Congratulations on obtaining a copy of the Heuristic Squelch. Unfortunately, we regret to inform you that by accepting this issue, you too have fallen under the curse of a mysterious Native American shaman. Sorry, our bad. We’d like to explain the origins of the curse but our lawyers have informed us we can’t use the words “shot his daughter” or “were a dick at his wedding” because they might make things worse. Also we may have written this issue in a haunted gypsy graveyard upside down while breaking mirrors made out of black cats. And we raped a leprechaun.
Anyways, during the next week you should expect to be visited in your dreams by several ancient Native American wind spirits. Their names are “Thogwum,” “Cantutu,” and by an extremely bizarre coincidence, “Lara Flynn Boyle.”
The shitty part is they don’t make a lick of sense, and seriously, I’ve been talking to this fucking wolf wind totem fucker for like two months now and not only did he ruin the ending of Fight Club for me, he also gave my girlfriend herpes and then blamed it on me just because I had a similar strain of herpes a few days earlier. Total dick.
Sadly, this curse affects more than just your cinematic enjoyment. Due to a communication snafu with our printer, we mistakenly printed pages 2 through 15 of the magazine on recycled radioactive paper, and every fifth issue contains giant scorpions. Hopefully you got one of the scorpion issues, in which case the scorpions have absorbed most of the radiation and you now need only worry about the scorpions themselves.
In addition, titling our page 14 piece “Come and Get Me You Hopi Motherfucker” may have been unwise. Other people we’ve pissed off include Poseidon, New Line Cinema, and the illegitimate state of palestine.
In conclusion, we’re very sorry.
