FFR 195

Dearest, Most Indefatigable, and Dare We Say, Unflappable Readers of the Fowl Feathered Review,

One hundred and ninety-five issues. A number, when uttered aloud, that possesses a certain sonorous gravity, does it not? One might even say, with a tremor of self-congratulatory awe, that it approaches the very precipice of the bicentennial. And yet, here we are, perched precariously, like a particularly bewildered gargoyle on the cornice of an architectural folly, contemplating the alleged quarterly rhythm that has, over these many years, proven as elusive as a coherent thought at 3 AM or a truly unblemished reputation in the annals of literary endeavor. Indeed, our punctuality has always been less a strict adherence to the Gregorian calendar and more a whimsical meander through the labyrinthine corridors of editorial caprice. We confess, with a sigh that is equal parts exhaustion and mild amusement, that we were never good for keeping ourselves in check. The very notion of "keeping in check" strikes us as an affront to the chaotic grandeur of the creative spirit, a bureaucratic shackle upon the untamed muse.

But let us not dwell upon the temporal peccadilloes of the past, for a more pressing, indeed, a more nutty matter demands our immediate, albeit slightly bewildered, attention. It is with a mélange of profound regret, a soupçon of existential dread, and an almost imperceptible twitch of the left eyebrow that we must inform you of the rather unprecedented recall of our esteemed Issue No. 194 (in both its PDF and e-Book incarnations). The reason, you ask, your brow furrowed with an admirable, if somewhat misplaced, concern? Alas, it was discovered, through a process of forensic gastronomic analysis that would make even the most fastidious semiotician blush, that the aforementioned issue contained "traces of unclaimed hazelnuts."

"Unclaimed hazelnuts!" you exclaim, perhaps spilling a carefully brewed cup of Darjeeling. Yes, dear reader, the very phrase hangs in the air, redolent with the scent of unfulfilled potential and the faint, unsettling aroma of bureaucratic oversight. These were not, mind you, hazelnuts that had merely gone astray, or suffered a momentary lapse of identity. No, these were hazelnuts, by all accounts, utterly devoid of any discernible provenance, any rightful claimant, any raison d'être beyond their rogue existence within our pages. They were the literary equivalent of an unsourced quotation, a footnote without a corresponding text, a philosophical concept without a discernible author – a void, a lacuna, a nothingness that we, in our editorial rectitude, could simply not countenance. The very thought of such unassigned, anarchic nuttiness lurking within the intellectual fabric of our publication sent shivers down the collective spine of the Review. It was, to put it mildly, an affront to the very principles of declared content.

Fear not, however, for from the ashes of this hazelnut-induced crisis, a phoenix of unparalleled, indeed, almost reckless, transparency has arisen! This current dispatch, Issue No. 195, arrives not only unburdened by the specter of the unclaimed but positively brimming with a declared abundance. We have, with a flourish that might be mistaken for either bravery or sheer madness, embraced the very essence of the problem. This issue, we declare with a triumphant, if slightly unhinged, grin, contains ALL THE NUTS IMAGINABLE. Yes, you read that correctly. Every conceivable variety, every permutation of the shelled and the unshelled, the declared and the overtly proclaimed, is present within these pages. And hey, we've declared them! Good for us. A victory, perhaps, for the forces of honesty, or at the very least, for a certain brazen candor in the face of an increasingly complex, nut-infested world.
Beyond this newfound, albeit somewhat aggressive, commitment to nut-based disclosure, you will find, as is our custom, the usual hot mess.

There is poetry, of course, that will either elevate your spirit to the ethereal realms or plunge you into the deepest abysses of existential despair, often within the same stanza. There is fiction, which may or may not bear any resemblance to reality, or indeed, to any recognizable narrative structure. There is art, which we hope will provoke, inspire, or at the very least, make you wonder if you've accidentally ingested something hallucinogenic. And, naturally, there are citations – oh, the citations! A veritable thicket of scholarly apparatus, designed to lend an air of unimpeachable erudition to even our most outlandish pronouncements, or perhaps, simply to obscure the fact that we occasionally make things up as we go along.

We trust this clarification finds you well, and perhaps, with a newfound appreciation for the meticulous cataloging of all things oleaginous.

Best,
Virgil Kay
Editor
Rooster China Wok Habitué

Keywords: Cacography,Acersecomicke,Solivagant