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My dear beleaguered bibliophiles, denizens of the disordered, and fellow captives of the cacophonous coop we fondly (and occasionally through gritted teeth) call the Fowl Feathered Review,
Allow me, Virgil Kay – your humble Editor, designated Rooster (a title bestowed with dubious honor amidst much avian cackling), and undisputed sovereign of the Szechuan lunch special at the dubious, yet indispensable, "China Wok Royale" – to proffer a communiqué. It arrives not via the customary pneumatic tube (jammed irrevocably last Tuesday with rejected haikus about damp pigeons), but borne aloft by sheer existential necessity, plucked, as it were, from the very ether where your fugitive periodicals cavort.
My days, dear readers, resemble nothing so much as a protracted, low-comedy ballet staged upon the rim of a vast, algae-slicked Containment Pond. Armed only with a net of questionable tensile strength (procured, I suspect, from a bankrupt butterfly enthusiast) and a resolve tempered in the crucible of absurdity, I stand sentinel.
My quarry? The very magazines you hold – or perhaps which are currently attempting to burrow under your sofa. They erupt forth in a ceaseless, mutinous geyser, multiplying with the fecund irresponsibility of particularly enthusiastic yeast.
Each fluttering, ink-smeared insurgent must be snared mid-air, subjected to the indignity of the scale (their weight often inversely proportional to their coherence), photographed (capturing their fleeting, often garish, glory), and tagged with a trembling hand before being bundled, with a silent prayer, towards your doubtless chaotic domiciles.
Why this Herculean, perhaps Sisyphean, effort? Why wrestle this hydra-headed chimera of print? Because Issue 200 – this very folio clutched in your perspiring palm, or possibly levitating gently near the ceiling fan – is not merely a numerical milestone worthy of a cheap paper hat and a lukewarm glass of Asti Spumante. No, madam! Sir! It represents, against all odds and the relentless pull of entropy, a monument to the trajectory of bold experimentation! A lodestar, albeit one flickering erratically, guiding us through the stygian void of the conventional! We strive, with the dedication of a safecracker plagued by narcolepsy, to remain authentically, messily human – a quality distressingly absent from most publications, which resemble nothing so much as embalmed press releases.
Furthermore, cast your ocular orbs upon the artwork! Is it not... arresting? Occasionally bewildering? Utterly devoid of commercial consideration? Precisely! It adorns these pages like chromatic aberrations in a somnambulist's fugue.
And let us not neglect the citations! Scattered throughout like intellectual shrapnel, they are your scholarly shillelaghs! When confronted by marauding philistines, credential-brandishing pedants, or simply those attempting to purloin your last biscuit whilst you're engrossed in our treatise on the existential dread of the common sparrow, hurl these citations! Aim true! A well-placed "(see Fig. 7b, p. 43, re: the migratory patterns of disgruntled muses)" can fell an assailant more effectively than a blackjack. They are peer-reviewed pugilism!
So, persevere, intrepid subscribers! Wrangle your escaped supplements! Decipher our marginalia (often added in a Szechuan-fueled frenzy)! Revel in the glorious, necessary disorder! We remain, against reason and sanitation, aloft.
Yours, in perpetual, ink-stained vigilance,
Virgil Kay
Editor, Reluctant Rooster, & Perpetual Patron of the China Wok Lunch Platter (Extra Chili Oil)
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