Dear Esquire:

For the love of god, please stop sending me your filthy, evil magazine. I am the victim of a terrible mistake, as my poor old mother naively signed me up, no doubt mistaking your displays of egregious profligacy for sartorial sophistication.

If I see one more stupid watch that costs enough to feed Ethiopia, I swear I’ll vomit. Your politics are sleazy and reprehensible. I expect you consider your writing style to be punchy, macho, even Hemingwayesque, but I assure you, you sound of nothing more than a roaring vacuum of insatiable arrogant appetite. Your incessant wanking and wanking and wanking all over the lifestyles of planet-murdering scumbags is just… so creepy to encounter on a monthly basis.

For the better part of a year I’ve had to keep a pair of tongs next to my mailbox to handle your toxic wasteland of smug, onanistic vileness, and your glossy paper stock, soaked in chemicals that evoke those sanitizing tablets found in urinals, is unsuitable for the only useful purpose I can imagine for your publication; lining the bottom of the cage of an incontinent vulture.

Sincerely,