… in which she waxes philosophical regarding 50 Shades of Publishing

I get asked questions about publishing frequently, whether by e-mail or at book signings and events. Usually I shrug and mumble something about luck, because it does feel kind of arbitrary. But I thought I’d use this opportunity to answer as many of those questions as I can.

To make it more entertaining, let’s start by discussing Fifty Shades of Grey – since it’s one of those anomalies we really can’t use as a basis for any true conversation about publishing. But it’s always the kind of example writers pull out of their hats when they have dollar signs in their eyes and naiveté in their hearts.

So, Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James… The plot isn't exactly new, though I do find this cookie-cutter premise (used widely over the years) slightly creepy; vulnerable young woman, brooding older man, the former wishes to capture the latter's heart, thus achieving equality and love by physically submitting to him. Yeah, good luck with that. I'd expect this couple to either end up Jerry Springer or Dr. Phil's couch if this were real life. But when a book blows up like Fifty Shades, and you can’t get through two paragraphs without cringing or laughing, you want to know WHAT THE MOTHERFUDGESICLE THE BIG DEAL IS. What are you missing? So I went on a quest — and by quest I mean bought my sister a copy for Christmas and told her she had to read it and then be vigorously interrogated. Since I knew I probably wouldn’t get through it, someone had to take one for the team. And by the team, I mean me.

           Oh, I tried. Sweet baby Jesus, I tried. See normally, this is what you do: Pick up a book they say is all the rage. You read a few passages, think Meh and put it down. That’s fine. That’s okay. I shouldn’t judge it by the fifteen or twenty 3 and 4 page samples I managed to choke down. Maybe I just happened upon all the creepiest, most oddly written bits. I should sit down and give it a fair chance in all its read-in-one-sitting glory before I eviscerate it... with love. Right. Fine. I sit down and start turning pages.

          An hour of my life later (which I will never get back) I had to stop. Just not my cuppa. And that’s fine because it certainly is someone’s cuppa. A lot of someones.

EXCERPTS:

~“I pull him deeper into my mouth so I can feel him at the back of my throat and then to the front again. My tongue swirls around the end. He’s my very own Christian Grey-flavored popsicle. I suck harder and harder … Hmm … My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves.”

~"‘Why don’t you like to be touched?’ I whisper, staring up into soft gray eyes. ‘Because I’m fifty shades of fucked up, Anastasia.’ ” 

The book has its own Wikipedia page, fan clubs, been dubbed mommy porn, inspired chuckles, ire, and newfound sexual shenanigans for flagging married couples… allegedly. It’s even spawned Culinary erotica. I give you Fifty Shades of Chicken.

           One man even assaulted his girlfriend with steak sauce after she refused to stop reading the book. Come on! I wish someone would threaten assault by condiment on their partner after reading passages from one of my books! I’d wear that steak sauce as a badge of honor. And then there’s the Judge in Brazil who ordered 50 Shades of Grey removed from bookstore shelves.

      So, that’s how you do it, people. That’s how you sell books. We can all chuckle to our generic-buying, Walmart-shopping, collective heart’s content. FIST BUMP, E. L. James. You get mad props from me. Who cares what some elitist readers think when you’re raking in the royalties?

        Of course there are valid criticisms to be made. And not just about 50 Shades, but the dumbing down of literature as a whole, an argument that I’ve had all too often, given I’m an avid book buyer/reader and find it harder and harder these days to connect with what the NYT Bestsellers list has to offer. The argument that “at least it gets people reading” is like saying, “another McDonalds will get more people eating.” My answer to both is the same – everything in moderation is great, but too much grease can give you diarrhea. You know what I mean. I’ll let you pull the rest of that metaphor together yourself.

     So, as an obviously biased writer who believes life’s too short to read a badly written book, I took my questions to the readers – two women I respect and admire: one being my sister, another being an “Anonymous Popular Mommy Blogger who refused to use her name because you people are judgmental bitches.” I hope you’re proud of yourselves.

      This is what Sis had to say:

     “The sex part of the book was not good. Childishly written, even. She refers to her vagina as “down there.” That’s creepy as far as I’m concerned. Whenever she's turned on, Anastasia says things like: Holy Crap! or Holy Moses!" 

EXCERPT:

“Suddenly, he sits up and tugs my panties off and throws them on the floor. Pulling off his boxer briefs, his erection springs free. Holy cow! … He kneels up and pulls a condom onto his considerable length. Oh no … Will it? How?”

Sis continues. “In my head I kept picturing Dorothy trotting along the yellow brick road singing Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My! Not sure that’s the visual I’m supposed to be having every time Anastasia gets horny. And Christian started speaking like a cowboy half way through. ‘Mighty fine, ma’am.’ Not sure what that was about – but again, creepy. I don’t think the author understands the importance of leaving a little to the imagination, either. I felt like she’d written me into a corner of predictability and I couldn’t get out of it. Also, I wanted to throat-punch her inner goddess by the end of the book. I wasn’t interested in her POV, frankly. I think the author missed an opportunity when she didn’t write it from Christian’s perspective. I was way more interested in what he was thinking, but I never really knew because she just kept referring to him being “in a mood,” but it was never clear what that mood was because it was the only time she wasn’t overly-descriptive in the book.  The rest of the time she used too many adjectives. Bad adjectives, repetitive adjectives.”

YET ANOTHER EXCERPT:

“Sitting beside me, he gently pulls my sweatpants down. Up and down like a whores’ drawers, my subconscious remarks bitterly. In my head, I tell her where to go. Christian squirts baby oil into his hand and then rubs my behind with careful tenderness—from makeup remover to soothing balm for a spanked ass, who would have thought it was such a versatile liquid.” 

    Whores' drawers, indeed.

    This is what my “Anonymous Popular Mommy Blogger who refused to use her name because you people are judgmental bitches” had to say:

    “Look, I went to college. I've taught English, am a librarian, and actually get paid to write sometimes. I'm supposed to be one of those folks who can discern between Virginia Woolf and E.L. James.  Having said that, I think people just need to sit down, fan themselves, and be calm. Who honestly thought this was going to be great literature? It's a fantasy! And it's a fantasy based upon a monogamous, committed relationship. It doesn't need to defend itself. It's erotica. It just is. As a story, it is of some interest. Can a damaged soul heal enough to love? What is the fine line between sexy and kinky?  Should fantasy become reality? And it's interesting from a psychological point of view. But great prose it is not.  Nor did I expect it to be. So what is the value of shredding her style? I read it for a book group, and read the other two so that I could intelligently moderate our discussion.  (At least, that's the story I'm sticking to.) Though most of the actual writing made me cringe, I was engaged enough to stay up late reading to find out what… happened. My husband didn't read a single page, but he has many favorable things to say about it as well. Which brings us full circle to the point, I think.”

    “You know what, Jeni? Use my name: Leigh Merryday. Feel free to mention that I thought long and hard about being anonymous because of all the judgmental bitches out there but valiantly strove for truth instead.”  *nods sagely*

      (Now you can see why I like Leigh.)

    So, friends, the take-away here is: writing is subjective. What I think is pure shit, someone else might get something from and that’s great. That’s life, baby.

      Now… on to the subject at hand: Publishing!

     Something to remember: Publishing is a business, not an art. Well, there may be an art to it, but everything that’s published certainly can’t be considered art. Agents and publishers are here to make money and you better get nice and cozy with that premise. Sure, they may occasionally get a bee in their bonnet and publish something they personally related to, assuming sales will be low, but for the most part, if it won’t make them money EVEN IF THEY LIKE IT, they’re not going to spend their time and resources on it.

    Okay, so you’ve written the next Great American Novel. (Have you spell checked it, gone over it for flagrant adverb/adjective abuse and point-of-view issues? Have numerous other people (who don’t share your DNA) read it and given constructive feedback? Have you crafted a one page query letter and researched the agents and/or small publishers that might be amenable to what you’ve written?)  
   First, let me say that there is no right answer here. Everyone has to make their own decisions based on what they write and where they want to try and get published. It’s about many things including genre, platform, how much control you wish to have, and the realities of an ever-changing publishing world. If you write genre stuff with mass-market appeal, I’d say get that query letter and synopsis ready and start querying agents. Because that’s really the only way you can get access to the large publishing companies. Most of them don’t take unsolicited queries unless you’ve been referred to them by someone. Plan on dedicating a good year on querying, though. That route isn’t a fast-track. Patience is a virtue.
      Another choice is to query small publishers on your own. Many of them accept submissions directly from writers. But first do your homework. Look at their publishing track record and contact some of their authors to see if they are happy with their experiences. If you find yourself the lucky recipient of a contract offer, treat yourself to a little happy dance. THEN CAREFULLY GO OVER THE CONTRACT. In every case this is important. I can’t stress this enough. CAREFULLY GO OVER THE CONTRACT. Having a lawyer who deals with contract law take a look at it is usually a good idea. 
     Make sure you’re comfortable with the royalties being offered; make sure you understand what’s expected of you as well as what you can expect from the publisher. Things like confidentiality clauses and, let’s say, what happens if they fail to publish after a particular period of time elapses is of particular import. You need to cover yourself in the event that they don’t live up to their end of the bargain, and make sure you’re okay with all of the fine print in that regard.

Another thing: E-book royalties. Pay attention to this. These days, there’s a good chance the bulk of your sales will be digital sales. As far as I’m concerned, any publisher, big or small, offering a paltry 10% royalty on e-books should be ashamed of themselves. Seriously, there is NO OVERHEAD in preparing a book for e-book distribution and if anyone tries to tell you otherwise (other than the editing already done for the dead-tree version) they should be taken out back, dipped into a vat of honey and unceremoniously dumped into the bear cage at the zoo so we can all partake of the ensuing festivities.

Sure, with a publisher, what you’re buying is their ability to get your book to a wide audience. But what THEY are buying are YOUR WORDS. Only you can decide the true value of those words.

Pardon the vulgar metaphor (or don’t, I don’t give a flaming poo) let’s take a look at the pimp/whore relationship:  Sugar Daddy will justify his “business” practices in any number of ways, including the fact that, but for his existence, the whore in question wouldn’t be safe in the shark-infested waters in which they’re… performing. Also, he'd argue, he's the one supplying the “johns” and fishnets, right? Well, I’d argue that it’s still the whore who’s on her knees (or back) doing the dirty job of bringing in the dough for Pimp Daddy so, ultimately, it’s her place to say whether or not her cut is sufficient. Or, find another profession.

Most small publishers worth their salt will offer a 50/50 split on digital royalties, and for my money, that’s fair. I couldn’t tell you what the Big 6 offers, (or is it 5 now?) but I stick to my earlier assessment – if they’re offering less, shame on them.

In some cases, depending on how small the small-publisher is, and how much they are able to market your book, you’d make more money self-publishing than you would even signing their 50/50 split. This is another area you really need to research and consider, since many small publishers don’t have the budget and/or connections to get your name and work out there to a wide audience. That’s just reality.

Then, there’s self-publishing. Perhaps you’ve tried both options outlined above and haven’t had any success. You say, “Fine! I’ll publish this book on my own!” Good for you. Now do your research. I could wax poetic about self-publishing but there are far too many good sites and articles out there — Google self-publishing and prepare to spend an inordinate amount of time learning about everything from preparing an e-book for distribution to marketing. I will say that self-publishing is all about self-promotion. It’s a full-time job so don’t expect sales if you’re not hitting social media hard and on a daily basis. Also, do yourself a favor – get a good editor. There’s nothing worse than a crappily-produced self-published book. (Except, perhaps, a crappily-written, mass-produced, best-selling piece of drivel.) Also a good cover is important.

Basically, it’s up to each individual author to decide where their work fits best and then be informed about what they should expect. With “big publishing” you have less control in exchange for their vast sea of publicists, marketing geniuses, and the mound of cash they have to back that up. You can probably expect to sell a butt-load more books if you’re lucky enough to go that route but it’s not the road for everyone.

I’ve been fortunate enough to have some pretty damn good experiences with both traditional and self-publishing. But I know many who have not. I’ve heard some horror stories this year. Personally, I like working with small publishers. I did have one experience that left me feeling a little… stabby.

The not-so-nice side of publishing, particularly with small-publishers, is that there have been a glut of recent companies who have found themselves floundering in the current economy and their authors have suffered for it. The main thing I’ve heard is a lack of communication with those they’ve promised to publish. Not answering e-mails. Putting off questions. Not paying royalties in a timely manner… or not at all. These are things you’d (hopefully) see less of when working with larger publishers but again, I’ve heard a story or two in that regard as well.

Once you’ve signed that contract, you’re under a legal obligation to stick with the terms of that contract. That goes to the authors as well as the publishers. Getting out of a contract when it appears a company is tanking can be harder than it seems, particularly if they’re not answering their e-mails. Or putting authors off with various and sundry excuses.

So, here’s my final piece of advice and it comes from the purist in me, as a reader: don’t write if you don’t love doing it. As with everything in life, it’s about the journey not the destination. If you don’t have fun getting there, you’ve wasted a shitload of time and that’s a shame. Write because you can, because you’re good at it and you can’t imagine doing anything else. That way, you can’t lose.

I’ll let someone more talented and wise than I have the final word: (It should be noted that this is posted on the corkboard at my local library. Apparently, librarians agree.)

So You Want To Be A Writer

by Charles Bukowski

if it doesn't come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don't do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your

heart and your mind and your mouth

and your gut,

don't do it.

if you have to sit for hours

staring at your computer screen

or hunched over your

typewriter

searching for words,

don't do it.

if you're doing it for money or

fame,

don't do it.

if you're doing it because you want

women in your bed,

don't do it.

if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don't do it.

if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,

don't do it.

if you're trying to write like somebody

else,

forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of

you,

then wait patiently.

if it never does roar out of you,

do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife

or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

or your parents or to anybody at all,

you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,

don't be like so many thousands of

people who call themselves writers,

don't be dull and boring and

pretentious, don't be consumed with self-

love.

the libraries of the world have

yawned themselves to

sleep

over your kind.

don't add to that.

don't do it.

unless it comes out of

your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would

drive you to madness or

suicide or murder,

don't do it.

unless the sun inside you is

burning your gut,

don't do it.

when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was

Vegas Truth or Dare Challenge

Kat Nove & Jeni Decker will meet for the first time (in person) in Las Vegas on April 1st. (The day of fools, how appropriate!)

To celebrate us taking Sin City by tit-storm, we’re announcing the “Vegas Truth or Dare Challenge.” Your job, should you choose to accept it: send us your questions and/or dares. We will live tweet the answers from Vegas, as well as proof of each accomplished dare, in the form of pictures and video.

What would you like to see us doing in Vegas?

Here are the rules:

1. No nudity. (Nobody needs to see that.)

2. Nothing illegal. (Actually, we’re willing to work with you on this one. Misdemeanors will be considered, felonies will not.)

3. Jeni will not eat any form of bug. (Kat can be talked into eating anything - but it’ll cost you.)

4. Nothing that requires Jeni to run. Jeni does not run.

5. Nothing that includes feces or any type of bodily fluid. (What, are you an idiot?)

When we return (hopefully with all of our teeth and no tattoos) we’ll be doing a book giveaway. Two lucky winners will each receive a copy of Waiting for Karl Rove, which will most certainly become COLLECTOR’S ITEMS.

Why, you ask?

Because the books will fly with us to Vegas, and when the winners receive them, will have the actual signatures of some of the characters from the book - including but not limited to:

Black Elvis
Two old ladies playing slot machines
A happy couple getting hitched at The Little White Chapel
… and any celebrities and/or politicians we run into (accost) while there.

So, let ‘er rip - and be creative, for Jehovah’s sake. Submit your questions and/or dares as comments below, or to us on Twitter: @Jeni_Decker @katnove @WaitingforKRove . Don’t forget to leave us your Twitter handle or some means of contact should you be the winner!

NOTE: We will also be taking video comprised of scenes from Waiting for Karl Rove as well as our upcoming sequel, Waiting for a Plot: or What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas, Especially If Someone Slips You Some Roofies. So stay tuned for updates because we’ve already arranged for the use of a dead body for Karl Rove’s room!

Fool: A Novel by Christopher Moore: Hit that shit.

I don’t normally review well established authors because, frankly, what’s the point? They already have a mass of followers who get all juicy down there over every witty turn of phrase and well placed adjective, all sufficiently lubricated and happy to spread the good word.

That being said, after reading Fool: A Novel by Christopher Moore I felt the need to proffer a review for the sake of my fellow readers and writers who have not yet partaken. Yes, I know I’m late getting to this gang bang - in fact so many of my author friends recommended it, knowing it was right up my alley, given my propensity to adore all things irreverent and funny - particularly that of a cheeky nature.

Their collective suggestions had become a nattering mantra in my head to which I’d reply, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll GET TO IT !” My “to read” list is a long and winding road paved with good intentions, not enough hours in the day, and two autistic kids who are sucking the life out of me as we speak.

Only after reading something online regarding its sexual content did I add Fool to my Kindle, under the guise of “research.” My work-in-progress has a great deal of sexual content and is written in first person from the male POV, so I’ve spent months reading all kinds of books with similar content in order to see how other authors handled it. I should also note, I’m a 43 year old woman sidling up to menopause with all the grace of a cat having been launched down a Slip-n-Slide with a shuffleboard stick.* But the truly disturbing and unexpected side effect resulting from the onset of the shriveling of my uterine walls (and girlhood dreams) has to be my naughty bits resonating like a tuning fork. Yes, sir, my bunny cunny* is, all too often these days, hopped up on Red Bull and ready to rumble.

Reading this glut of coital literature probably isn’t helping matters any, but I do want to mention that I don’t think the sex in Fool is even close to being over the top. Bawdy, perhaps, but certainly not vulgar or titillating. At least by my standards. But I just finished reading Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer and all three installments of The Rosy Crucifixion (Sexus/Plexus/Nexus) so having plumbed the depths and debauch of all that is Mr. Miller, perhaps my not-so-delicate sensibilities have just been numbed to the point of delirium by all the cunt he described, revered, manhandled, masticated, sautéed, flambéed… yeah, that guy liked him some va-jay-jay.

But who among us…

Wait, where was I? Oh yes, Fool - a re-telling of Shakespeare’s King Lear, narrated by Pocket, the court jester or “fool.” Along with his amusing but slightly daft sidekick Drool, there are a myriad of other characters, including the king’s daughters, plenty of buxom laundry women, a full court of hangers-on, and a ghost… because, apparently, there’s always a fucking ghost.

Let me just say that while I can appreciate The Bard as much as the next gal, while his works are often funny, more often than not, getting through Shakespeare’s offerings is as laborious as trekking through a shallow river of molasses - against the current, wearing a snow parka and cement Timberlands.

That said, Moore’s retelling is extremely accessible, with laugh-out-loud lines aplenty. My first hearty guffaw came with the opening of chapter two. I laughed so hard, so long, and so loudly while sitting outside Thing One’s middle school, awaiting the final bell, that a group of football players lifting weights congregated on the lawn, directed a collection of looks at me that would have been more appropriate had I pulled down my pants and shat upon their school mascot while humming Clair de la lune.

“I found Drool in the laundry resolving a wank, spouting great gouts of git-seed across the laundry walls, floors, and ceiling, giggling, as young Shanker Mary wagged her tits at him over a steaming cauldron of the king’s shirts.”

I think this line perfectly illustrates the tone and tenor of the sexual content, so if this offends you, Fool probably won't be your cuppa tea. Also I assume you’ll be voting for Rick Santorum, so you and your moral superiority can kindly skip away from this review now, and keep your ten inch vaginal wand away from my who-ha, thank you very much.

The thing that stands out about the writing is Moore’s seemingly endless self-assurance within his craft. That, or he’s as good at faking it as a hooker who’s already been paid and is now yelping with wild abandon in the hopes of getting a big tip.

This being the first of Moore’s work I’ve had the pleasure of reading, I plan to go back and sample more, in an effort to find out if this confident writing style is something he’s always had, or something he’s nurtured over the years. Either way, no matter. He creates an atmosphere so the reader can feel certain he’s got the reins well in hand and we’re free to sit back and enjoy the ride.

Moore’s firm grasp of how humor should play out on the page is no more evident than when he parsimoniously peppers the “thirteenth-century speak” with modern day phrases that deliver a one-two punch with glaring accuracy and delectable wit.

My only question is why Hollywood hasn’t pulled her head out of her fat ass and turned this gem into a movie, already. If dialogue is king, Moore’s already done all the heavy lifting. It seems a no-brainer. Think a Merchant/Ivory production meets Mel Brooks - if they met somewhere in the middle, the result would be brilliant.

VERDICT: Hilarious, unparalleled one-liners aplenty, and lots of naughtiness. A classic example for writers to study with regard to hitting the comedic beats.

There are few humor writers who are able to sustain the laughs, as well as my attention, from cover to cover. For me, his book falls into that category, along with A Confederacy of Dunces, and all of David Sedaris’ work. This isn’t because I’m some humor elitist, but because humor is my reading preference of choice, whatever the genre, and I hold its writers to a higher standard, however unfair that might be. To me, humor is that important.

A writer friend, author Greg Crites, said this to me recently: “Make someone laugh and you’ve earned your oxygen for the day.” God, but that’s the truth. There is no more universal language than laughter. We might not all agree on what’s funny, but I think we can all agree how important it is to laugh - to find the humor in the absurdities of life.

To be the person who makes someone else laugh is as much a privilege as it is to be the one doing the laughing. So, good on you, Mr. Moore. You’ve earned your oxygen for the day - and then some.

Friends, if you haven’t already read it, hit that shit. Hit it!











* Blatantly swiped from Fool.

* Have I used this line in a blog post before? I can’t remember, thanks to the memory loss that accompanies the hot flashes and heart palpitations.

Pulp Fiction: Meet The Hack

Don’t let the Pulp Fiction-esque covers fool you.

What you need to know about Greg Crites is that he can write a mean story. And by mean, I mean escapist fiction for the masses that includes bigger-than-life antiheros and satirical and/or pop culture related “villains” - who may or may not be a metaphor for all that is wrong (or right) with the world. His writing is a heady feast of linguistic endowment rarely found in commercial fiction today.

Greg Crites is to words what Paula Deen is to butter. But, while both artistes create insanely appetizing fare, the former won’t necessitate a prescription for Victoza - the diabetes medicine for which America’s chubby culinary connoisseur is now the paid spokesperson.

He’d probably never admit this but... methinks Mr. Crites actually has something to say. His work, while entertaining as hell, not only speaks to the pulp zeitgeist and the simple, ironic absurdities of life, but also to universal truths. Thing is, you’re so busy laughing, you don’t pick up on things like exploration of social themes and mores until long after you’ve finished the book.

As an author, I can tell you that’s a good thing.

When asked about the key to his success as a self-published author (by Jeanne Bannon, author of Invisible… read the full article on her blog ) Crites said:

“My stuff is always first draft... I do things the way the Pulp masters did. The guys who wrote Doc Savage, The Shadow, Tarzan, Conan. They got paid by the word and they churned out some words. I don’t do litrachur, which I’m unqualified for. I aim to entertain and I never lose sight of that goal. I keep a steady stream of stories underway. You have to produce. You have to imagine you are a writer for ‘Lost’ and you had better get some words typed or start looking for a real job.”

By his own admission, audio books make up the largest part of his sales, and having benefited personally from his oratory offerings, I can testify to the fact that he’s got a set of pipes Deity-made for narration.

So, without further ado, strap yourselves in and let’s chat with the author, himself. He’s sitting in a comfy chair with a drink at the ready and, now… me in his lap - which is how we’ll proceed with the rest of this interview.

Greg, (may I call you Greg?) I recently read Crusade. Tell the folks out there what it’s about, then kindly explain to us what you have against God and organized religion.

Crusade is my tribute to Hunter S. Thompson. It is my inferior version of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Thompson took a cynical look at America during a period when America really needed someone to take a cynical look at it. Not that it did any good. Or changed any minds. Or elevated anyone to at least try and do better.

I started with outright theft of his premise, two crazed journalists on assignment, and went from there. (Or, it could be based on my actual adventures as a reporter, but the statute of limitations has not yet expired on some of the crap we did.)

This will disappoint the thousands who’ve read Crusade, but I actually have nothing against either religion, or God. It is organized religion that I took to task in Crusade. As individuals, being religious has little impact on civilization, and, is actually a positive phenomena. But, when folks get together and start attempting to legislate or force others to adhere to their beliefs, it’s a negative thing and they should be hunted down and killed. In much the same manner organized religions have done throughout the history of humankind.

As in every human endeavor, greed sooner or later takes over, the greedy realize they need fanatics—and they find them. Contrary to new-age, liberal, progressive, hipster delusions, some folks are just smart enough to become dangerous but not smart enough to contribute anything to civilization. Hence, there always exists a ready pool of borderline imbeciles to whip into a frenzy of fanaticism. All that said, I am a spiritual person in that, I take comfort in the knowledge that there is no way my species sits at the top of the food chain.

I see. Well you put a lot of thought into that answer. I’m impressed. Now, you seem like a guy who would take great pleasure in screwing the man - metaphorically, of course. Any suggestions for the sheeple reading this interview? How can they make a difference in the world around them while simultaneously pissing off the establishment?

Stop electing lawyers. Plain and simple. They complicate everything until it becomes unworkable, thus guaranteeing they always have work. Think for yourself. Analyze, don’t just swallow the popular line. Stop giving money to those whom you know are douchebags. Hit ‘em in the wallet. Works every time. Finally, love your friends, plot to kill your enemies.


You seem a little… stressed. On a scale of 1 to 10, how happy are you?

I’m sober now, so I’m at a negative 2 or 3. Later, after a few drinks I’ll hover around the ten mark.

Are you comfortable? Here… let me scoot this way a bit. Don’t want your legs to fall asleep. There. Now, tell me about the worst boss you ever had.

Myself. Way too lenient on the worthless fucker I see in the mirror. I could write a book a month if I weren’t a worthless, undisciplined, lazy bastard.


Pretend I’m interviewing you for your dream job (bartender, professional taste tester - anything to do with a bar, alcohol, and/or sardine packaging plant). What are your three best qualities? What should I watch out for, other than theft and imbibing on the job?

Any bar that would hire me is far too dangerous a place to work. That said, for some reason, I feel it crucial that I actually do the best job I can if someone is paying me. I have no idea why. Some kind of genetic flaw. If you pay me to do something, I’ll figure some way to get it done—even if it requires me admitting defeat and suggesting you find someone else to do it.

I enjoy taking broken/non-functioning things apart to try and fix them. Usually I do, and that shit feels good.

I like to wander around and drink beer directly out of the pitcher.

Let’s talk politics. If you could pick - er, scratch that. I don’t have time for all the railing against the machine I assume your answer would include. How about this: Tom or Jerry? Why?

Foghorn Leghorn! Because I love that voice and ain’t that all that counts? In this society don’t we all worship the strong delivery of platitudes and vagaries full of sound and fury yet signifying nothing.

Why are you so drawn to me? And, feel free to make use of your mental thesaurus for adjectives and adverbs.

I’ve always been fascinated by Scientology adherents and Kat told me you’re like a twelfth degree moonbat soon to be elevated to Exalted Unicornucopia of Abundance. A level which is rumored to be the highest attainable short of metamorphosing into an immortal butterfly.

As an amateur scientist with no credentials, no formal training, no qualifications, and no slavish need to adhere to long-accepted scientific best-practices, my empirical observations of others always yields verifiably funny lines.

If my feminine instincts are correct - coupled with the full sixty-two seconds it took you to come up with that answer - I believe you may have been trying to decide between a moment of intimacy, and humor. You chose humor. That’s fine. I’ll let it slide… for now. Next question: If you were invited to give the commencement speech at Harvard’s graduation ceremony this year, what advice would you have for the nubile minds about to embark upon the rest of their lives?

Young scholars, we beg thee, hie your numerous skills to another country and elevate them to the next level in civilization. You’ve done enough to us, and collectively, we can’t thank you properly.


To follow up on the last question: What would the hospitality rider in your contract for said speaking engagement look like? (Dietary restrictions, requested items, etc.)

Two bottles of Sailor Jerry rum on ice, an eight-ball, and a fully-charged cattle prod.

I assume the cattle prod will be used when your heartbeat goes on hiatus. I feel you squirming… don’t worry, just a few more questions. How would you design a spice rack for a blind person?

Hanging Scratch ‘N Sniff cards. BAM!


What’s in your refrigerator right now?

Sliced jalapenos, beer, salsa, cheese, bacon, and a long-forgotten science experiment.


Based on your answers to the last few questions, you may not be long for this world, so I've decided that you and I should write something together before you break on thru to the other side. So, what do you think? Fictional tell-all, tele-novella script, collection of poems, manifesto… whatever. If you can curb your enthusiasm for the drink enough to add another project to your list, and I can curb my enthusiasm for Twitter, what do you think we should write?

Bring Kat in and we’ll write some porn. That shit always sells.

Done! But I’m gonna need that in writing, so I’ll have my people forward your people a contract immediately. One last question: What is the meaning of life?

An opportunity to experience long periods of mind-numbing boredom, punctuated by ass-clenching instants of stark terror, sprinkled bouts of abject misery, and priceless moments of pure, unadulterated joy.

Unadulterated joy, indeed. You have been a pleasure, sir. Let me hop off your lap so you can regain feeling in your lower extremities.


I recommend working your way through his massive oeuvre slowly and with great diligence.

On that note, you can get the first of his vampire series, Dunkin the Vampire Slayer: Something Porcine This Way Comes for FREE on Kindle right now.

IN THE INTEREST OF FULL DISCLOSURE: While preparing for this hard-hitting interview, I came across this ridiculous website and shamelessly appropriated a few of the questions. I thought the one about the spice rack was brilliant.

It’s all Fun and Games Till Someone Loses Their Mind

TWEET: How do you make every teacher and kid within a 50 mile radius happy at 5:30AM while simultaneously making every parent weep? SNOW DAY!!!

That’s how the day started. And life was fine…

Thing One headed back to his bedroom to pull up Google Earth, his newest obsession, while Thing Two took to the bathroom to set up today’s Lego universe, as seen through the eyes of a 10 year old, still in Pull-Up’s, slightly verbal autistic boy.

I amused myself on Twitter, joking around with a few friends about this and that and some such nonsense, including an upcoming trip to Las Vegas, that I will, in just a few hours, begin to think can't possibly come soon enough.

At exactly 11:32 AM, I was staring at the alarm clock on my bedside table and praying for something to happen. ANYTHING to shut him up. Thing Two, at that point, had spent an entire hour screaming in my ear, poking and cajoling me, physically and emotionally.

“Mommy, Jake, Jaxson, Grammy, Grammy’s car, seatbelt, Walmart Store, Lego Jungle, Singing Mickey, Gamestop, McDonalds. I wuv… Mommy, Jake, Jaxson, Grammy, Grammy’s car, seatbelt, Walmart store….”

On and on and on and on and on… repeating the same thing over and over and over until I found myself on my bed in the fetal position with my fingers jammed in my ears, eyes scrunched closed and humming loudly enough to get his voice out of my head.

For the first, let’s say, thirty minutes of this tiptoe through Hades, I would like a huge dollop of credit for the patience I was able to exhibit.

“No, honey. Not today. No store today.” I said it as many ways as I possibly could, very sweetly and calmly, interspersed with portions of time where I ignored him completely - going about my daily routine of laundry and dishes, with him trailing behind me as I continued to hope the broken record would finally skip to another song.

He was on a roll. It was as far from a “normal” tantrum as one can possibly get. Because I can’t reason with this child. He doesn’t “get” words of reason, with the possible exception of “NO!” which I finally screamed - having done everything else I could possibly do, starting with TRYING to reason with him - hoping it would be the one time he would understand - “Mommy can’t go to the store today. The roads are icy and even if they weren’t, Mommy doesn’t have enough money today… and even if I did, I’d have to use it to pay the phone bill, not buy you another set of Legos to add to your ever-expanding collection…”

Reason. Ha! The universe mocks.

I knock, knock, knock on his little head. Nothing’s getting thru. So I try ignoring him, closing myself in the bathroom until he breaks in to join me - because we don’t have locks on ANY of the interior doors in the house. Locks? Are you crazy? Two autistic kids live here. The last thing I need is to have to crowbar either one of them out of a room they’ve barricaded themselves into with a lighter and a four pack of generic toilet paper.

Okay, so Thing One wouldn’t do that, but that’s totally within Thing Two’s modus operandi.

So, I’m in the bathroom and he’s at my feet and he’s whining and crying and it only takes ten minutes of this sheer hell to realize that the acoustics in the bathroom - coupled with his hysteria and the decibel level of such - is not conducive to me retaining a sanity level that is greater than or equal to a sanity level necessary to keep me from being carted off to a padded room somewhere.

For a moment, I laugh - the horrible guffawing of the clinically insane - as my mouth waters for a few moments in that goddamned padded room. I bet it’s quiet in there… and at this point I’d take ten seconds of silence over a ten minute orgasm.

I flushed (at least I got something done while I was in there), stepped over Thing Two and escaped to my bed, where I burrowed under the covers. Unfortunately, he burrowed right along with me.

I tried the finger to lips, “Shhhh.” A gentle cue for him to SHUT THE HELL UP BEFORE MOMMY LOSES IT!!! - one I’m certain he understood. But, then come the tears. Tears in earnest, as if I’m torturing the kid because I won’t take him to Walmart. He doesn’t understand. He’s not getting it. And there’s not one goddamn thing I can do about it but ride the tsunami of dysfunction till he tires out or I have a stroke - whichever comes first.

And he’s poking me. Non-stop poking. This is not the hard, barbed, LISTEN TO ME poking at this point, but the very gentle, almost-a-tickle poking that says, “Please give me some attention because it seems, Mommy, that you’re not understanding my wants and needs and all I require is a little understanding.”

It is so sweet and so sad and so damned absurd… and if the little guy only understood that I completely understand his wants and needs, but his wants and needs, at this precise moment, juxtaposed against my particular wants and needs, seem to be at loggerheads.

I need him to stop touching me.
I need him to be quiet.
I need a cigarette - which I cannot have because I’ve recently quit - ironically, for my kids because if it were only me I had to worry about, I’d gladly smoke myself into an early grave while enjoying every menthol-y drag on my road to emphysema.

Poke, poke, tickle - he continues his non-stop refrain, quiet, soft and accompanied with tears, and it is worse than the screaming of earlier: “Mommy, Jake, Jaxson, Grammy, Grammy’s car, seatbelt, Walmart Store, Lego Jungle, Singing Mickey, Gamestop, McDonalds. I wuv… Mommy, Jake, Jaxson, Grammy, Grammy’s car, seatbelt, Walmart store….”

I lay there thinking about my flippant early-morning tweet and how the universe is a sarcastic bitch, (and how I could probably put this torturous situation to good use by inventing something similar as an effective form of torture for our government to employ on “enemy combatants”) when I start to laugh. It’s so over-the-top, having gone on almost two hours, so ridiculously, morbidly horrifying, that I’ve now reached that point where there’s nothing to do but laugh.

So I laugh, taking a brief few seconds to GROAN LOUDLY in frustration, then continue my hysterical laughter of the insane…

Then, it happens. Thing Two stops, the record skips to another song and suddenly he’s in the living room and I’m on the bed alone and I’m not quite sure how I got there, or what I did to make the bad thing stop, but it has stopped.

I close my eyes and do some yoga breathing I picked up somewhere, who the hell knows where because I’ve never done yoga in my life, and would most certainly risk pulling something vital like my aortic valve if I did.

When the coast seems clear, I tiptoe over to my computer and jot down this rant - which will never get properly edited because there are only so many hours in the day…

“Mom, look. Mom…”

Now, he’s at the computer, watching some Lego video on YouTube and pointing to something he wants me to help him build. I smile wanly and nod as he pulls the huge box of Legos into the living room.

Then, I sit down next to him, dreaming of a day, 79 days from now, when I will have four consecutive days to do whatever the hell I want to do …and I assure you, whatever happens in Vegas, it won’t include Legos or Walmart or me being screamed at or poked.

…and for 4 days, life will be fine.

Step Away from the Cliché

Javier Boredom
1212 Superior Lane.
Road to Welleville, USA
RE: Book Pitch

Writers are full of clichés just as old barns are full of bats.
… anything you suspect of being a cliché undoubtedly is one and
had better be removed. ~ Wolcott Gibbs

Dear INSERT AGENT NAME HERE,

Haven’t you had just about enough of manuscript submissions so rife with trite expressions, their heady stench wafts around your inbox long after you’ve hit the delete button?

Writers who employ such pathetic, phoned-it-in-because-I-wanted-to-get-5,000-words-written-today phrases and ideas, which have become the epitome of flotsam bobbing down the proverbial river toward the graveyard of good intentions, will absolutely benefit from my book Step Away from the Cliché.

To transform lackluster seen-it-all-before prose, writers can utilize the handy annotated glossary to look up cliché “keywords” and “phrases” that will turn their customary dreck into dazzling nuggets of literary genius.

Just like Glen Close’s character in Fatal Attraction, sluggish, cliché-ridden prose is hard to ignore. But if writers insist on upping their word count with drivel, at least the drivel should be inspired. Short words are lazy words, let’s be honest. (NOTE: Roget’s Thesaurus is a good companion to my book.)

“Live and learn” could be transformed to “Subsist, observe, and sip a nice cup of coffee while you ponder your lack of alternatives.”

“What goes around comes around,” says your protagonist as he stares (under hooded eyes) at the “villain.” I don’t know about you INSERT AGENT NAME HERE, but when I read lazy dialogue like this, I want to chop the author’s arms off and feed them to my pet iguana. They don’t deserve appendages when they could have written something like this:

“Karma’s a sarcastic bitch and she’s got a wicked backhand.”

At approximately 310,000 words, Step Away from the Cliché is certain to be a must-have for the robust manual-buying body of aspiring writers who lap up every published book on the “art” of writing in the hopes of producing the next vampire tome that has you agents creaming in your Fruit of the Looms.

If you think this book has legs, (and I think we both know it does) you’ll also be interested in my other work in progress - a two part series for screenwriters: Step Away from the Voice Over and Step Away from the Cheesy Flashback and/or Montage.

INSERT AGENT NAME HERE, should you decide to take me on as a client, you’ll be making 15% off me for years to come. I am nothing if not prolific.

Much appreciation in advance for your solicitous (and astute) consideration on this matter,

Javier Boredom

~*~

Blatant Self-Promotion: Menopause, Slim-Jim's, Hemorrhoids, Zombies, Vampires...

What do the above all have in common? Well, if you're menopausal and happen to eat, say, twelve Slim-Jim's, (in a hormone-induced rage after a sweaty, sleepless night) you'll probably get a case of hemorrhoids.

But, what they have in common here are books. Behold, a cornucopia of schlock delivered with brilliant literary prowess:

Waiting For Karl Rove by Kat Nove & Jeni Decker

Who are we?

Kat Nove is a native Texan who loathes cowboy boots and would rather insert a colony of fire ants into her ear canal than listen to country western music. Her last wish is to have her ashes placed in the gas tank of her ex-husband’s most expensive vehicle. Many Russian porn bots visit her blog at http://katnovian.com/.

Jeni Decker lives on a farm in rural Michigan with her husband, two autistic sons, some chickens, the occasional pig, her dog, and an albino frog named Humbert Humbert. She has two books coming out in the fall of 2011; her memoir I Wish I Were Engulfed in Flames http://amzn.to/r63afS and Far From Happy, (PD Publishing).

Kat’s a half-bottle of Stoli away from a twelve-step program and Jeni has suggested that, perhaps, if she doesn’t get out of the house soon, she’ll be spending time in the local pokey for multiple murders. (Don’t judge her.)

See, the thing is, we’re struggling writers and we’ve just self-published a book called Waiting for Karl Rove - an utterly improbably road trip memoir. Think Thelma and Louise—only Thelma’s menopausal, Louise is an erratic big-mouth with a penchant for discussing her hemorrhoids, and they’re on a road trip to wrestle an apology from Karl Rove by any means necessary.

We self-published because Big Publishing is at a crossroads right now. (By crossroads, we mean a steaming, hot mess.) There's a reason literary agents are as irritable as Dick Cheney’s bowel after a bucket of greasy chicken. It’s because they constantly see very talented writers passed over for those who have written the newest vampire tome about angst ridden teens, not to mention former Vice-Presidential candidates from Alaska who have little to say but a huge platform from which to spew it.

It’s truly a sad state of affairs, but it is what it is. And here’s what it is: Beelzebub is driving the gravy train called Big Publishing and rather than stoking the engine room with coal, he’s tossing in shelter puppies and the virginity of pre-pubescent girls, lighting a bonfire sans intégrité under all our asses. It’s just easier to give someone like Heidi Montag or that disingenuous James Frey a publishing contract than take a risk on new (risk-taking) authors. (Or authors who might alienate an entire political party).

Until we manage to get Young Republicans and the entire NRA creaming in their skivvies for a signed copy of our latest book, we’re forced to clamor for new and interesting ways to promote (pimp) ourselves. http://amzn.to/ohbBjg

PREDICTION: Waiting For Karl Rove will soon have Rush Limbaugh crapping his pants, Geraldo Rivera shaving his mustache, Jon Stewart begging us to be on The Daily Show, and Karl Rove tapping our phones. http://bit.ly/9lcahB

We’re giving away a couple of copies on Goodreads this month, so be sure to hop on over and enter:

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Waiting for Karl Rove

by Kat Nove

Giveaway ends September 01, 2011.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

A Fit of Hissy is a mélange of schlock, a cornucopia of wisdom; observational satire, short stories, delectable musings, and the occasional song parody.

A Fit of Hissy is available in Kindle:
http://amzn.to/mRqFAO

It Was a Dark And Stormy Night ~Pill Hill Press

Among the other horror parodies in this book you'll find my Twilight parody, aptly titled Twilight: A Parody

A Dark and Stormy Night Anthology is available in Kindle:
http://amzn.to/p0kLmE

You can pick up the book at Pill Hill Press:
http://bit.ly/bQxfPG

And last, but certainly not least...

Zombies Ain't Funny (the brain-child of Greg Crites at http://veinarmor.com )is an anthology of humorous zombie tales.

Early reviews:

This conversation piece overflows with hilarity, both in the original stories read alone and double the fun in audio with the narrator's unique voice. Highly recommended, and I challenge you to not laugh! ~ Dream Catcher

This is a solid collection of short stories about the always loveable undead. If you like zombie stories, it's worth picking up! ~Mark D. Ellestad

This book is available on Kindle: http://amzn.to/nfgAJb or you can get the paperback and/or audio version at Greg's website: http://bit.ly/p00wR4

And for a treat, you can check out my contribution to the zombie anthology, McGarrigles Bed, Breakfast & Smoking Cure Farm, as read by Greg Crites:




So get on over and buy some books. Those extra-large Pull-Ups (for autistic kids who can't seem to get the concept of shitting on the toilet) aren't buying themselves. Besides, if you're like me and have overdosed on all the recent debt ceiling drama (AKA: WTF is going on in Congress?!?) you could probably use a laugh.

The Curious Incident of the Stinky Dog, Vomiting Kids and Hemorrhoids in the Night Time

It all started Friday afternoon.

~ Call from Thing Two’s school: “Jeni, I don’t think Thing Two is feeling well. He took himself to the quiet area and is lying under the weighted blanket. He feels warm.”

“I’ll be there right away!”

~ Bring Thing Two home, get a dose of medicine in him, he falls asleep.

SuperMom on the job! Check!

~Midnight, same night. I hear moaning from Thing One’s room. (You know, the kid that WASN’T previously sick.)

Wait for it, wait for it…

Three seconds later, he bolts upright from sleep and projectile vomits all over the carpet, his bed, himself, the wall, and for his grand finale, me. If you’ve never seen projectile vomit, let me tell you, it’s a thing of wonderment. It sprays from its origin with the force of a fireman’s hose taking down a three alarm fire.

I was disgusted and in awe at the same time.

~1a.m.- I stripped down, made Thing One strip down, and began cleaning the carpet. The kid had three brats for dinner with red Gatorade to drink so his room looked like a gory crime scene, complete with chunks of what looked like brain matter IN THE CARPET!

~ Next day: Two sick kids intermittently puking up medicine just as I administered it. (Which is a Catch-22 situation, as any Mom knows. You need to figure out how much they’ve puked up. Do you risk giving them another dose so they don’t wake up with a fever, or do you wait it out? I always opt for not overdosing my kids, but that’s just me. A trip to the ER with a comatose kid doesn’t make my top ten list of things to do on a holiday weekend.)

We all scraped by during the day. Puke basins were placed around the house at targeted locations. I washed three loads of sheets and towels in between scrubbing my hands 5,348 times, always topped off by a generous slathering of antibacterial hand sanitizer.

SuperMom Status: Withering with every hour that passes.

Seventeen Thing Two baths later, after a few hits to my teetering sanity, it was bedtime again. (Thing Two still wears a Pull-up® at nine-years-old. Because of this, the autistic kid who’s not-interested-in-shitting-on-the-toilet must take a bath after every bowel movement in place of wiping his ass. At least hygiene is a priority for him.)

~ 9 p.m. - Sweet, silent bliss. Husband conveniently spent the day outside, then hightailed it to a friend’s house to drink beer and hang out anywhere else, presumably where vomit wasn’t flying around in all directions. (He did take the pukey sheets out on the front lawn and hosed them off before I put them in the washer.)

With two resting kids, I had an episode of House cued up and ready to go when I heard the dog scratching at the door. I got up to let her in and, as soon as she crossed the threshold, I noticed she smelled like she’d just spent a few unseemly hours inside the vagina of a skanky ho who’d recently finished working a double shift.

SuperMom Status: Debilitating depression has set in.

Let me back up and mention that earlier (between puking kids and a particularly nasty Thing Two diarrhea incident ) I spent 30 minutes brushing the dog because she’s in the process of shedding her winter coat. Also, I’d vacuumed the entire house three times because golf-ball-size hunks of fur had taken up residence around the house.

“Out!” I screamed and pointed to the door. My sweet dog hung her head - knowing she’d been a naughty, naughty girl - and went back outside. The stench! It took half a bottle of Lysol to surmount the insurmountable smell of whatever she’d rolled in - and the dog never made it past the mud room.

I grabbed my phone and called The Bread Winner, fully aware he wasn’t going to be amenable to the message I was about to leave. Unfortunately he answered. I hadn’t counted on that. (Leaving testy messages is easier than an actual phone confrontation.)

“Hey hon. Just to let you know, Sugar rolled in something that is abhorrent to my general sense of well-being, so before you can enter the house tonight, I’m gonna need you to give her a bath. I left a towel and some shampoo outside. Also, I taped a note to the front door in case you forget.” (Remember, he’s out having a beer… or twelve.)

MY SILENT BUT DEADLY INNER MONOLOGUE: I’ve also engaged the dead bolt so neither of you will be getting in until the job is done.

Yeah, I’m hardcore. Call me a bitch; whatever. Listen, I’d done multiple loads of laundry, vacuumed more than twice, washed every sheet on every bed in the house and disinfected every flat surface. After all that, I’d taken a bath and was smelling all girly and nice, so there was no way I was going to take my fragrant ass out there and get that stinky crotch smell on me.

I heard a sigh on the end of the line. “Okay, I’ll be home later.” Good answer!

“Okay hon, see you later.”

Click.

~ 11 p.m. - The Breadwinner comes inside, fresh from bathing the dog. She ran past him and proceeded to shake, shimmy and roll her way to getting the carpet nice and wet-dog smelling. Although there was a faint scent of rose emanating from her drenched coat, wet dog is wet dog.

To my credit, I did not yell. Breadwinner HAD bathed the dog and it was my fault I wasn’t specific enough. Next time I will elaborate on the importance of drying the dog thoroughly BEFORE entering the house.

So, now along with the rosy-wet-funk and slightly wet carpet, I had a dog dragging her body over every carpeted surface in the house in order to rid the water from her ears and fur. It sounded like someone was having an epileptic seizure in my living room as she pounded her way to a state of dry-ness that would please her. I noticed, however, that everywhere she dragged and rolled was left matted with fur. No longer were they weightless tumbleweeds, but globs of wet hair; furry landmines all over my living room carpet.

~11:15 - Vacuuming again because my OCD would not allow me to watch TV in peace without my eyes wandering down to the hairy mess on the floor. (Shit, will I ever get to find out what that sexy Gregory House is up to this week?!)

SuperMom Status: Goddamn it!

An hour or so later, everyone had fallen asleep, nestled comfortably between clean sheets. I finally got to watch that episode of House before dragging my weary bones to bed. I was out before I knew -

BLOODY FUCKING HELL! I woke up somewhere around 2 am. I believe my hemorrhoids wanted to have a chat; at least this was the impression I got as my anus throbbed and my stomach, legs, and back dealt with evil tendrils of fire wrapping their way around me from the inside. (Because of my distaste for Karl Rove, I’ve decided to hereinafter refer to them as Rovian tendrils.)

This time, unlike the first time this happened, I knew what I needed and exactly how many steps away it was. I slowly hobbled to the bathroom, found the tube, and took care of business. Still, after five minutes, the evil Rovian tendrils of enmity only minimized to a dull, throbbing animosity.

Step two was in the freezer.

This was not the first time I'd foraged behind the frozen peas and popsicles to grab the lime green screw-on lid attached to a protruding six-inch plastic dowel. Meant to keep a sports cup cool for hours, the frozen phallus jutting from a convenient handle had once spent a memorable night talking the little perpetrators in my poop-chute down from the proverbial ledge.

SuperMom Status: Alive, barely; possibly experiencing SMPTST (SuperMom Post Traumatic Stress Disorder)

I shuffled back to my bedroom, dropped my panties, laid down on my side and let the icy phallus get reacquainted with my anus.

For the second time in my life I feel it necessary to note that there was no insertion. Again, I want that on record. Anus-adjacent should paint the picture for you, so we’ll leave it at that.

So… how was your weekend?

Waiting for Karl Rove - NOW AVAILABLE ON KINDLE

Waiting for Karl Rove is irreverent, politically incorrect satire masquerading as road trip memoir.

Think Thelma and Louise—only Thelma’s menopausal, Louise is an erratic big-mouth with a penchant for discussing her hemorrhoids, and they’re on a road trip to wrestle an apology from Karl Rove by any means necessary.

And now it’s available on Kindle! (*also available in paperback on Amazon.com)

Early praise:

~ Although both authors profess to be left wing liberals (and truly their opinions reflect that) the writing style - snarky, sassy and satirical - is such that even a right wing conservative like myself found humor on every....single....page.

~ "Waiting for Karl Rove" is filth, pure and simple. These two ladies (I use that word loosely, as they are probably loose women judging by this Left-Wing D-Crat LIEberal CRAP) need their mouths washed out with soap and hot sauce.

~ Oh. My. God. This book is NUTS! I've never read anything like it and was laughing out loud by page two… a great way for the authors to self-promote …they do it through the entire book, plugging themselves with all the aplomb of a leaky bathtub drain.

~ ...a psychotic poke at some of the most powerful people in the country. Not to mention poking fun at the publishing and movie industries. Laugh out loud funny. Brilliant, and a must read for all. I'm still laughing.

~ Wow, this book will make Preparation-H sales go up overnight, I'm off to my broker to buy more stock!