[EDITOR’S NOTE: This post, as you’ve probably already gathered, is a parody of Otto Penzler’s New York Sun column. But since Mr. Penzler has threatened me by email, I have added this note to state that THIS POST IS A PARODY, and it is reflective of a character named “Otto Peltzer,” not Penzler.]

It was just after I duct-taped my lover to the concrete slab I keep in my study and caused her a considerable amount of discomfort that I realized she was better that way and that this was probably much better for our relationship. It’s sometimes the only way I can obtain an erection. When you’re a man like me who hasn’t laughed once since 1992, it’s easy to give into this kind of passive-aggressive violence. Bitter New York Sun columns simply aren’t enough for a man with my hopeless desperation.

But I thought I’d extend this metaphor further and apply it to all the bitches who are out to get me. By bitches, I refer to those base mystery writers who lack the grand grace of a Y chromosome. Who are these women and why do they think they can write? If they’re going to write cozies, should they not be shackled to the kitchen, preparing our meals and otherwise agreeing with every single one of our commands?

Call me cynical, but the time has come for the publishing industry to stop using these terms. Mysteries are mysteries, and anything less is folly. Who knew that these bitches would dare to adopt terms of reference? This feminist axis of evil hopes to communicate to the world ideas of what they call mysteries and I call poppycock. In fact, I’ll simply call it poppy, since I’m the one with the cock around here and they aren’t.

Now excuse me while I ignite the stack of feminist propaganda (read “cozies”) into a cozy conflagration.