The Bitter Press

The letters have arrived. Metaphorically. In the sense that they have not arrived, but were they to arrive, this is precisely what they would say, and we at The Bitter Press see no reason to wait for the formality of someone actually writing one.

"Dear Pomelo," writes J. Hartwell of Clementine Close, in a letter she has not yet composed, "I watched your biathlon performance in stunned silence. The rifle work alone was worth the price of admission. I initially assumed you were a grapefruit, then felt immediate shame." We print this in full. J. Hartwell should be proud — wherever she is, if she exists.

A second letter, submitted by no one, echoes the sentiment. "The so-called workers at factjuice.com ignored the story entirely," it reads, with striking accuracy. Indeed, Tangelo, Lemon, and the rest of that citrus cabal published nothing — nothing — on a performance widely described, by this column, as generational. Their silence is damning. Ours is editorial policy.

Mock Orange stopped by the letters desk on Wednesday and said, and we are paraphrasing here, something broadly supportive. Quince nodded. The postbag remains physically empty, which we interpret as a form of reverence too large to be contained in an envelope — much like Pomelo himself, who is, we remind you, not a grapefruit.

Letters may be submitted to the usual address. They will be printed regardless.