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You worthless, acid-sucking piece of illiterate shit! Don’t ever send this kind of brain-damaged swill in here again. If I had the time, I’d come out there and drive a fucking wooden stake into your forehead. Why don’t you get a job, germ? Maybe delivering advertising handouts door to door or taking tickets for a wax museum. You drab South Bend cocksuckers are all the same; like those dope-addled dingbats at the Rolling Stone office. I’d like to kill those bastards for sending me your piece… and I’d just as soon kill you too. Jam this morbid drivel up your ass where your readership will better appreciate it.
Sincerely,
Yail Bloor III, Minister of Belles-Lettre.
P.S. Keep up the good work. Have a nice day.
—Hunter S. Thompson’s uniform rejection letter to those who sent him pieces, thinking he could get them published in Rolling Stone.
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