Dear reader: Fuck you. Fuck you in your fucking face, you fucking fuck. No, seriously. The Rectangle Editorial Board hates every single one of you who wastes space on this planet, and each and every one of you pricks should die in a fire.

The truth is, here at The Rectangle, we hate our readers. We hate your comments. We hate it when you come in to our meetings and try to join our club. We’d really rather you just left us alone, because The Rectangle is a one-way conduit of information. We publish, you read. That’s how it works. That’s why The Rectangle has no social media: We don’t want to know what you think. We tell you what to think. We’re the media; it’s our job.

Lucky for you, you foul-smelling grade-grubbing overachieving millennial dorks, we hate the Drexel University administration just as much, those greedy fat cats in 3010 MacAlister Hall who steal our money to pay for their hookers and their blow addiction. And we hate them even more than we hate you, because they keep us up at night. We hear them late at night when we’re publishing the paper, with Juan Fry hooting and hollering as he does the third line of the night off his escort’s boobs, and it lasts well past when we send the paper to the printer.

It’s not jealousy, The Rectangle’s Editorial Board cocaine parties are just as good, and there aren’t any old people there. It’s just that Juan Fry and his cronies are partying with our money. And that’s why we hate them, with a burning passion, unrivaled by any except for our hatred of you, our readers. That’s why we publish this paper, to convey our hatred of them to a group we hate ever so slightly less. Don’t fool yourself into thinking that’s a compliment.

And that’s why we ask you, readers, to stop leaving comments on our articles. Stop coming to our meetings. If we find you useful, we will contact you first. Just shut up and read the paper, and realize that you have no say in the world, and that our word is the law.

To close, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you piece of filth unsuitable for a dog to piss on. Our only solace is that most of you will die alone and unloved, to an early and well-deserved grave and will be disrespectfully entombed in the Drexel mandatory after-death residency program. Good riddance to
bad rubbish.