It is the apparent opinion of Mr. James Dickenson that, while my last novel “Crying in the Parking Lot of a Burger King,” sequel to the critically-acclaimed “Crying in the Parking Lot at Applebee’s,” had “merit in its character development and story arc,” its good qualities drowned in my supposed inability to construct metaphor. He even strove so far as to claim, “Indeed, Mr. Pennybrow’s metaphors appear on page almost as ugly as his Dali mustache appears on his face.”

For one, I believe that Mr. Dickenson’s speech is as childish as a horse drenched in honey mustard. He did not need to go so far as to insult my perfect mustache, which is as curly as fries that are also curly. When writing literary critiques, one must be civil. To jump to insulting appearances reflects the bitterness of one who jams his foot in a bucket of rotting hamsters. It’s simply unethical.

Second, my writing style has proved itself worthy of praise again and again. I was trained in the pen-holding arts by professors teaching at the University of Chicago. With their head of hair, their board of black dusty stuff, and their pointers of old oak (if they had been actually oak), they taught me the finest techniques in writing just as a snake charmer teaches an apprentice to throw strings around while dodging acid rain. I have been well-trained in the arts of metaphor, simile, alliteration, allusion, metablishment, and synecococee. I do not believe I need to say that to prove that it’s true; any intelligent reader educated in good literature can tell that my metaphors are superb.

Thirdly, I believe Mr. Dickenson is profoundly wrong in everything he writes. My character development and story arc were as poorly executed as a teddy bear in a cast hung on a telephone pole. Like Arthur Conan Doyle with his totally not-Sherlock-Holmes novels, my true talent lies in my literary devices. Strong, wet, and rubbery as a golden arc, my writing language has helped me become the famous, lusty author I am, as well-known as many other well-known authors.

Overall, I would recommend that Mr. Dickenson stay silent on the matters of literary masterworks, a topic as far above his intelligence as a crushed-up chair it seems, until he goes back to school to learn what real writing is. He may find my novels have reached the classrom as well as the hearts of middle-aged women. Then maybe he can make actual constructive comments on my soon to be published work “Sadness: A Metaphor for Melancholy.”

Written by: Lauren Kirkbride