My cyber buddy, Pelotard [not his real name, for Pete’s sake. His mother really does love him. I think] tossed out a rhetorical comment that caught me by the funny bone:
I have no first hand experience of what goes on when a submission is opened
Well. At Casa de Behler, the beagle collects all the mail. She’s running some sort of bribery ring that affords her chauffeur service to the post office box. One of her minions, a saucy Poodle with a serious romantic streak, lugs the bag of goodies into the limo, and they motor back to Casa de Behler.
Thus begins the par-tay. The beagle cranks up a few pitchers of margaritas, chips and salsa, and we begin to rip open the envelopes. We play a collection of old Three Dog Night songs and swing from the chandelier while reading each submission out loud. In Spanish.
Others we pin up on a dart board and take a whack at finding the imaginary bull’s eye. The rest are used as place mats at our company picnics.
Why the theatrics? Because we don’t accept mailed submissions. They must be emailed! Har har.
Thus ends this installment of what happens behind closed doors.