The End Of Digging In 2009-2019

Brittle Magazine, the celebrated literary magnet who rose to prominence featuring weak and half dead works of mediocre writers, turned the last page Wednesday boastfully promoting their last mundane and riskless stories critics say make children’s tales look like snuff lit.  The publication confirmed that it pulled its own life support plug as a marketing tactic to attract new readers to its insignificant content riddled pigeon English in an unceremonious demise at the redacted age of ten.

Authors churning out a novel a day regaled them as a cold slopping foam of bottom shelf literature that provided more space than filler.  Readers who intentionally skipped over their drivel proudly affirmed that their chosen pronoun status of identity was that of an asshole.  For virtue signalers that were forced to open its pages, they are saddened that animal shops in need of padding for cages will lose one of their biggest suppliers.

According to the unpaid slaves who worked for copy and nonexistent credibility, Brittle Magazine was a collective of half assed hacks who were products of parents being proud of their last place status in every stage of their live though gentle parenting.  Driven by no ideas on writing and no clues on publishing they clung to their politicized sexuality and created a magazine that fashioned censorship as a literary style and complacency as heroism.

Sources say in an effort to tackle all civil rights discourse traditional publishers faced in the past Brittle created submission guidelines that even the devil wouldn’t want to be bothered with.  Publishing white writers of heterosexual persuasion was inexplicably banned as closed minded, as was publishing content with expletives, no interracial relationships, no tag lines about racial life expectancy at least twice or have characters that represented traditional gender roles.

With unrealistic expectations Brittle’s debut sales were a sole issue that was quickly returned.  Capitalizing on their sympathetic success they opened submissions to the public, publishing everything they received sans great stories that refused to cater to their whataboutism or lack of independent thought.  Positive thinking and overpriced coffee lifted egos promoting their unique brand of censorship they felt was more important that publishing good material.

Maintaining inner nimbyism and ass kissing frenemy publishers opened them up to cream of the crop writers whose literary output fell halfway between nowhere good absolutely terrible.  Resisting editors to produce good copy and writers from being meaner than a dog shitting tacks from their work being cleaned up for print, Brittle embraced the MLA’s lesser used Pigeon English format that hybridized all verbs and adjectives into shortened abbreviations and emojis.

Artificially confident and hopped up on too much overpriced coffee, Brittle went triumphantly onto Amazon’s ranking list by issue twenty-three, reaching a chart topping one million position in the fiction that should only be read to encourage enemy combatants into divulging all secrets to the government category.  Sources say they finally felt they had been accepted by a jury of their peers while its readership started a class action lawsuit to get back the hours they wasted engaged in their periodical.

Chosen among a dejected handful of magazines devout readers threw on a list of titles to be circulated as an accelerant item in a tinderbox, Brittle enjoyed being on the top of the heap with the titans of dying genres who contributed royally to choking their corners of the literary world to death with one hand.  Insiders say Brittle became arrogant around this time, making it part of it’s magazine’s mission to vet and police its handful of followers on their political correctness.

Not taking their self-appointed role lightly, Brittle set about molding themselves into being proper examples for a diversity and inclusion crowd that featured almost all white writers, accepting submissions centered around the topic of the day.  Holiday themed editions saluted the hard day laborers of America, the circus clowns.  With content centered around the oppression and discrimination the makeup clad circus impresarios faced in modern society, Brittle singlehandedly brought the Domestic Clown Association into the national conversation.

Insiders reflect this to be the beginning of the end for the magazine.  After mustering four years of wokeness on issues about the seedy underground world of dog owners who got gangster cred felony convictions from failing to clean up fido’s fecal matter, Brittle turned the page and not for the better.  Incels say that was around the time the imprint turned to social media for direction; jumping head first into the herd Brittle mosh pitted with blue wave resistors who brought their publication down further than even the gutter expected.

Critics proclaimed their attendance at a star studded crayon convention resulted in themed hashtag issues that felt like five bottles in one hand and six bottles in another which totaled a drinking problem.  Taking the road never traveled, Brittle continued diverging into themed issues of irrelevancy, of which they never were well versed in the subject matter to give unbiased perspectives in the first place.

The implementation of trigger warnings brought them a slew of award nominations via eyes wide shut cronyism that would never have happened if adults with the propensity to be critical thinkers ran the publishing industry.  Readers proclaim their five year contender status for the ignored Harbinger Awards culminated with their content sinking into an all time high within the depths of insignificantness. 

Brittle Magazine closed it’s last cover from a self-inflicted periodical wound tackling gentrification by putting out a charity calendar with boarded up windows as embracing American culture.  Readers who knew better say their last five years fidgeting in fickle cause celebrity caused an inoperable hernia for the three solid people at the printing company who were forced to read it.  Their final paragraph is a strikeout reminder to publishers that when it comes down to great writers versus defending the biggest collective of clowns in the country, walking in shoes that are too big for your feet will eventually make you trip, fall, and bust your ass wide open.