the story and you know how we use that really teeny-tiny type that goes on uninterrupted page after page. Still. If you would have simply read past the mandatory first graf (see www.thenewyorker\NYer Style Sheet\firstgraf\unneccesarypretendcomputerstuff\ on our webpage) you would have NOTICED something. You would have noticed that right after the obligatory 1.5 million word ‘Fearless Correspondent’ tripe first-graf describing a metal cup, sunrise in Tierra del Fuego and asking directions from a grizzled peasant in a meat hat that we went into great detail about the curious gee-whiz cable TV comparison to the president’s life and the movie, “Omen II.”

Leave us alone or we’ll get a restraining order,

The New Yorker

Dear Writer:

We’d like to say, “Wow! We were moved!” or even “Not bad!” but alas, not even the addition of three lesbian vampires and a bucket of fizzy water could fix your manuscript. And stop starting all your sentences with, “All of a sudden.” Cripes. You are so predictable. And immature.

For the New Yorker Magazine,

Cardinal Edward Egan

Archdiocese of New York

Dear Writer:

Your work has been rejected on the grounds that it didn’t possess enough adjectives. Well. Big adjectives.

The Yorkmeister (our gang name)

Dear Writer:

Would it be possible for you to take all the letters in your story and sort of bend them into an illustration of two nude people in bed with a talking can of tuna? We think this would work better as a cartoon.

The New Yorker

Dear Mrs. Bush:

Treat seeing you at the museum fundraiser the other night. Be a dear, Laura, and say hi to George for us and hope you’re both resting well.

Boy howdy, we’d sure loved your article, “Why My Husband Is NOT Adolph Hitler and is NOT Responsible for the Current 63% Unemployment Rate.” Alas, if we ran the trenchant think piece, it would severely mess with the minds of our loyal subscriber base and be akin to telling children there is no Santa.

Forgetting politics for the moment, we want to assure you we are on the same side of this class warfare thing. We are poised to offer you an 8-figure kill fee to never let this story see the light of day in any publication, web page or any communicative venue. Also, if there are any other stories you have that we can pay you an additional $20 million each not to run, please let us know.

Tennis Sunday?

The New Yorker

Dear Writer:

So just what would you do with the money if we published you? Buy food? We think not.

The new, Angry NYMag

Dear Writer:

How do you spell, “spleen?” Look at me. You want to write for The New Yorker? Learn how the hell to spell “spleen.” You’re not a writer. You’re a typist.

Little Timmy,

New Yorker Magazine’s plucky little 11-year-old Intern from Uganda

• With 118 major national, regional and California awards for writing excellence, John Boston has been recognized as one of the top satirists in America. In 2009, he was named Best Humor Columnist by the National Society of Newspaper Columnists. Again.

(c) 2009 by John Boston

The John Boston Report