Dear Dickheads

Illustration: Robin Banks

Dear Dickheads,
Is there a reason why your magazine is concealing how fucking nice Mike Brown is in real life? Do you wave free Utah Jazz tickets (or beer…probably beer) in front of his maw and say, “Now, now, Mike. You can have these, but you’re going to have to continue your schtick of acting like a goddamn self-obsessed lunatic in public. No deal unless you Instagram about your sordid lifestyle as @fagatron so err’body gets the PICTURE.” What gives? I’ve seen this guy carefully pick eye sleepies out of his cat Jetpack’s eyes. I’ve seen him cordially offer rides to too-drunk 20-somethings who needed a lift. I’ve witnessed firsthand him being one of the most considerate neighbors in his apartment building. For chrissakes, even when he’s hammered beyond what Russians would regard as the ‘mortal limit’, he talks like a fourteen year-old that just really likes porn. Is SLUG so callous and concerned with street cred, that they’re forcing poor ol’ Brown to project himself as something he’s not? Maybe you phonies should reevaluate your moral ethos, and have the dude write more about how transfixed he is by the flowers that grow in his back parking lot. Propagating this type of inflated ego is probably killing him. You’re killing him. Oh, btw, do you know if he’s single, by chance? –Skinny Marie

Dear Skinny Marie,

Dear Dickheads,
What the fuck is up with your November cover? Is it some sort of minimalist, retro–art pop commentary on the commercialism of the holidays? Are you protesting the bombardment of mindless advertising in our capitalist society? Is it a subliminal ad for … Well, what is it? Paté? Frozen juice? Coagulated blood? Gelatin? Oh! Are you poking fun at the predominant local religion and their affection for jiggly dessert? ‘Cause if that’s the case, you got the color wrong … I’m digging the can shape, of course, but it’s no Campbell’s tomato soup, if you know what I mean.
Andy Warhol

We knew you weren’t ready for this jelly.

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Dear Dickheads c/o SLUG Mag
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