This is a transcription of something someone left in my voice mail at 3:30 this morning. There was a song playing very loudly in the background, but I couldn't identify it.
Hi Mr. Constant, I actually am just leaving a message with you because it seems every other voice mailbox is full at The Stranger. I’m a longtime reader and supporter of your publication, and the last couple of weeks, I’ve been absolutely disgusted with what you guys have been putting out.
First of all, last week’s publication was a two page spread of Juggalos. It’s absolutely ridiculous. Juggalos aren’t a respected subculture and we lack—we lauh—-eugh!—I can’t even go into a description of how ridiculous these clown pig motherfuckers are. The subculture doesn’t respect these people. They’re nothing like…they’re exactly as they portray themselves to be: Clowns.
But on to the next thing that I’m really quite concerned about was the thing in this week’s edition: “You Call That Food?” I understand we’re living in a health-conscious society that is really down on high fructose corn syrup. Trust me, I think high fructose corn syrup should be controlled as well. But to actually defend the taxation of what people decide to put in their bodies is absolute bullshit. If we want to drink high fructose corn syrup and eat candy, that is what we want to ingest.
Also, there is something about some dumb motherfucker’s fucking swimming pool? Fuck his swimming pool! Some fucking African immigrant? Dude, I am an American immi—I mean, I am an American citizen, born here in California, and you know what? My family never had a fucking swimming pool. All right? We never had a big house, we never had any of this bullshit, and so to hear a fucking sob story from fucking Africa is fucking bullshit. All right? You’re really losing touch on your fucking liberal readers and actually becoming more of a preachy fucking like…I don’t know what to call it, it’s not even a fucking soapbox. It’s just fucking bullshit.
Anyway, you guys are really fucking disgusting and I’m really getting sick of it. Um, Fuck off.
Dear anonymous caller: Congratulations on operating a phone! Most people who drunkenly/druggedly whip themselves into a lather about The Stranger at 3 in the morning send us e-mails, but hearing your voice and the ambient sound in your apartment was an added bonus. I could almost smell the Doritos and weed from here! Unfortunately, the position you're applying for has already been filled. Thanks for reading!