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28 September 2023

Dear John Malkovich,


I hope this letter finds you in good health, although I must say I have reason to be concerned. No one can deny that you are a highly skilled and experienced professional in the performing arts with an illustrious body of work spanning decades.

Bearing all this in mind my question to you is, What in the name of FUCK was going through your idiot skull the day you decided to record the audiobook for Kurt Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions, despite the fact that your voice sounded like a dying cat? Had you been gargling sand? Are you stupid? Judging by the sound of your voice on the day of recording, I suppose it's possible you were in the late stages of respiratory failure and your brain was oxygen-deprived. Nonetheless, how does a grown adult with working ears not understand that the sounds coming from your diseased breathing hole sounded more like a death rattle than discernible english sentences? You make Tom Waits sound like Bing Crosby in this god damned thing.

Its beyond baffling how the audio engineers, your agent and anyone else present with the sense of hearing that day, listened to the bucket of rocks rattling around in your desiccated trachea and still said, "Yup, that sounds great and definitely wont transform peoples' ear buds into literal ice picks." How bout a fuckin cough drop, John? Jesus.



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