Zané Sachs's Blog, page 4
April 30, 2014
Am I a Psychopath?
Sadie frequently asks herself this question ...
And so should YOU!
According to experts in the field of neuroscience, 1-4% of the population can be qualified as psychopaths. Chances are, you know a few--and, since you're visiting this blog, there's a good chance you are one!
What, exactly, is a psychopath?
The term came into use in the early 1800s and was applied to mental patients who appeared outwardly normal, but lacked empathy and seemed to posses no sense of right and wrong.
In the 1930s, the term was changed to sociopath to reflect the negative impact these people can have on society. These days, the term sociopath has lost favor--though is sometimes applied to a psychopath scoring lower on the continuum.
Here are 5 signs that indicate you're a psychopath:
1. You don't get what the big deal is about feelings. Emotions are for wimps, and you don't have them.
2. Blood and guts do not repulse you--in fact, you find them fascinating.
3. If it weren't for other people, you would have no problems.
4. The only difference between truth or lies is a matter of opinion.
5. No question about it: most people are imbeciles.
Still unsure if you're a psychopath?
Take this test
And so should YOU!
According to experts in the field of neuroscience, 1-4% of the population can be qualified as psychopaths. Chances are, you know a few--and, since you're visiting this blog, there's a good chance you are one!
.jpg)
What, exactly, is a psychopath?
The term came into use in the early 1800s and was applied to mental patients who appeared outwardly normal, but lacked empathy and seemed to posses no sense of right and wrong.
In the 1930s, the term was changed to sociopath to reflect the negative impact these people can have on society. These days, the term sociopath has lost favor--though is sometimes applied to a psychopath scoring lower on the continuum.
Here are 5 signs that indicate you're a psychopath:
1. You don't get what the big deal is about feelings. Emotions are for wimps, and you don't have them.
.jpg)
2. Blood and guts do not repulse you--in fact, you find them fascinating.
3. If it weren't for other people, you would have no problems.
.jpg)
4. The only difference between truth or lies is a matter of opinion.
5. No question about it: most people are imbeciles.
Still unsure if you're a psychopath?
.jpg)
Take this test
April 25, 2014
April 23, 2014
Horror Novel Reviews awards 5 Stars to Sadie the Sadist
Sadie just wet her pants, cause ...
Horror Novel Reviews awarded her 5 stars!
Reviewer, Myra Gabor, says: "If you have an impish sense of humor a la Alfred Hitchcock, then this book is for you."
Alfred Hitchcock
Wow!
If there's one person Sadie would loooove to invite over for dinner, it's Alfred.
Check out Horror Novel Reviews for horror news, writing, merchandise, and the rest of the review of Sadie.
Horror Novel Reviews awarded her 5 stars!
Reviewer, Myra Gabor, says: "If you have an impish sense of humor a la Alfred Hitchcock, then this book is for you."
.jpg)
Alfred HitchcockWow!
If there's one person Sadie would loooove to invite over for dinner, it's Alfred.
Check out Horror Novel Reviews for horror news, writing, merchandise, and the rest of the review of Sadie.
April 21, 2014
No Longer a Virgin-5 Star Review for Sadie from Dark Distractions
Casey Douglass of Dark Distractions-mental seepage from stygian (had to look that up ... it means related to the river Styx, a topic I go on about in other books written in another life) realms popped Sadie's cherry with a 5-star review!
Here's a quote from the review:
Sadie the Sadist is a brutal tale that is an easy and sometimes queasy read. If you like your fiction extreme, adult and with a dark humour, you will like this. There are elements that are American Psychoesquebut Sadie takes them to greater, bloodier extremes. You will also learn something about corn.
Read the rest of the review
The River Styx
Check out Casey's Writing
Here's a quote from the review:
Sadie the Sadist is a brutal tale that is an easy and sometimes queasy read. If you like your fiction extreme, adult and with a dark humour, you will like this. There are elements that are American Psychoesquebut Sadie takes them to greater, bloodier extremes. You will also learn something about corn.
Read the rest of the review
.jpg)
The River StyxCheck out Casey's Writing
April 14, 2014
Sadie the Sadist Escaped from My Computer ...
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April 12, 2014
Online Dating-Pros and Cons from Sadie the Sadist
Should You Try Online Dating?
You don't have to be a loser to date online. These days, everyone is doing it.
But, before you jump into the Web and reveal your innermost thoughts and desires, Sadie offers you some sage advice and gives you the Pros and Cons regarding some frequently asked questions:
1) Is it easy to get a date?
Pro: Depends what you call a date. Most guys I’ve met online are cheap, cheap, cheap. You’re lucky if they spring for a cuppa Java, let alone a BJ. My advice: forget Match and eHarmony; hit sites like Sugardaddy where guys put out.
Con: Getting a date is easy--just tell them what they want to hear (you're easy) and guys will be lining up. The Internet provides a great resource for targets. Get his real name as soon as possible, then use a site like AnyWho to find out where he lives and calculate his net worth. Then look him up on Google Earth.
2) What should I say in my profile?
Pro: Take a tip from men. They lie about everything: income, age, weight, height—especially marital status. Who cares? As long as they have credit cards.
Con: A good photo is everything. Stake out guys you like, see what they go for, then choose your pic accordingly. Don’t worry about other stuff, politics, religion—all that bs. Most guys won’t get past your cleavage.
3) How long should we email or talk on the phone before we meet face-to-face?
Pro: Generally, you want to meet as soon as possible. Who wants to waste time talking? But timing depends on how much you lied on your profile.
Con: Stall until you’ve milked him for as much information as possible. Once you’ve gained his confidence, set up a date (preferably in another town)—that way you’ll get him out of the way while you break into his house.
Sadie Says: Online dating is like shopping. You need to be selective. Who wants a hot dog when you can have steak? But, even if you meet up with a loser, you'll have fun bursting his bubble. And, online, there's always a fresh cut of meat.
You don't have to be a loser to date online. These days, everyone is doing it.
But, before you jump into the Web and reveal your innermost thoughts and desires, Sadie offers you some sage advice and gives you the Pros and Cons regarding some frequently asked questions:
1) Is it easy to get a date?
.jpg)
Pro: Depends what you call a date. Most guys I’ve met online are cheap, cheap, cheap. You’re lucky if they spring for a cuppa Java, let alone a BJ. My advice: forget Match and eHarmony; hit sites like Sugardaddy where guys put out.
Con: Getting a date is easy--just tell them what they want to hear (you're easy) and guys will be lining up. The Internet provides a great resource for targets. Get his real name as soon as possible, then use a site like AnyWho to find out where he lives and calculate his net worth. Then look him up on Google Earth.
2) What should I say in my profile?
.jpg)
Pro: Take a tip from men. They lie about everything: income, age, weight, height—especially marital status. Who cares? As long as they have credit cards.
Con: A good photo is everything. Stake out guys you like, see what they go for, then choose your pic accordingly. Don’t worry about other stuff, politics, religion—all that bs. Most guys won’t get past your cleavage.
3) How long should we email or talk on the phone before we meet face-to-face?
.jpg)
Pro: Generally, you want to meet as soon as possible. Who wants to waste time talking? But timing depends on how much you lied on your profile.
Con: Stall until you’ve milked him for as much information as possible. Once you’ve gained his confidence, set up a date (preferably in another town)—that way you’ll get him out of the way while you break into his house.
Sadie Says: Online dating is like shopping. You need to be selective. Who wants a hot dog when you can have steak? But, even if you meet up with a loser, you'll have fun bursting his bubble. And, online, there's always a fresh cut of meat.
April 6, 2014
InQuisition of Jeroen ten Berge by Sadie the Sadist
Armed and Dangerous:
International Criminal
Jeroen ten Berge designed the cover for Sadie the Sadist.
I wanted the best. Jeroen has designed covers for many well known authors including Blake Crouch and Barry Eisler, so I'm in good (or maybe bad) company.
Jeroen was foolish enough to stop by my blog for an interrogation from Sadie.
Sadie:Hi Jeroen, how’re you doing? Wait. Don’t answer that, it’s not one of my questions. Zané sent me to this interview, because she knows I like hunky guys.
What’s wrong? Why are you blushing?
Don’t tell me!
Damn. That’s already three questions.
I’ll start over ... You did the cover for Sadie the Sadist (Zané wanted a brilliant cover, so getting you was a no brainer), and when I visited your website Jeroen ten Berge I see you’ve done a lot of covers for a lot of deranged authors. including Blake Crouch (my neighbor), Barry Eisler (I dated him), Christopher Rice (isn’t his mother a vampire?), and Marcus Sakey (true story: when he flew out of this town, he got caught carrying explosives). A lot of guys.
Who, in your opinion, writes the sickest books? And how can I contact him for a date?
Wait, wait, wait ... here’s the rest of the question: describe how you come up with a cover. (That’s really not a question, so will you give me Barry Eisler’s phone number?)
Jeroen:So if you are Blake's neighbor - which I know isn't true - would you've been his inspiration for Lucy? Because she's one psycho bitch Sadie would seriously love to tap. Maybe you and Blake should co-author a story about Lucy and Sadie. Good Girls Gone Bad. Could be sick. Does this answer your question? Because I would say Blake probably tops the list.
Sadie:Yeah, Blake is a sick puppy. I think he stalks me. BTW, I’m not a liar. Speaking of sick animals and liars, how did you get into creating covers? And what did you do before this?
Jeroen:I was kidding you. I know you’re not a liar – you just have a vivid imagination. Or did Blake move back? I designed book covers before Jeff Bezos sold second hand books from a garage.
Sadie:I didn’t think you were that old. Have you had plastic surgery?
Jeroen:Ha! Actually. Yes.
Other things came along that sidetracked the book cover designing for a while. My stage name was Happy Hippo. Then one day I read Blake's Desert Places and Locked Doors and sent him an email because I thought his books sucked donkey balls. This was in January 2006. Ever since we have been sending each other hate mails. And we've worked together ever since because we both enjoy pain.
Sadie:I’d like to hear more about the Happy Hippo thingy. Once I saw a hippo being fed loaves of Wonder Bread at Central Park Zoo in New York City.
Jeroen: Danced for a while to make some extra cash. Think Magic Mike, but with flab. That’s behind me now. As well as the flab!
Sadie:
What’s your favorite food, Jeroen? I like to cook. Want to come over for dinner?
Jeroen:Love to come over for dinner - what's the dress code?
Sadie:I think you should wear your g-string. But clothing's not a problem. Power tools cut through cloth.
Jeroen:Gotcha…
Sadie:What's your favorite food? (I want to fatten you up.)
(This cover was banned on Facebook)
Jeroen:Gawd... anything that is made from fresh produce (I know your meat is fresher than anyone's), and with love and attention. Currently I love lamb tagine, a Morroccon dish - a bit like stew. Lots of lamb where I live. Happy in the field, happy on the plate, happy in the hippo. (The views expressed in this interview with Jeroen ten Berge do not necessarily reflect the views of Jeroen ten Berge).
Sadie:I think hippos are vegetarians. I read online that they eat 88 pounds of grass each night. They must be really out of it.
If you could have any superpower, what would it be and why?
Jeroen:Time travel. You fill in the rest.
Sadie:You’re kind of lazy, aren’t you? My guess is, you’d like to time travel, so you could get out of work.
Jeroen:I can be lazy, but I just wanted to check whether man did indeed walk with dinosaurs.
Sadie:I don't think so, Jeroen. But if you time travel, I guess you could be the first.
Have you ever used a larger canvas, and do you want to? What would you paint on the Empire State building?
Jeroen:I have painted on canvasses – how did you know? My largest paintings are 4 by 5 feet. Made two of those. More smaller ones. Will probably have to grow a ginger beard and cut off both ears before I sell any of them. Ha... what a dirty mind you have - we share that trait. Bet you'd think I would say 'penis!'
Sadie:You’re really quite the mind-reader, Jeroen.
Jeroen:Well, maybe I would paint one, on one side – Simpson’s style. On the opposite side a corn cob to accommodate your fantasies and to balance the yellow penis. On the sides in between a hand gun because I love the aesthetics (not how they are used oftentimes) on one side, and a young deer on the other.
Sadie:You're very creative. I like this gun arrangement that looks like a snowflake. Inspired by Blake Crouch's story, Abandon.
And you seem to be obsessed with penises and corn. No wonder we get along.
HEY! Where you going? Come back.
International CriminalJeroen ten Berge designed the cover for Sadie the Sadist.
I wanted the best. Jeroen has designed covers for many well known authors including Blake Crouch and Barry Eisler, so I'm in good (or maybe bad) company.
Jeroen was foolish enough to stop by my blog for an interrogation from Sadie.
Sadie:Hi Jeroen, how’re you doing? Wait. Don’t answer that, it’s not one of my questions. Zané sent me to this interview, because she knows I like hunky guys.
What’s wrong? Why are you blushing?
Don’t tell me!
Damn. That’s already three questions.
I’ll start over ... You did the cover for Sadie the Sadist (Zané wanted a brilliant cover, so getting you was a no brainer), and when I visited your website Jeroen ten Berge I see you’ve done a lot of covers for a lot of deranged authors. including Blake Crouch (my neighbor), Barry Eisler (I dated him), Christopher Rice (isn’t his mother a vampire?), and Marcus Sakey (true story: when he flew out of this town, he got caught carrying explosives). A lot of guys.
Who, in your opinion, writes the sickest books? And how can I contact him for a date?
Wait, wait, wait ... here’s the rest of the question: describe how you come up with a cover. (That’s really not a question, so will you give me Barry Eisler’s phone number?)
Jeroen:So if you are Blake's neighbor - which I know isn't true - would you've been his inspiration for Lucy? Because she's one psycho bitch Sadie would seriously love to tap. Maybe you and Blake should co-author a story about Lucy and Sadie. Good Girls Gone Bad. Could be sick. Does this answer your question? Because I would say Blake probably tops the list.
Sadie:Yeah, Blake is a sick puppy. I think he stalks me. BTW, I’m not a liar. Speaking of sick animals and liars, how did you get into creating covers? And what did you do before this?
Jeroen:I was kidding you. I know you’re not a liar – you just have a vivid imagination. Or did Blake move back? I designed book covers before Jeff Bezos sold second hand books from a garage.
Sadie:I didn’t think you were that old. Have you had plastic surgery?
Jeroen:Ha! Actually. Yes.
Other things came along that sidetracked the book cover designing for a while. My stage name was Happy Hippo. Then one day I read Blake's Desert Places and Locked Doors and sent him an email because I thought his books sucked donkey balls. This was in January 2006. Ever since we have been sending each other hate mails. And we've worked together ever since because we both enjoy pain.
Sadie:I’d like to hear more about the Happy Hippo thingy. Once I saw a hippo being fed loaves of Wonder Bread at Central Park Zoo in New York City.
Jeroen: Danced for a while to make some extra cash. Think Magic Mike, but with flab. That’s behind me now. As well as the flab!
Sadie:
What’s your favorite food, Jeroen? I like to cook. Want to come over for dinner?
Jeroen:Love to come over for dinner - what's the dress code?
Sadie:I think you should wear your g-string. But clothing's not a problem. Power tools cut through cloth.
Jeroen:Gotcha…
Sadie:What's your favorite food? (I want to fatten you up.)
(This cover was banned on Facebook)Jeroen:Gawd... anything that is made from fresh produce (I know your meat is fresher than anyone's), and with love and attention. Currently I love lamb tagine, a Morroccon dish - a bit like stew. Lots of lamb where I live. Happy in the field, happy on the plate, happy in the hippo. (The views expressed in this interview with Jeroen ten Berge do not necessarily reflect the views of Jeroen ten Berge).
Sadie:I think hippos are vegetarians. I read online that they eat 88 pounds of grass each night. They must be really out of it.
If you could have any superpower, what would it be and why?
Jeroen:Time travel. You fill in the rest.
Sadie:You’re kind of lazy, aren’t you? My guess is, you’d like to time travel, so you could get out of work.
Jeroen:I can be lazy, but I just wanted to check whether man did indeed walk with dinosaurs.
Sadie:I don't think so, Jeroen. But if you time travel, I guess you could be the first.
Have you ever used a larger canvas, and do you want to? What would you paint on the Empire State building?
Jeroen:I have painted on canvasses – how did you know? My largest paintings are 4 by 5 feet. Made two of those. More smaller ones. Will probably have to grow a ginger beard and cut off both ears before I sell any of them. Ha... what a dirty mind you have - we share that trait. Bet you'd think I would say 'penis!'
Sadie:You’re really quite the mind-reader, Jeroen.
Jeroen:Well, maybe I would paint one, on one side – Simpson’s style. On the opposite side a corn cob to accommodate your fantasies and to balance the yellow penis. On the sides in between a hand gun because I love the aesthetics (not how they are used oftentimes) on one side, and a young deer on the other.
Sadie:You're very creative. I like this gun arrangement that looks like a snowflake. Inspired by Blake Crouch's story, Abandon.
And you seem to be obsessed with penises and corn. No wonder we get along.
HEY! Where you going? Come back.
April 6, 2014InQuistion of Jeroen ten BergeInternational ...
April 6, 2014
InQuistion of Jeroen ten Berge
International Criminal
Jeroen ten Berge designed the cover for Sadie the Sadist.
I wanted the best. Jeroen has designed covers for many well known authors including Blake Crouch and Barry Eisler, so I'm in good (or maybe bad) company.
Jeroen was foolish enough to stop by my blog for an interrogation from Sadie.
Sadie:Hi Jeroen, how’re you doing? Wait. Don’t answer that, it’s not one of my questions. Zané sent me to this interview, because she knows I like hunky guys.
What’s wrong? Why are you blushing?
Don’t tell me!
Damn. That’s already three questions.
I’ll start over ... You did the cover for Sadie the Sadist (Zané wanted the best, so she got you), and when I visited your website Jeroen ten Berge I see you’ve done a lot of covers for a lot of sick authors. including Blake Crouch (my neighbor), Barry Eisler (I dated him), Christopher Rice (isn’t his mother a vampire?), and Marcus Sakey (true story: when he flew out of this town, he got caught carrying explosives). A lot of guys.Who, in your opinion, writes the sickest books? And how can I contact him for a date?
Wait, wait, wait ... here’s the rest of the question: describe how you come up with a cover. (That’s really not a question, so will you give me Barry Eisler’s phone number?)
Jeroen:So if you are Blake's neighbor - which I know isn't true - would you've been his inspiration for Lucy? Because she's one psycho bitch Sadie would seriously love to tap. Maybe you and Blake should co-author a story about Lucy and Sadie. Good Girls Gone Bad. Could be sick. Does this answer your question? Because I would say Blake probably tops the list.
Sadie:Yeah, Blake is a sick puppy. I think he stalks me. BTW, I’m not a liar. Speaking of sick animals and liars, how did you get into creating covers? And what did you do before this?
Jeroen:I was kidding you. I know you’re not a liar – you just have a vivid imagination. Or did Blake move back? I designed book covers before Jeff Bezos sold second hand books from a garage.
Sadie:I didn’t think you were that old. Have you had plastic surgery?
Jeroen:Ha! Actually. Yes.
Other things came along that sidetracked the book cover designing for a while. My stage name was Happy Hippo. Then one day I read Blake's Desert Places and Locked Doors and sent him an email because I thought his books sucked donkey balls. This was in January 2006. Ever since we have been sending each other hate mails. And we've worked together ever since because we both enjoy pain.
Sadie:I’d like to hear more about the Happy Hippo thingy. Once I saw a hippo being fed loaves of Wonder Bread at Central Park Zoo in New York City.
Jeroen: Danced for a while to make some extra cash. Think Magic Mike, but with flab. That’s behind me now. As well as the flab!
Sadie:
What’s your favorite food, Jeroen? I like to cook. Want to come over for dinner?
Jeroen:Love to come over for dinner - what's the dress code?
Sadie:I think you should wear your g-string. But clothing's not a problem. Power tools cut through cloth.
Jeroen:Gotcha…
Sadie:What's your favorite food? (I think I should fatten you up.)
(This cover was banned on FaceBook)
Jeroen:Gawd... anything that is made from fresh produce (I know your meat is fresher than anyone's), and with love and attention. Currently I love lamb tagine, a Morroccon dish - a bit like stew. Lots of lamb where I live. Happy in the field, happy on the plate, happy in the hippo. (The views expressed in this interview with Jeroen ten Berge do not necessarily reflect the views of Jeroen ten Berge).
Sadie:I think hippos are vegetarians. I read online that they eat 88 pounds of grass each night. They must be really out of it.
If you could have any super power, what would it be and why?
Jeroen:Time travel. You fill in the rest.
Sadie:You’re kind of lazy, aren’t you? My guess is, you’d like to time travel, so you could get out of work.
Jeroen:I can be lazy, but I just wanted to check whether man did indeed walk with dinosaurs.
Sadie:I don't think so, Jeroen. But if you time travel, I guess you could be the first.
Have you ever used a larger canvas, and do you want to? What would you paint on the Empire State building?
Jeroen:I have painted on canvasses – how did you know? My largest paintings are 4 by 5 feet. Made two of those. More smaller ones. Will probably have to grow a ginger beard and cut off both ears before I sell any of them. Ha... what a dirty mind you have - we share that trait. Bet you'd think I would say 'penis!'
Sadie:You’re really quite the mind-reader, Jeroen.
Jeroen:Well, maybe I would paint one, on one side – Simpson’s style. On the opposite side a corn cob to accommodate your fantasies and to balance the yellow penis. On the sides in between a hand gun because I love the aesthetics (not how they are used oftentimes) on one side, and a young deer on the other.
Sadie:You're very creative. I like this gun arrangement that looks like a snowflake. Inspired by Blake Crouch's story, Abandon.
And you seem to be obsessed with penises and corn. No wonder we get along.
Thanks for stopping by.
InQuistion of Jeroen ten Berge
International CriminalJeroen ten Berge designed the cover for Sadie the Sadist.
I wanted the best. Jeroen has designed covers for many well known authors including Blake Crouch and Barry Eisler, so I'm in good (or maybe bad) company.
Jeroen was foolish enough to stop by my blog for an interrogation from Sadie.
Sadie:Hi Jeroen, how’re you doing? Wait. Don’t answer that, it’s not one of my questions. Zané sent me to this interview, because she knows I like hunky guys.
What’s wrong? Why are you blushing?
Don’t tell me!
Damn. That’s already three questions.
I’ll start over ... You did the cover for Sadie the Sadist (Zané wanted the best, so she got you), and when I visited your website Jeroen ten Berge I see you’ve done a lot of covers for a lot of sick authors. including Blake Crouch (my neighbor), Barry Eisler (I dated him), Christopher Rice (isn’t his mother a vampire?), and Marcus Sakey (true story: when he flew out of this town, he got caught carrying explosives). A lot of guys.Who, in your opinion, writes the sickest books? And how can I contact him for a date?
Wait, wait, wait ... here’s the rest of the question: describe how you come up with a cover. (That’s really not a question, so will you give me Barry Eisler’s phone number?)
Jeroen:So if you are Blake's neighbor - which I know isn't true - would you've been his inspiration for Lucy? Because she's one psycho bitch Sadie would seriously love to tap. Maybe you and Blake should co-author a story about Lucy and Sadie. Good Girls Gone Bad. Could be sick. Does this answer your question? Because I would say Blake probably tops the list.
Sadie:Yeah, Blake is a sick puppy. I think he stalks me. BTW, I’m not a liar. Speaking of sick animals and liars, how did you get into creating covers? And what did you do before this?
Jeroen:I was kidding you. I know you’re not a liar – you just have a vivid imagination. Or did Blake move back? I designed book covers before Jeff Bezos sold second hand books from a garage.
Sadie:I didn’t think you were that old. Have you had plastic surgery?
Jeroen:Ha! Actually. Yes.
Other things came along that sidetracked the book cover designing for a while. My stage name was Happy Hippo. Then one day I read Blake's Desert Places and Locked Doors and sent him an email because I thought his books sucked donkey balls. This was in January 2006. Ever since we have been sending each other hate mails. And we've worked together ever since because we both enjoy pain.
Sadie:I’d like to hear more about the Happy Hippo thingy. Once I saw a hippo being fed loaves of Wonder Bread at Central Park Zoo in New York City.
Jeroen: Danced for a while to make some extra cash. Think Magic Mike, but with flab. That’s behind me now. As well as the flab!
Sadie:
What’s your favorite food, Jeroen? I like to cook. Want to come over for dinner?
Jeroen:Love to come over for dinner - what's the dress code?
Sadie:I think you should wear your g-string. But clothing's not a problem. Power tools cut through cloth.
Jeroen:Gotcha…
Sadie:What's your favorite food? (I think I should fatten you up.)
(This cover was banned on FaceBook)Jeroen:Gawd... anything that is made from fresh produce (I know your meat is fresher than anyone's), and with love and attention. Currently I love lamb tagine, a Morroccon dish - a bit like stew. Lots of lamb where I live. Happy in the field, happy on the plate, happy in the hippo. (The views expressed in this interview with Jeroen ten Berge do not necessarily reflect the views of Jeroen ten Berge).
Sadie:I think hippos are vegetarians. I read online that they eat 88 pounds of grass each night. They must be really out of it.
If you could have any super power, what would it be and why?
Jeroen:Time travel. You fill in the rest.
Sadie:You’re kind of lazy, aren’t you? My guess is, you’d like to time travel, so you could get out of work.
Jeroen:I can be lazy, but I just wanted to check whether man did indeed walk with dinosaurs.
Sadie:I don't think so, Jeroen. But if you time travel, I guess you could be the first.
Have you ever used a larger canvas, and do you want to? What would you paint on the Empire State building?
Jeroen:I have painted on canvasses – how did you know? My largest paintings are 4 by 5 feet. Made two of those. More smaller ones. Will probably have to grow a ginger beard and cut off both ears before I sell any of them. Ha... what a dirty mind you have - we share that trait. Bet you'd think I would say 'penis!'
Sadie:You’re really quite the mind-reader, Jeroen.
Jeroen:Well, maybe I would paint one, on one side – Simpson’s style. On the opposite side a corn cob to accommodate your fantasies and to balance the yellow penis. On the sides in between a hand gun because I love the aesthetics (not how they are used oftentimes) on one side, and a young deer on the other.
Sadie:You're very creative. I like this gun arrangement that looks like a snowflake. Inspired by Blake Crouch's story, Abandon.
And you seem to be obsessed with penises and corn. No wonder we get along.
Thanks for stopping by.
March 20, 2014
Should You Kill Your Boss? Pros and Cons--Advice from Sadie the Sadist
Should You Kill Your Boss?
Before you take action, ask yourself these questions:
1) If I kill my boss, will I still get a paycheck?
Pro: Killing your boss creates a wonderful opportunity for you to move up in the company and increase earnings. Polish up that résumé.
Con: Even if you lose your paycheck, expenses are low in the shit house, and you get three squares a day.
2) Do I have the opportunity to kill my boss?
Pro: Don’t wait for an opportunity, create one. A true professional exudes confidence, and that’s what you need to pull this off.
Con: Convince someone else to kill the boss. Blackmail works well, so does threatening their family.
3) Can I pull this off without getting caught?
Pro: Practice, practice, practice. Planning is everything. Think it through, make a list of the tools you'll need (then burn it), and set aside enough time to get rid of evidence.
Con: Like I said, get someone else to do the job. Meanwhile, work on your alibi.
Sadie Says: Have fun!
(If you're self-employed, stay tuned for Sadie's next advice post--Suicide: Pros and Cons.)
Practice killing your boss at Whack Your Boss
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offer ends April 12, 2014, 2:30 AM
"You have never read anything like Sadie the Sadist -- a pitch black satire that is not only deeply disturbing but funny as hell."
–Blake Crouch, Author, Wayward Pines
“A brilliant, bloody read. Bone chilling. Dark. Funny. Sadie makes Hannibal Lector look like dating material. My heart quickened as I braced for Sadie the Sadist’s next step down that slippery slope called sanity. Highly recommended.”
–Barbara Silkstone, Author of the Wendy Darlin Tomb Raider series
March 16, 2014
Sadie the Sadist: A Short X-cerpt
Warning: X-rated
(And, I promise, it gets much, much, worse.)
Sex in the Bathroom
Over the past few days a lot has changed at the supermarket.
The check stands have been moved so the contractors they hired for the remodel can redo the floor, plus they’ve rearranged the aisles again. Bandages are no longer next to macaroni; you’ll find them on Aisle 6 across from oatmeal.
There’s this new guy in Deli. He’s about my age, not a kid, but not an old man either. His glasses make him look intelligent and I like his legs. They’re muscular and tan. I know, because he wears shorts to work. (We’re allowed to wear black, knee-length shorts from Memorial to Labor Day.) I met him on the freight elevator. I was bringing down the trash cart, after emptying all the garbage cans, when Ranger rolled in a U-boat of roasted chickens destined for the dumpster. His name is Richard, but everybody calls him Ranger. He helped me load my garbage into the compactor—the bags from the trash cans outside the store are especially heavy—and, in return, I gave him a BJ in the employee bathroom. It’s unisex, down in the basement, and the door locks.
Now the poor schmoe is in love with me. Women sense these things, and we lefties are intuitive. He’s obsessed. I feel his eyeballs on my butt whenever I walk past.
But blowing Ranger is not the big thing (no pun intended).
The big thing is: Justus is dead, and I’m not sure if I killed him.
I heard about the accident this afternoon, as soon as I arrived at work. Several versions spread through the store like wildfire. According to one account, a car hit him up on River Road, not far from where I live. Another says he suffered a heart attack while riding his bike to the supermarket. A third version claims a passing car spat a rock that hit him in the head.
Unlike me, Justus never wears a helmet.
Anyway, he’s gone.
But I don’t think it was an accident.
Cut to several weeks ago, when I was at home recovering from my so-called accident. (I call it Justus attempting to slice off my thumb.)
I live alone, thanks to my ex-husband. He wanted kids. I didn’t. He used to bug me all the time. Irreconcilable differences, but we never divorced. I guess I should call him late, not ex.
The guy was far from punctual except when it came to dying. He croaked three years ago when he was thirty-one and I was twenty-nine. We bought this condominium, then one night when he was drunk (as usual) he took a bad fall down the stairs leading from our unit to the courtyard. They call them units, not apartments, which sounds like some kind of cell, but really the place is pretty nice: two bedrooms, one and a half baths, and a working fireplace. Anyway, he cracked his skull on the concrete and I inherited the mortgage. Also a used truck, my husband’s power tools, and $30,000 life insurance from his job as a plumber. That’s how I bought my Cruiser bike, smart TV, smartphone, iPad, a new laptop, I don’t remember what else—but the money’s gone. The truck guzzles gas, so most of the time I ride my bicycle.
Anyway, several weeks ago, after my so-called accident, I was hanging out on my balcony, sipping Diet Pepsi and popping Dilaudid while checking out the passing cars, when I spotted Justus on his bicycle. I tracked the bald spot on his head as he rode along the bike path, passing my condominium complex, kept watching as he cycled along the path and turned toward the supermarket.
That’s when Sadie the Sadist convinced me to start practicing.
The bandage on my left hand made climbing down from the folding chair difficult, so I had to support myself with my right hand. That’s how the whole ambidextrous thing started. After climbing down, I noticed something annoying in my shoe, took the shoe off and found a pebble. Using my right hand, I threw the pebble off the balcony. Not a bad shot. I managed to hit the wooden fence, and I felt sure, with practice and a heavier object I could hit a passing car—or bicycle.
“Sadie, you’re staring into space again.”
Terri the Terrible glances at her clipboard.
“It’s 7:45. You’re scheduled to clean the bathrooms. Make sure you sign off, and don’t forget to mop the Men’s Room.”
“Will do.”
My foot juts out; Sadie the Sadist is about to trip Terri, but I quickly pull back my sneaker (Nike, Air Pegasus—understated, classy).
Sadie the Sadist is disgusted.
Wimp.
“Shut up.”
A customer glances at me, no doubt wondering if shut up was meant for her.
“Sorry, Ma’am.”
I meander toward the bathrooms.
During the day the store hires a porter, but come evening cleaning is the responsibility of Courtesy Clerks. The Men’s Room is always gross; talk about needing practice taking aim.
Before hitting the bathrooms, I detour through Pharmacy and circle the store’s perimeter, passing through Dairy, Meat, Bakery and Produce to reach Deli.
I spot Ranger by the display of roasted chickens. This time of day, they pull leftover chickens and throw them in the compactor.
The fake robot senses my approach.
“May I take your order?”
“Shut up, stupid.”
“What?” Ranger looks up from the case, pokes his glasses.
“Not you, the robot.”
Ranger smiles, and I smile back.
“You due for a break soon, Ranger?”
“After I dump these chickens.”
“Meet me in the Men’s Room in ten minutes.”
His smile gets wider. “Sure thing, Sally.”
My grin shatters.
“Sadie,” I correct him.
He appears confused.
“My name is Sadie.”
“Sadie, right.” He turns his attention to the chickens. The bags they’re wrapped in are different colors: Yellow for Lemon Pepper, green for Sage, red for Barbeque. “Sorry.”
I say, “It’s okay.”
But it’s not.
I stand there, watching Ranger, ideas formulating.
He glances at me. “What?”
I don’t like his condescending tone of voice.
“Nothing.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
As if that excuses him.
When I was off work, due to the accident, I had a lot of time to read. Not only self-help, other things. I downloaded a few books, including Cereal (by Blakette Crotch and Josephine Kornrash), about this woman who works in a supermarket, like me. She has this thing for Raisin Bran. I think it’s a true story.
Anyway, I found it inspiring.
I bat my eyelashes at Ranger, imagining how he’d look completely naked, his skin oiled and brown, juices flowing as I roast him slowly on a spit.
“You’re a sweet girl, Sadie.”
“No I’m not.”
He places the color-coded bags on a cart, preparing to dump them. Says, “There are starving people in this world who’d kill me for these chickens.”
“In this town,” I add. “So, are we on?”
“I could go to hell.”
“For fucking me or dumping chickens?”
I walk away, feel him watching my posterior. I think of his, tight and muscular.
Pausing by a display of salami, I lean over the bin, admiring the sausages, and twerk my ass for Ranger.
I’m gratified when I hear the splat of roasted chicken falling on the floor.
A sudden craving for corn—the food I’ve been avoiding, find repulsive—steers my body into Produce. I grab an ear out of the bin—big, fat Olathe—and slip it into a pocket of my apron. The store has cameras everywhere, but at this time of day the security guy is probably half-asleep, bored out of his mind from staring at monitors. I pass through Dairy, shove a tub of imitation butter into another pocket.
Rack it up to shrink; that’s supermarket jargon for losses.
I circle back to the bathrooms, collect a spray bottle of cleaner and a box of paper towels from the cart sitting at the entryway, pull on rubber gloves, and push open the door marked Women’s.
A customer washes her hands at the newly refurbished sink, oblivious to the mess she’s making. Drips of soap smear the counter and water spills onto the floor. She glances at me and, noticing my cleaning supplies, offers a patronizing smile.
“I’ll get out of your way,” she says politely, but disdain screams from her eyes.
“No hurry, Take your time.” Under my breath, Sadie the Sadist adds, “Meanwhile, I’ll fill that sink with soap and you can lick it clean or die.”
I don’t think the woman heard me.
She waves her hand at the automatic dispenser (another recent upgrade), wipes her hands on the resulting towel, and tosses the crumpled paper at the trash can. She doesn’t notice (ignores it) when the towel lands on the floor.
I wonder what would happen if I spray this cleaning solution in her eyes. Would the whites turn red? Would the ammonia burn? Cause a milky film to form on her retina? Would she beg me to stop?
The woman leaves. I squirt the counter, wipe it. After polishing the mirror, I run my gloved fingers through my hair, mouse brown, nondescript. I wonder how I’d look if I dyed it flaming red. Red is an appropriate color for Sadie the Sadist, don’t you think? I turn sideways to the mirror, stand on tip-toes, suck in my gut. The tub of imitation butter pouches my apron, and I look like I’m about to give birth to an alien. I slip my hand into the apron’s pocket. The cob of corn feels like a giant hard-on.
Makes me think of Ranger.
I glance at the stalls. Chances are Terri the Terrible will come in here to inspect my work, so I have to clean the toilets. I pull my phone out of my pocket (we’re not supposed to carry phones, but everybody does), check the time and realize I’d better hit the Men’s Room if I want to hook up with Ranger.
Thinking about his ass makes me cream.
I fill out the chart taped to the door of the Women’s bathroom. Time: 8PM. Cleaning: visual, light, or deep. (I choose deep.) Initials. Hugging the spray bottle and box of paper towels, I head to the Men’s Room, anticipation causing pussy juice to trickle down my thighs.
I knock, and then call out, “Anybody in there?”
No answer, so I push the door open.
A guy stands at the urinal, shaking himself.
“Be right out,” he says.
I watch as he zips his fly.
Bypassing the sink, he leaves.
Do men ever wash their hands?
I set the Cleaning/Wet Floors sign outside the door.
To pass the time while I wait for Ranger, I spray down the counter, glance into the stalls. One’s not too bad, but the other looks like a ticker tape parade marched through it: streamers of shitty toilet paper trampled on the floor. I’ll leave that mess for the porter.
I glance at my phone, checking the time.
Ranger should be here by now. Dumping chickens shouldn’t take twenty minutes. I go out to the cleaning cart to get the mop and pail of water, glance toward the check stands.
No sign of him, so I text: Wair r u?!?
I watch my phone for a full minute.
No response. So, I call him.
Finally, he picks up.
“What? I’m working.”
“Are you coming?”
“Later.”
“Hahaha.”
What does later mean? Before I have a chance to ask, he hangs up.
If he’s not coming, I’ll come by myself.
I grab the mop and dunk it into the pail, splashing water on my sneakers. The Men’s Room floor is covered with yellow-brown foot prints. I mop around the toilets, avoiding strands of paper, and back my way out of the door.
I had plans.
I hate it when someone screws up my plans.
The dent in my female pride deepens into a chasm—a dark abyss churning with rage.
I bend over the pail and twist the mop imagining it’s Ranger’s neck, imagining it’s every man who’s ever jerked me around. The corncob in my pocket jabs me, and wet heat rushes through my body as I formulate a new and better plan. The thought of it makes my slit gush.
Forget the Men’s Room. I need privacy.
I run back to the door marked Women, peeling off my rubber gloves. All the stalls are empty. Good. I duck into the first one, secure the lock. Bending over the pail meant for discarded tampons, I quickly shuck the cob of corn, dig my fingers into the tub of margarine and butter up. I’m dripping with anticipation. The cob slides right in.
Who doesn’t love creamed corn?
(And, I promise, it gets much, much, worse.)
Sex in the Bathroom
Over the past few days a lot has changed at the supermarket.
The check stands have been moved so the contractors they hired for the remodel can redo the floor, plus they’ve rearranged the aisles again. Bandages are no longer next to macaroni; you’ll find them on Aisle 6 across from oatmeal.
There’s this new guy in Deli. He’s about my age, not a kid, but not an old man either. His glasses make him look intelligent and I like his legs. They’re muscular and tan. I know, because he wears shorts to work. (We’re allowed to wear black, knee-length shorts from Memorial to Labor Day.) I met him on the freight elevator. I was bringing down the trash cart, after emptying all the garbage cans, when Ranger rolled in a U-boat of roasted chickens destined for the dumpster. His name is Richard, but everybody calls him Ranger. He helped me load my garbage into the compactor—the bags from the trash cans outside the store are especially heavy—and, in return, I gave him a BJ in the employee bathroom. It’s unisex, down in the basement, and the door locks.
Now the poor schmoe is in love with me. Women sense these things, and we lefties are intuitive. He’s obsessed. I feel his eyeballs on my butt whenever I walk past.
But blowing Ranger is not the big thing (no pun intended).
The big thing is: Justus is dead, and I’m not sure if I killed him.
I heard about the accident this afternoon, as soon as I arrived at work. Several versions spread through the store like wildfire. According to one account, a car hit him up on River Road, not far from where I live. Another says he suffered a heart attack while riding his bike to the supermarket. A third version claims a passing car spat a rock that hit him in the head.
Unlike me, Justus never wears a helmet.
Anyway, he’s gone.
But I don’t think it was an accident.
Cut to several weeks ago, when I was at home recovering from my so-called accident. (I call it Justus attempting to slice off my thumb.)
I live alone, thanks to my ex-husband. He wanted kids. I didn’t. He used to bug me all the time. Irreconcilable differences, but we never divorced. I guess I should call him late, not ex.
The guy was far from punctual except when it came to dying. He croaked three years ago when he was thirty-one and I was twenty-nine. We bought this condominium, then one night when he was drunk (as usual) he took a bad fall down the stairs leading from our unit to the courtyard. They call them units, not apartments, which sounds like some kind of cell, but really the place is pretty nice: two bedrooms, one and a half baths, and a working fireplace. Anyway, he cracked his skull on the concrete and I inherited the mortgage. Also a used truck, my husband’s power tools, and $30,000 life insurance from his job as a plumber. That’s how I bought my Cruiser bike, smart TV, smartphone, iPad, a new laptop, I don’t remember what else—but the money’s gone. The truck guzzles gas, so most of the time I ride my bicycle.
Anyway, several weeks ago, after my so-called accident, I was hanging out on my balcony, sipping Diet Pepsi and popping Dilaudid while checking out the passing cars, when I spotted Justus on his bicycle. I tracked the bald spot on his head as he rode along the bike path, passing my condominium complex, kept watching as he cycled along the path and turned toward the supermarket.
That’s when Sadie the Sadist convinced me to start practicing.
The bandage on my left hand made climbing down from the folding chair difficult, so I had to support myself with my right hand. That’s how the whole ambidextrous thing started. After climbing down, I noticed something annoying in my shoe, took the shoe off and found a pebble. Using my right hand, I threw the pebble off the balcony. Not a bad shot. I managed to hit the wooden fence, and I felt sure, with practice and a heavier object I could hit a passing car—or bicycle.
“Sadie, you’re staring into space again.”
Terri the Terrible glances at her clipboard.
“It’s 7:45. You’re scheduled to clean the bathrooms. Make sure you sign off, and don’t forget to mop the Men’s Room.”
“Will do.”
My foot juts out; Sadie the Sadist is about to trip Terri, but I quickly pull back my sneaker (Nike, Air Pegasus—understated, classy).
Sadie the Sadist is disgusted.
Wimp.
“Shut up.”
A customer glances at me, no doubt wondering if shut up was meant for her.
“Sorry, Ma’am.”
I meander toward the bathrooms.
During the day the store hires a porter, but come evening cleaning is the responsibility of Courtesy Clerks. The Men’s Room is always gross; talk about needing practice taking aim.
Before hitting the bathrooms, I detour through Pharmacy and circle the store’s perimeter, passing through Dairy, Meat, Bakery and Produce to reach Deli.
I spot Ranger by the display of roasted chickens. This time of day, they pull leftover chickens and throw them in the compactor.
The fake robot senses my approach.
“May I take your order?”
“Shut up, stupid.”
“What?” Ranger looks up from the case, pokes his glasses.
“Not you, the robot.”
Ranger smiles, and I smile back.
“You due for a break soon, Ranger?”
“After I dump these chickens.”
“Meet me in the Men’s Room in ten minutes.”
His smile gets wider. “Sure thing, Sally.”
My grin shatters.
“Sadie,” I correct him.
He appears confused.
“My name is Sadie.”
“Sadie, right.” He turns his attention to the chickens. The bags they’re wrapped in are different colors: Yellow for Lemon Pepper, green for Sage, red for Barbeque. “Sorry.”
I say, “It’s okay.”
But it’s not.
I stand there, watching Ranger, ideas formulating.
He glances at me. “What?”
I don’t like his condescending tone of voice.
“Nothing.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
As if that excuses him.
When I was off work, due to the accident, I had a lot of time to read. Not only self-help, other things. I downloaded a few books, including Cereal (by Blakette Crotch and Josephine Kornrash), about this woman who works in a supermarket, like me. She has this thing for Raisin Bran. I think it’s a true story.
Anyway, I found it inspiring.
I bat my eyelashes at Ranger, imagining how he’d look completely naked, his skin oiled and brown, juices flowing as I roast him slowly on a spit.
“You’re a sweet girl, Sadie.”
“No I’m not.”
He places the color-coded bags on a cart, preparing to dump them. Says, “There are starving people in this world who’d kill me for these chickens.”
“In this town,” I add. “So, are we on?”
“I could go to hell.”
“For fucking me or dumping chickens?”
I walk away, feel him watching my posterior. I think of his, tight and muscular.
Pausing by a display of salami, I lean over the bin, admiring the sausages, and twerk my ass for Ranger.
I’m gratified when I hear the splat of roasted chicken falling on the floor.
A sudden craving for corn—the food I’ve been avoiding, find repulsive—steers my body into Produce. I grab an ear out of the bin—big, fat Olathe—and slip it into a pocket of my apron. The store has cameras everywhere, but at this time of day the security guy is probably half-asleep, bored out of his mind from staring at monitors. I pass through Dairy, shove a tub of imitation butter into another pocket.
Rack it up to shrink; that’s supermarket jargon for losses.
I circle back to the bathrooms, collect a spray bottle of cleaner and a box of paper towels from the cart sitting at the entryway, pull on rubber gloves, and push open the door marked Women’s.
A customer washes her hands at the newly refurbished sink, oblivious to the mess she’s making. Drips of soap smear the counter and water spills onto the floor. She glances at me and, noticing my cleaning supplies, offers a patronizing smile.
“I’ll get out of your way,” she says politely, but disdain screams from her eyes.
“No hurry, Take your time.” Under my breath, Sadie the Sadist adds, “Meanwhile, I’ll fill that sink with soap and you can lick it clean or die.”
I don’t think the woman heard me.
She waves her hand at the automatic dispenser (another recent upgrade), wipes her hands on the resulting towel, and tosses the crumpled paper at the trash can. She doesn’t notice (ignores it) when the towel lands on the floor.
I wonder what would happen if I spray this cleaning solution in her eyes. Would the whites turn red? Would the ammonia burn? Cause a milky film to form on her retina? Would she beg me to stop?
The woman leaves. I squirt the counter, wipe it. After polishing the mirror, I run my gloved fingers through my hair, mouse brown, nondescript. I wonder how I’d look if I dyed it flaming red. Red is an appropriate color for Sadie the Sadist, don’t you think? I turn sideways to the mirror, stand on tip-toes, suck in my gut. The tub of imitation butter pouches my apron, and I look like I’m about to give birth to an alien. I slip my hand into the apron’s pocket. The cob of corn feels like a giant hard-on.
Makes me think of Ranger.
I glance at the stalls. Chances are Terri the Terrible will come in here to inspect my work, so I have to clean the toilets. I pull my phone out of my pocket (we’re not supposed to carry phones, but everybody does), check the time and realize I’d better hit the Men’s Room if I want to hook up with Ranger.
Thinking about his ass makes me cream.
I fill out the chart taped to the door of the Women’s bathroom. Time: 8PM. Cleaning: visual, light, or deep. (I choose deep.) Initials. Hugging the spray bottle and box of paper towels, I head to the Men’s Room, anticipation causing pussy juice to trickle down my thighs.
I knock, and then call out, “Anybody in there?”
No answer, so I push the door open.
A guy stands at the urinal, shaking himself.
“Be right out,” he says.
I watch as he zips his fly.
Bypassing the sink, he leaves.
Do men ever wash their hands?
I set the Cleaning/Wet Floors sign outside the door.
To pass the time while I wait for Ranger, I spray down the counter, glance into the stalls. One’s not too bad, but the other looks like a ticker tape parade marched through it: streamers of shitty toilet paper trampled on the floor. I’ll leave that mess for the porter.
I glance at my phone, checking the time.
Ranger should be here by now. Dumping chickens shouldn’t take twenty minutes. I go out to the cleaning cart to get the mop and pail of water, glance toward the check stands.
No sign of him, so I text: Wair r u?!?
I watch my phone for a full minute.
No response. So, I call him.
Finally, he picks up.
“What? I’m working.”
“Are you coming?”
“Later.”
“Hahaha.”
What does later mean? Before I have a chance to ask, he hangs up.
If he’s not coming, I’ll come by myself.
I grab the mop and dunk it into the pail, splashing water on my sneakers. The Men’s Room floor is covered with yellow-brown foot prints. I mop around the toilets, avoiding strands of paper, and back my way out of the door.
I had plans.
I hate it when someone screws up my plans.
The dent in my female pride deepens into a chasm—a dark abyss churning with rage.
I bend over the pail and twist the mop imagining it’s Ranger’s neck, imagining it’s every man who’s ever jerked me around. The corncob in my pocket jabs me, and wet heat rushes through my body as I formulate a new and better plan. The thought of it makes my slit gush.
Forget the Men’s Room. I need privacy.
I run back to the door marked Women, peeling off my rubber gloves. All the stalls are empty. Good. I duck into the first one, secure the lock. Bending over the pail meant for discarded tampons, I quickly shuck the cob of corn, dig my fingers into the tub of margarine and butter up. I’m dripping with anticipation. The cob slides right in.
Who doesn’t love creamed corn?
