A Book Only Charles Bukowski Could Love

An anonymous submitter gives us this joy today:

Dear [Writer]: Thank you for seeking me out. I must be one of hundreds that you have sent this email to. I sense that you are “gritty” and can most likely handle any and all feedback, especially as a connoisseur of, what was it, the greasy spoon eating establishment. My first reaction is this—what a shame that Bukowski is dead. I must admit that you would find my review elitist and polysyllabic—something unbecoming and unpleasant to the ethos which I think you are seeking to express. I appreciate being contacted, but feel that I am the wrong person to review your work. 

Says the writer:  I had sent a single page letter, personable, but professional. There was no sample of the writing contained in it. The response was so off-base, cruel, and out of whack that it didn't really sting. I was kind of mesmerized by it. He somehow made some connection between myself and the late poet Charles Bukowski (my novel has no basis around any of that), and he also acquired this bizarre idea that I ate in dive restaurants (there was no mention of food or any such thing in my business-like query letter). This guy jumped to a strange conclusion, and then ran with it, even describing how he feels I wouldn't understand words with more than one syllable. All without having seen a single word of the book. 

Seems like a real disconnect. Maybe this was a mistakenly addressed rejection.  That's got to happen sometimes.