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I read a lot of niche magazines, meaning magazines that appeal to a very select group of people. This often makes them more expensive than your more mainstream rags.

There are a lot of very amusing stories about how I came to subscribe to so many of these magazines. I feel you are at least worthy of an amusing tale or so, even though you are clearly not worthy of anyone's love. As your close and loyal friend (and only true one), I can at least give your pathetic, worthless ass that much as you continue to muck about, making much ado about absolutely nothing the way you constantly do.

Back in the 1970s when I was selling overly expensive vacuum cleaners door-to-door, forcing the weak and limp wristed to buy my product at gunpoint, and bringing in reinforcements to absolutely fuck them up before shoving a pen in their hand and demanding they commence signing all their property and holdings over to me, I ran into a group who was meeting at one of the houses I was hitting that day to hopefully build on my well deserved financial holdings. After holding them hostage for two days, I got bored torturing them, had already ended two of them, and started reading some of their group's promotional materials that had been left out in the kitchen. Now, if law enforcement is reading this, please note. The brochures were left out where anyone could find them. I did not conduct an illegal search. You have nothing to hold me on.

My hostages were part of a group that was very enthusiastic about eating slightly overcooked chicken, as their brochures revealed unto me. It was like a grand awakening for me. I realized that I had an opportunity to sell these idiots products that weren't vacuum cleaners. I had recently acquired a warehouse full of defective pressure cookers and this group was the perfect collection of marks. And they were all gathered in the same place together! This was a gold mine for a businessman working to establish his brand.

I needed to find a way to keep them there while I hired a truck driver to bring my defective pressure cookers to where they had been congregating. Using razor wire, I secured them to furniture without one iota of concern for any of their well being's, broke the jaw of their apparent leader, and made a phone call to a niche publishing house that is a division of my publisher, Random House. They were able to put together and print the first copies of what would later become known as Slighty Overcooked Chicken Magazine.

Once I had enough copies for everyone and they'd been brought over by a bicycle courier from the 1950s, I released what little was left of my hostages and distributed the copies of the first edition of this quality publication unto them. It was a work of pure businessman genuis. They immersed themselves in the publication while I drove at high speed to my warehouse and used my trusty special edition gold Rolodex to call a sketchy truck driver of note who I knew to work within a very fast window when promised copious amounts of raw cash and strung-out strippers. Leon was able to bring enough of my stock of defective pressure cookers to the location where the slightly overcooked chicken enthusiasts were.

While I held each of them at knifepoint and threatened to break their fingers if they didn't sign for the entire consignment, I was able to use creative thought and unsound business practices to score a major profit in an industry without much of a margin of error on the bottom line.

I remain a faithful subscriber of this magazine, as I have been since that first edition in March of 1975.