Joel, You Are A Pussy

The most entertaining thing about pursuing writing is that you are welcomed with these things called Rejection Letters. Writing is very ego-driven, and the rejection letter is courteously aimed at the windshield with decapitating intentions. It is loaded with pleases and thank yous and graciouslys followed by a declining, not a good fit blade to the neck. But those are the experienced executioners. Like McSweeney's. They usually tell me something about my writing being too rooted in the short story. I mean, shit, if I had to be rooted to something. . .
Yet sometimes those carrying blades are no more than fools finally off the leash. I received one yesterday that had "guest editors" make the final cut. Nobody knows who the guest editors were, but I am assuming one was this kid named Joel who I beaned with a fastball in Elks Little League 19 years ago, who I have always suspected of dedicating his life to collapsing mine. Anyhow, Joel responded via his online magazine's guest editors:

Editor 3 Vote: No

Ed. 3 Comments: Wasn't clear on the point it was trying to make.

Editor 4 Vote: No

Ed. 4 Comments: I don't understand this.

Ok, Joel. Well, we all saw you cry after I hit you with that fastball. Pussy.