Got a special email last night from some dude, titled ‘Yeah, you.’ Uh oh.

Here’s what it had to say:

What’s up with your dead dick website? The motherfucker is cut-off on the left. Were you cum drunk when you designed it? Anyway dildo breath, here it is with your fake ass tough talk; What the piss is the pay for publication in your magazine? Most lit mags list it, why should I need to contact you about it? List it, Goddamn it! Do it NOW!! I write stories that make Hemingway, Fitzgerald and others of their ilk look like candy asses, suckling at their momma’s tit. I don’t have time to be coddling dirt dumb editors who can’t even layout a guidelines page – wake the fuck up!!

Christopher Roberts

I was able to find one online piece of work by Christopher Roberts, who writes stories that make Hemingway, Fitzgerald and others of their ilk look like candy asses, which is an an essay criticizing the closed-mindedness of the New Yorker (ironically at 3:AM Magazine). Bone crushing.

I’m not sure which way I offended Mr. Roberts, as I haven’t been able to link him to any of the journals I criticized the design of during Mean Week.

I did find him stickin’ it to the man from the inside on some writer’s publicity group called writers.net. Here’s his profile:

Chris Roberts
Agent: Writers net sucks
Brooklyn, New York, United States

Email: croberts7@nyc.rr.com

I live to run Writers net out of business – it’s run by a bunch of blowjobs.

Interests: Serial Killing.

Published writer: Yes

Freelance: No

Salivatory.

Anyway, to answer your question, dude, you must not have paid close enough attention to the ‘guidelines’ on our site (I assume you are talking about No Colony, though I’m not quite sure how websites can be ‘cut off on the left,’ does your monitor load backwards?) but let me point you to this thing right here on the front page:

BUY YOURSELF IN: Are you lonely? $400 installs text of your choice in our gaping loins. Leave the money on the dresser. May or may not include disease.

We accept cash, credit, money orders, New Yorker subscriptions, and some forms of primitive coin or manual stimulation.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way back to quivering in the vast throes of impending serial-killer-narrative innovation.

Good luck!