Well, if I couldn't take a clue that my work sucked from all my previous rejections, this should sound a burning beacon on the horizon. Imagine, me at the helm, navigating my ship of ideas, having previously narrowly avoided several small icebergs*:

"Captain!" I shout to me. "There's something on the horizon. A flashing light..."
"Slow to half-speed. Where's the binoculars?" I respond to myself.
"Got em. I can almost make it out...a little closer. It says... YOUR... WORK... IS... CRAP... TURN... BACK NOW..."
"Crap!" I say.
"Crap!" I agree.
"Turn! Turn!"
"It's too late. It's huge!"
"ARRRRGGGG!!!" <rumble> <rumble>
"Massive damage to the self-esteem compartment! It's practically flooded!"
"Quick! Engage the false-hopes engine!"
"It's not responding. It's been overheated! We're sinking!! MAYDAY! MAYDAY!"

*this is a trite metaphor for my previous rejections

At least they took the time to write a sort of personal letter. I mean, the secretary even bothered to sign it for the General Manager! They typed out my name! I guess eight stories is worth a real, personalized rejection. This letter is almost too personal, though. Informal rejections help cushion the blow. On this one I'm surprised they didn't also toss in a P.S. you're ugly and stupid for good measure.

My Rebuttal: Somehow it hurts more than usual when eight of your stories are rejected at once. I'd say about...oohhh...about eight times more. The best part is, my mother was actually on the editorial board of this press for a long time. That's sad when even nepotism fails. I mean, if you don't have nepotism, what have you got? huh? Standards? Yeah right. Poor judgement. That's what you've got! Maybe someday, the great wreck of Leopold's work will be drudged up from the bottom of the ocean and widely admired as a lost treasure. I'll bet they'll be sorry then! Ha! Probably not.