Letters to the Editor

Previous Issue: #20

Dear Suspect Press,

I love your magazine, but I don’t see many people sneezing. Sneezing is a normal human reaction, and the closest thing to an orgasm that I’ve had in the last decade. What’s your goddamn problem with people sneezing. How dare you. Please put more sneezing in. I want to live vicariously through others’ sneezes. They don’t have to be big, or even too revealing. Just a nice ach will do. Do you know how bad I want my sneezes? Real fuckin’ bad, that’s how much. I don’t even know how bad I have to lobby this. You should know better already. Thanks in advance.


To Whom It May Concern,

I wanted to write you to say that I really appreciate your magazine and love its quality. I also wanted to let you in that I’ve cracked your code! I see that your ads occur on pages 2,5,7, 9,10,12,14,15,18,21,29, and 32. You know where I’m going with this, don’t you? If the numbers became alpha-numeric representations, then we have the letters: B, E, G, I, J, L, N, O, R, and the numbers 2, and 5. Who do you take me for? The letters clearly unscramble and translate to BO JINGLER 52. Seriously? Any child could figure out that this is a clear reference to DC comics’ Bo Jingles New 52 series – a character with goat horns on a humanoid body. Seriously, you all think you are so clever, but it was simple work really.

Jacob Rothschild

Dear Suspect Press, 

If anyone knows the trials and tribulations in life it’s me. I’m a master class in hardship all by myself. You may have thought I’d forgotten about you, but Ive been keeping my peepers popped, and I can see you’re going through a hard time. I don’t have much in the way of cheering folks up, but I do have a story that I think might restore some of the Laverne in your Shirley. 

It all started a few months back at a 7-11 off 38th avenue around 2:30 in the morning. I was over by the refrigerator picking up some of those smooth gelatos that you used to like, when all of the sudden this guy saddles up right next to me. I turned, and to my cherry delight it was the immortal crown jeweled king of Denver himself, John Elway. He reached in the fridge next to me, and pulled out every frozen White Castle cheeseburger box that they had, and then looked at me with a half grin, sayin, “a real man’s challenge is a White Castle challenge.” He smelled like a Cincinnati Outhouse. He then took the eleven or twelve boxes of burgers up to the teller, and said, “I don’t have enough money to pay for these, but I really want them. I’m sorry. I’m just gonna take these with me.” The clerk snapped back, “if you steal those I’ll call the police, and they’ll be swarming this area in less than two minutes.” John Elway swayed drunk a bit, and got a fearful look in his eye. “But I’ll tell you what,” said the teller, “I’ve got a dozen donuts in the back here, and if you put the burgers back they’re all yours.” Then in an act of defeat Elway hung down his head, and returned the burgers. On his way out he grabbed the donuts, and I could hear him cryin’ a little bit. I don’t feel sorry for him though. Fuck John Elway. 

Anyway, remember I love ya, and that the most important things in life are the people you spend it with. Can’t take it with ya!

The wind beneath your wings, 
Horace “the florist” Bhigtäim.

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