Dear D Magazine,
Count me amongst the most loyal of your readership. For the last 30 years I have faithfully fondled your pages and with each new issue I discover at least seven dozen reasons to look forward to the next. Bravo! Un bon emploi! Bippity bappity!
Your most recent edition tickled my fancy for city squabbles like goose down on bare genitals. Your in-depth coverage of the Trinity River issue, gingerly balancing the pros and cons, the rights and wrongs, the droit and gauche, was so even-handed I might have mistaken it for a firm yet playful spanking.
And the profile of my old schoolmate and garish gadfly John Reoch was as delicious as rum-soaked pheasant. When we were but a pair of young bucks, John and I would often engage in wild all-hours sponge cake orgies and while away our weekends shopping for neckerchiefs. Alas, had he not infected me with a rare strain of tropical possum gonorrhea, I would still consider him a very, very dear friend. But your piece returned me to those years of yore and made them feel as if they weren't so long ago, as did my most recent discharge. Oh, how it nostalgically sears my urinary tract!
My sole critique would be that the plastic surgery advertisements were woefully scarce in number. It barely whets my appetite for unnecessary cosmetic reconstruction. If only our repugnant souls could be so altered by the surgical efforts of this fair city's fleet
of first class flesh enhancers. Am I right, ladies?
So now I sign off as I eagerly await the next issue; drenched in anticipation and with a finely manicured thumb lodged in my quivering nether.