I came home to a rejection letter in the mailbox. This one to a short story. Which one, who knows, I haven’t checked yet. Anyway, it’s one of those tiny little slips, like they squeezed as many as they could onto one sheet of paper and cut it up again and again. The standard “Thank you for letting us consider your work . . . it is just not what we are looking for at this time” and signed, well, unsigned, as The Editors.

Apparently, a certain someone who shares my bed steamed open the envelope. At the bottom of the rejection note, was written:

p.s.
We are slightly retarded.
Please excuse us.

Man, I was cracking up all the way upstairs. It’s the best rejection I’ve gotten in months.