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To the esteemed, the deranged, the delightfully unhinged readers of Fowl Feathered Review, Issue 133!
Behold! A pretzel, not merely a pretzel, but a pretzel. Its salty, twisted form shimmers, a shimmering, shimmering, becoming… antlers! Massive, palmate antlers, the crown of an Irish Elk, a Pleistocene phantom materialized from the very essence of Bavarian baking. It grazes on the conceptual plains of your mind, a paradox as crunchy as its original form. This, my friends, is the new normal. Expect the unexpected. Or, perhaps, expect the unexpectedly expected. The universe, you see, is a very bad baker, prone to leaving out crucial ingredients like logic and consistency.
Meanwhile, in Iowa… the Spanish rice remains stubbornly un-canned. A culinary Everest, unconquered. Generations of Iowan canners have toiled, their sweat mingling with the fragrant steam of failure. The rice rebels, refusing to be confined to the metallic prison of the tin. It’s a testament to the enduring spirit of… well, rice. Stubborn, resilient rice. Perhaps it dreams of paella under Iberian skies, a culinary freedom Iowa's cornfields cannot provide. The irony, of course, is exquisite.
This issue, 133 – a prime number, naturally – is a kaleidoscope of chaos. Poetry that explodes like a supernova of badly-rhymed couplets. Short stories that twist like the aforementioned pretzel-elk hybrid. Experimental fiction so experimental it defies categorization, defying even the very act of categorization itself. A new art movement, "Splatter-Deconstructivism," featuring canvases splattered with the existential angst of discarded Twinkies. Rookie cards of legendary squirrels, their stats meticulously documented (Agility: 9/10, Nut-Hoarding: 11/10). Citations, of course, copious citations. Because why not?
(Citation: *Thoughts on the Nature of Absurdity*, Chapter 7, page 357: "Naturally the badger wore a monocle, and the moon was made of cheese, and the meaning of life was concealed in Uncle Larry's sock drawer.")
And yes, this issue can also be used to warm feral Twinkies rescued from cold river undertows. Gently place the damp, slightly traumatized confectionery within the pages, and let the concentrated essence of experimental literature do its work. Think of it as literary microwave therapy. Results may vary. Side effects may include sudden urges to write haikus about sentient garden gnomes.
This is not a magazine. It is a portal. A portal to… well, to wherever this crazy train is headed. And I, for one, am enjoying the ride.
With the squawk of a particularly insightful rooster, and the aroma of sizzling noodles clinging to my apron,
Virgil Kay,
Editor,
Rooster,
China Wok Habitué.
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