Here at Heckler Central, we take great pride in our absolute and unquestioned infallibility. Nevertheless, from time to time, an article submitted to our print issue finds itself revised or altered from its original state. This is the work of the Heckler’s crack editorial team, whose members use draconian censorship as a means of disguising their shameful adult illiteracy.
What follows is the restored and digitally remastered version of our popular “Letters to the Heckler” column. Loyal readers will recall seeing it in our first print issue this year. Ha ha, seriously though, they won’t recall seeing anything because they don’t even exist. Holy Christ, I hate this job.
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I loved your look at the new Democratic majority in Congress (“Donkeys Throw a Punch,” Jan. 2007). Those were some fascinating profiles! One question, though: are you absolutely sure Barney Frank cut the throat of that Malaysian hooker? I don’t remember hearing about that before.
Barney knows what he did, Tim. This is between him and God now. Just remember: nobody runs forever, Mr. Frank. Nobody runs forever.
I enjoyed your recent interview with Dakota Fanning immensely (“Our Biggest Fanning,” Dec. 2006), but I have to take issue with some of the techniques employed by your reporter. For example, although interviewers often try to “get a reaction” out of a celebrity, it was inappropriate to tell Dakota that her new puppy would “almost certainly die” unless she was nominated for an Oscar. Additionally, while I can sympathize with the writer’s frustration over Ms. Fanning’s seemingly boundless desire for more apple juice, calling the actress a “greedy little cunt” was probably out of line.
Are you kidding? That little bastard could pound juice boxes like they were cans of PBR. Why am I still arguing with you about this? God, this is just like my divorce.
Hey guys. Great cover story on global warming last week (“Hot Enough For Ya?” Feb. 2007). I never realized how much of what we hear is just liberal “junk science”. The problem is, my friends keep telling me you’re wrong, and higher temperatures aren’t really caused by the muffled screams of Terri Schiavo. Some of them are even implying that I must be a phenomenal retard to believe this shit. Who should I trust?
Sorry to break this to you, Jeremy, but your friends are idiots. Believe what you want, but when your precious “scientist” friends at the New York Times launch their Beer Hall Putsch against America, don’t come crying to us for a brand new feeding tube.
My girlfriend got me a subscription to your paper for Valentine’s Day. The first issue was funny, but there were Cheetos stains on a lot of the pages, and it looked like someone had drawn pornographic sketches all over the margins. Also, the whole issue smelled vaguely of cat urine. Are you guys doing something to my magazine?
It’s our policy at the Heckler to give each issue a personal touch. If that means engaging in marathon, six hour, Frito-Lay-fueled masturbation sessions to our own hand-drawn amateur smut, then that’s the sacrifice we’re willing to make. The cat piss thing we’re still looking into.
Sometimes after I finish your magazine, I feel a deep sense of loathing for our modern secular culture, and a concern over the debasement of art by shallow proletarian pamphleteering. Why do you suppose this is?
You are reading the National Review. Please pay closer attention to your next newsstand purchase.
What is wrong with you people? First it was the threatening letters, then the razor blades under my pillow, and now this thing about a dead Malaysian prostitute? I can’t even close my eyes anymore. Last night I saw one of your reporters hiding in my azalea bushes, and when I woke up there was horse blood on my carpet. My own mother won’t return my phone calls. Jesus, why are you doing this to me?
Sorry, Mr. Frank, but it’s too late to apologize. Making enemies with the Heckler was your first mistake. Letting us see your ATM code was your second. Hold on tight, Mr. Frank. It’s going to be a wild ride.