The Heartless Publisher by Adam Acidophilus

There was once a heartless publisher who never actually published anything at all – but took great delight in rejecting the works of unknown authors.

Every morning he would receive piles of manuscripts in the post and, after briefly flicking through a couple of them, would spend the rest of the day writing cruel and discouraging rejection letters.

"Dear unknown author," he would write, "Your book is crap. I got a headache just trying to read the title. Please don't ever bother writing anything again, because you're an idiot. Sincerely, the Heartless Publisher."

And every evening he would go and post these letters, and throw the precious manuscripts away.

Now these letters, of course, had a devastating effect upon the unknown authors that received them – partly because they were a sensitive and introspective lot, and partly because many of them were, indeed, crap.

"But this is terrible," their friends and families would remark. "The creative urge is a fragile mechanism, and all artist should be respected and encouraged – even if they are crap."

But deaf to such sentiments, the heartless publisher would show no mercy to his innocent victims.

"Dear unknown poet," he would write, "none of this stuff rhymes and you're a git. Sincerely, the Heartless Publisher."

Such was the heartless publisher's influence that even those unknown authors with great promise and astonishing insight would turn to drink, or drugs, or teaching – never to be urged to create again.

"Darn it," they would sob, "it is almost as if this heartless publisher never actually publishes anything at all but has instead dedicated his life to the senseless persecution of unknown authors just for the fun of it."

"Steady on," their friends and families would remark, "for that is a supposition beyond the realms of paranoia itself."

Then one morning, the heartless publisher received a most unusual submission.

It was written on large sheets of cardboard, in what looked like green crayon, and appeared to be a science fiction novel of such a poor standard that the heartless publisher could hardly believe his luck.

It was long and melodramatic, a succession of distracting and meaningless events, blighted by weak characters and appalling dialogue, all leading to a senseless and illogical conclusion.

The heartless publisher took great care to write a particularly cruel an discouraging rejection letter.

"Dear unknown science fiction author," he wrote, "this is the worst manuscript that I have ever seen, and you should be chained up for all eternity with your wrists sewn to your feet. I hate you! Sincerely, the heartless publisher."

But when the unknown science fiction author received this reply it was thrown into a rage of inconceivable magnitude – for the unknown acience fiction author was an alien.

Its life had been long and melodramatic, a succession of distracting and meaningless events, blighted by weak characters and appalling dialogue. This was its autobiography!

It had in fact once been chained up for all eternity, and it was still a bit funny about the experience. And it so happened that – due to its alien physique – its wrists were already attached to its feet and it could only write by holding a green crayon between its toes.

The alien was furious, and wasted no time in crawling straight to the heartless publisher's office and confronting him.

"I is an alien," said the alien. "You have been done displeased me," it added. "Will you be obliterated."

"Hold your fire!" cried the heartless publisher – who knew a malformed sentence when he heard one – "I've just realised that your book is, in fact, a refreshing and innovative masterpeice which, through the inversion of cliche, establishes a new dialectic within the genre – and I will publish it after all."

"No I'm not," said the publiser – who was – "I would take you to lunch, only people would stare at us and you'd probably eat the plates."

The alien was delighted but, senselessly and illogically, obliterated the publisher anyway.

Moral: You can't judge a book by its cover – or its contents.