You're going down pretty boy.

You're going down pretty boy.

Some background information: A couple weeks ago, I wrote about my obsession with winning the New Yorker Caption Contest. Now, for the second time one of my genius captions submissions was not chosen as a finalist. Below is the letter that I’ve just sent to the editors of the legendary magazine.

Dear New Yorker,

To begin, I have been a loyal reader of your publications for years. My mother was a subscriber and as a precocious child I learned to read via your cartoons. Later, when I grew up and moved to the city, I got my own subscription. It was a bright spot in my week to open my mailbox and find my own personal issue. I even bought the complete New Yorker DVD-ROM and the complete collection of New Yorker cartoons. Then, when you announced the creation of the Caption Contest, my heart skipped a beat. I could participate in the creation of one of my beloved New Yorker cartoons.  Oh, happy day!  Immediately, I began submitting captions on a regular basis. Granted, some were of a poor quality, but occasionally I was stuck by a flash of genius. This leads me to my next point:

What the hell, New Yorker?! Two weeks ago I gave you comedy gold! For the Victoria Roberts drawing of contest #182, I submitted “I’ve got to go, my cats are forming Voltron again.” A far superior submission to the three finalists you have up for voting on the Web site.   Now, you may argue that the 80’s cartoon reference is too esoteric and thus that’s why it was not chosen. Fine, I will concede to this point. But allow me to raise the issue of contest # 161 in which a submitted the clearly funnier than any of the finalists (and winning caption I might add), “The thing is: we’re not just looking for a giant lobster, but a giant lobster with experience.”  I’m beginning to suspect that you couldn’t recognize quality humor if it fell on you, like an anvil from a great height.

And so New Yorker, I declare a feud with you. Until you respond and admit that either one of my submitted captions should have been chosen, we are officially feuding. What that may entail, I do not know. I may ring your doorbell and then runaway, leaving a flaming bag of dog excrement on your doorstep that you will stomp out (and thus get poop on your shoes), or I may post a classified ad on craigslist (adult encounters, perhaps?) in your name and listing your home phone number with the note that I (as you) can only be available to speak (due to an odd work schedule) between the hours of 12-3AM.  Just know that if you thought the Jim Cramer vs. Jon Stewart dispute was intense, you haven’t seen anything yet.

“But Dave,” you may respond (cause we’re on a first name basis and all),“we don’t want to feud with you. In fact, we love you.” To which I respond: “Shove it! And tell Malcolm Gladwell I’m coming for him too. I’m going to give him decent hair cut while he sleeps!”

Malcolm Gladwell, and his hair.

Malcolm Gladwell, and his hair.

Sincerely,

The Wordy Ninja

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