Call for Submissions!
Horror Sleaze Trash is currently accepting submissions for its Fall 2018 issue!
If interested, please submit 2-6 poems to arthur.graham.pub@gmail.com by no later than September 1st. And don't forget to tell your friends!
Previous issues available here.
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AG
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Advice for the lovelorn;
1) You've probably conjured up your dream he-she. You might not want to know that person exists only in your head. So, if you want to be in your head, you might do well to get yourself some fat po-mo books and find beauty in the transcendence of the alphabet.
2) There are any of a number of reasonable facsimiles to your dream he-she out there. If you meet one you will initially feel blessed, when in fact you have been cursed. Within a month you will be arguing about their "deficiencies" and your disappointment.
3) For long term happiness or in order to avoid that suicidal type of despair, what you want is a mate who doesn't smell too bad, has a job, and is fuckable. If something goes wrong, no big deal. You find another one who doesn't ………….. yadda yadda.
4) If you find yourself doing anything with books other than reading yourself to sleep, you are currently in a situation normal people would say is indicative of a lack of a life. That is likely due to your having pursued the disappointing "perfect" mate, rather than one of the fuckable many.
5) If you find that your books are written by Vollmann, Barth or Gass, beware. You are on the verge of a DFW necktie.
1) You've probably conjured up your dream he-she. You might not want to know that person exists only in your head. So, if you want to be in your head, you might do well to get yourself some fat po-mo books and find beauty in the transcendence of the alphabet.
2) There are any of a number of reasonable facsimiles to your dream he-she out there. If you meet one you will initially feel blessed, when in fact you have been cursed. Within a month you will be arguing about their "deficiencies" and your disappointment.
3) For long term happiness or in order to avoid that suicidal type of despair, what you want is a mate who doesn't smell too bad, has a job, and is fuckable. If something goes wrong, no big deal. You find another one who doesn't ………….. yadda yadda.
4) If you find yourself doing anything with books other than reading yourself to sleep, you are currently in a situation normal people would say is indicative of a lack of a life. That is likely due to your having pursued the disappointing "perfect" mate, rather than one of the fuckable many.
5) If you find that your books are written by Vollmann, Barth or Gass, beware. You are on the verge of a DFW necktie.
Strange mood on GR today, so a strange excerpt. This is from "Prince," Polly's pet and companion Dalmatian. This is an aside concerning a PTSD Vietnam vet, Deadeye, who on every July 4 rides his horse around the block shooting a gun in the air. This July 4 he makes a second trip without his horse. Think it takes two spots. Armed with wineglasses Mom and Dad carefully made their way to the moistened entertainment screen and Dad said; “Holy ....”
In the steady drizzle Deadeye must have thought that he was back in the clammy jungle on the booby-trap-mined Ho Chi Minh Trail. He was on foot, sort of and most of the time, having left McBundy safely at home. Either that or he went AWOL. Combat fatigues and beard thoroughly soaked and clinging to his skin, he staggered and swung his rifle from one side to the other. He frequently crouched or fell to the ground, most often when he detected possible sniper activity in the not-yet-defoliated brush at his sides. He screamed; “Come out and fight like a man. I’m the only one left, but it ain’t over until the last man falls.” Gun ready at the shoulder he approached the Thatcher gate and eyed the camouflaging plants with bulging eyes, intent on settling the issue once and for all.
The Thatchers hit the brick floor, not wanting to be seen and putting thick adobe between them and the soldier fighting a war, that they had incorrectly thought was over forty years ago. Accustomed to the duty of protecting his property, which was technically the property of Adam and Lily Thatcher, but that was currently irrelevant, Prince let out a series of threatening growls and barks, which resulted in his being tackled and pulled to the floor by the whole family. He sighed, without a clue as to what prompted the team pounce and remained on the floor, with his chin flat to it, thinking; “I wish they would make sense, just once.”
All but the rumbling sky was quiet on the western front as the trio breathlessly looked at each other while Prince tried to tally the number of white painted, adobe bricks in the wall, frustrated that he could only count up to a tragically hopeless five.
Dad put one eyeball to the glass and saw that Deadeye passed the gate by and was now squatting behind a cottonwood tree across the street, rifle aimed at the black Peugeot in the driveway, driven by one of the area’s uninformed newcomers, who was fortunate to click open the garage door, drive right in and close it behind her.
When he remembered that there were no automatic garage doors on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, Deadeye’s mind clunked back to the approximation of reality which was “normal” for him. He knew he was on Camino De Lucia in the town of Corrales, in the state of New Mexico, in the United States of America, that it was 1969 and he was home on temporary R&R. Though not seeing anyone, he waved to anyone he might have offended and walked back toward his house to get McBundy.
As they again paraded, the proud brown horse watched the ground, not feeling up to eye contact with anything taller than a flightless insect, though he didn’t know that had he looked up the result would have been the same. The white “human” watched the sky, feeling alive with a face full of rain. He defiantly shot up, hoping to hit what he considered to be the source of all his troubles, the target hiding above, momentarily ignoring the fluid cooking on the ground in the summer heat, which was the only solution available to him.
Unaccosted, he was still on his vigil at 1:45PM. Inside, people switched channels long before that, searching for “action” entertainment; many gleefully finding the seventh cable repeat of “Rocky XXXV,” wherein the hard-working, diligent, sixty-eight year old pugilist makes yet another comeback to battle the young kick-boxing champion, Chu Wang, ostensibly to prove that Americans are not only limited to hand dexterity, but are also capable of putting a foot into it. The lone horse rider’s only remaining audience showed his snoot each time he passed in front of the Thatcher residence. Paws on the window sill, Prince howled out a warning call to the helmeted horseman and each time Deadeye nodded and casually waved in the brave puppy’s direction, saying; “You’re a good guard dog.” The repetitious parade continued until 2PM, when McBundy sensed that the gunner on his back had fallen asleep and took Deadeye home.
And Camino De Lucia was again safe for meddlesome democracy for the foreseeable future.
The foreseeable future came to an abrupt halt when the ominous dark clouds which had been thundering and blowing through the windy sky all day decided to do their damage just prior to dusk. Torrential rains descended whipping like pellets on anything outside, cleaning the driveway cars with power blasts not available at local car wash places. The cracked liberty bell, atop the Thatcher residence played a call to arms, its clapper rocking in the storm winds. At least that appeared to be the likelihood in the opinion of the self-appointed protector of neighborhood independence; Deadeye.
He had done some backyard target shooting while McBundy hid and Deadeye downed half a bottle of Jack Daniels since his afternoon one-man parade and did not want to get out of his plushy recliner in front of his wall mounted, large screen television, especially in the middle of his favorite movie, “Heavy Metal Jacket;” but duty was indeed duty, unless the bells he heard were the sounds of his brain bouncing around like a BB. Sitting comfortably in the drawers he marked for the month of July, he pushed down on the foot pad, bringing the chair to its “normal” position, only slightly staggering as he rose from the wobbling piece of furniture. He went to the open eastern window and was showered with rain, which matted down his now dry and scraggly beard, but more importantly confirmed what he thought. From his almost outside vantage point he was now certain that the liberty Bell was calling its fool head off and the call was to Mr. PTSD; him. He thought; “The nerve of those commies to attack right on the most special day. I’ll show them that America is always on the alert.” He quickly put on his combat fatigues and helmet, tripping as he had some difficulty getting his legs into the pants, grabbed his always-ready rifle and strode to the barn. His horse, McBundy was reclining on the straw floor and looked startled to see him, with an expression that seemed to say; “You must be kidding. There’s a downpour.” Deadeye was undeterred and slipped on the saddle and reins, saying; “We’ve gotta git, man. There’s trouble in paradise.”
McBundy reluctantly stood up, knowing that whatever nonsense Deadeye had in mind was going to get done, no matter what protest he registered. They exited the barn and their property, heading slowly east toward the insistent bell. Deadeye nervously scanned the area, but was unable to see anyone dumb enough to be out in the storm, but knew from experience that the enemy was sneaky and could very well be hiding under a rock, waiting for the right moment to attack.
He heard gunshots. Actually it was the Rulestones on their front porch throwing firecrackers. Deadeye dismounted and proceeded on foot to present a lower target. He heard another shot and saw something moving fast. He fired in its direction and split in two the brown rabbit who hated the white one. Neither Mary Jane or Leo would never again have to re-stand her white rabbit lawn ornament.
Mr. Rulestone considered the brown rabbit his beloved friend. He yelled; “You must be some kind of a dangerous nut. You killed my pet. I’ll fix you.” He went inside and retrieved his hunting rifle, came out and took a shot in Deadeye’s direction, intending to scare him away. It was the mistake of a mistake-full lifetime, witness Mrs. Rulestone, as from his crouching position, Deadeye, who didn’t earn that name because of his facial features, shot, hitting Mr. Rulestone’s left eye. Mr. Rulestone reeled slowly back and down, like when he listened to Mrs. Rulestone’s complaints and saw her wrinkled up, smelling-something-foul face. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing and thought that her husband was making his well-worn reaction. She started waving her arms around, yelling; “I didn’t even say anything. I ought to take that rifle and ......,” which proved to be her last words as Deadeye thought it possible she was going to shoot at him and plugged her first; right above her wrinkled nose. Deadeye thought he was doing rather well, but rather than resting on his laurels, he decided to find out if the enemies were dead and if there were any others hiding in the house. He crawled on his belly up to the house. They were dead all right. He opened the door and slid in carefully, looking for more Viet Cong. He heard sirens outside and looked through the window to see four police cars screech to a halt in front of the house, cherries revolving and cops crouched behind each vee-hickle. Deadeye knew that those treacherous, sneaky VC’s were pulling another trick and took position on the window’s left side. Protected by eighteen inch adobe and in a location to fire he was set for the final showdown.
A cop on a bullhorn crackled; “Throw the weapon outside and come out with your hands in the air.”
“Come and get me VC commie.”
After a few similar interchanges the cops decided that their approach had to change as they wanted to get to the bodies lying on the porch, thinking it possible that they might still be alive. Under cover of fire one cop circled the house, got to its side, broke a window and threw in a gas canister. Accustomed to this procedure in his Viet Nam heyday, Deadeye got towels from the bathroom, picked up the canister in them and threw it back out. He fired at the police cars and the officers crouching behind them. He yelled; “Is that your best shot? Support is on the way.”
The cops looked at each other, hoping someone had a bright idea. Nervous headshakes were all that was seen as these guys were Corrales cops, more accustomed to giving out traffic tickets, their most dangerous work answering domestic violence reports.
Joining the rest of the neighborhood Polly and her parents went to their eastern windows to see what was going on. They didn’t have the advantage of many of their fellow residents who had benches at their favorite viewing spots, so they got “standing room only” accommodations. They had no idea what had happened and merely saw the police cars in front of the Rulestone residence, with the cops crouching behind.
Dad chuckled and said; “He must have finally blasted her one.”
Mom said; “Are you sure it wasn’t the other way around?”
Polly was of a more practical nature and said; “Glad we’re not out now.”
Prince refrained from commentary and focused on the pleasing visuals; the spinning red cherry tops and the rain on the windows provided a kaleidoscope of flashing colors, constantly changing.
The bullhorn cop droned; “Don’t make it hard on yourself. Come on out.”
Deadeye thought that was one of the dumbest things he had ever heard, considered not dignifying it with a reply, but finally said; “War is hell.”
One cop said; “Oh boy, we’ve got a live one here.”
Bullhorn said; “What is it you want?”
Deadeye drew a blank.
Bullhorn said; “Come on. One more chance. Throw your gun out.”
“You throw yours.” The liquor he had consumed was now making him feel very tired. He hoped his backup would get there soon, so he went to the Rulestone computer and texted a message to Unit #2 from Unit #1 saying; “Hurry. Can’t hold out much longer. Need backup. VC all over Camino De Lucia.” He took two steps back toward his window perch and passed out.
Seven Unit #2’s got the message and two of them thought that it sounded like something interesting was going on and decided to drive there.
Bullhorn tried a bluff and bellowed; “If you don’t come out right now, we’ll launch an incendiary grenade and burn you out.” He got no response from within. Deadeye had a smile on his face dreaming of some Viet Namese girls he knew when there in his glory days.
Bullhorn yelled; “Okay, we’re getting the grenade ready.”
No response.
“You’re lucky we’re having trouble with it. Gives you another chance. What is it you want?”
No response.
One of the cops said; “We’re going to have to charge the place. Those bodies have been sitting there too long.”
Another cop said; “You charge the place. I’ll stay here and give you cover fire.”
An old beat-up green Chevy approached. The cops tried to wave it away, but refused to get out of their crouching position. The driver, 64 year old Viet Nam veteran, Hal Chase paid no attention and parked next to them. He got out, stood erect and asked; “What’s going on here?”
One cop tried to pull him down. He was unsuccessful as Hal was a big guy and the cop didn’t want to be in the line of fire very long. Three cops tackled him and pulled him behind one of their cars. Sprawled on his back Hal virtually repeated himself, saying; “Now, will somebody tell me what’s going on.”
Having nothing he’d rather be doing at the moment than talking one cop said; “Guy in there with PTSD shot two people. Bodies are on the porch. He thinks we’re the Viet Cong attacking him. Won’t come out.”
Hal said; “Deadeye?”
“I don’t know, but he’s a pretty good shot. Real name is Gregory Saunders. Lives a few houses away.”
“Deadeye.” Hal had known him for decades, as much as one can know someone brain damaged. He knew that he was out of it, but never thought it would come to this.
Two more cars barreled onto the scene, despite being waved off. They parked and the drivers exited. One said; “Somebody call for backup?”
No cop knew what to say as each thought it possible that the off-site chief may have called and besides, they needed all the help they could get. One cop pulled the two newcomers down into the trenches and they all started to babble what they knew at them, hoping the fresh arrivals had some kind of answer.
Hal saw that nobody was any longer paying any attention to him and decided to try to help out his old buddy. He knew that no matter how demented he felt today that Deadeye would recognize him as an ally; most likely. He got up and walked directly to the house waving his arms in the air and saying over and over; “Deadeye. Its Hal come to help out.”
The cops thought that they now might be dealing with two nuts and one offered to shoot Hal before he could get cover, but was stopped by the Bullhorn in charge, who said; “It’ll look really bad if we shoot someone in the back who hasn’t yet committed a crime.” The others grudgingly nodded their heads “Right,” but under the circumstances had their doubts. They watched intently as Hal approached wondering what would happen next.
Hal got to the porch and saw the two bodies, checked for a pulse and found none. He opened the creaking front door slowly and the noise stirred Deadeye, who though partially dazed knew enough to grab his rifle and position himself to the side of a door. He heard; “Deadeye. Its Hal come to help out.”
Deadeye saw the hulk of a man coming his way and wondered if this wasn’t some other kind of VC trick, but was somewhat relieved to see the talking man was not armed, at least not noticeably.
“Deadeye. Its Hal come to help out.”
“Stand where you are. How can I know it’s really you?”
Hal stood still, threw out his hands to each side and disgustedly said; “You called me, idiot. You requested backup. Well, here it is.”
Deadeye dropped the rifle, went to Hal and gave him a big hug. He said; “Oh yeah, man. Thanks. I killed two VC and there are a bunch more in front disguised as cops.”
“Got it taken care of already. Snuck up behind them and sent them all back to the rice paddies.”
Deadeye brightly looked through the window and saw that the cops were still there and said so.
Hal said; “No, no. The bodies of the fake cops have been taken away. What you see is the real Corrales cops waiting there to give you a medal and a little parade.”
“Aren’t you going to get one too?”
Hal hadn’t considered that previously as he was winging the whole operation, but he came up with; “Sure, sure. Me and you together.” He gave Deadeye another brisk hug and let go, suddenly feeling bad that this would be the end for someone whose life got ruined because he fought for his country when so many others never did, but made the decisions. He remembered the innocent eighteen year old he met 44 years ago as well as others who never came back at all. He remembered how Deadeye covered for him, running out into the open, blazing away, when a VC sniper had the drop on him. A tear came to his eye, but he stifled it, realizing that there was nothing to be done now as two people were dead. Hal said; “Listen. You stay here. I have to go tell those cops that you’ll be coming out with me and that you know they are really cops. The way you shoot they don’t want to get any part of their bodies out from behind their cars.”
Deadeye was complimented and silently nodded somewhat effacingly as Hal walked out the front door. Hal walked to the crouching cops and entourage and said; “I can get him out peacefully. The two people on the porch are definitely dead.”Bullhorn breathed a loud sigh of relief, but caught himself when he considered the Rulestone fate and answered; “Oh, no. Okay, get him.”
“But no handcuffs.”
“That’s not proper police procedure.”
“Look where your proper police procedure has gotten you.”
Silence.
“I’ve convinced him that you’re here to give him a mini-parade and a medal. He’ll be unarmed and I’ll sit with him in the back of the car.”
Bullhorn was outraged and loudly said; “A medal for killing two people. Forget that!” General agreeing grumbles came from the rank and file.
Hal angrily said; “He killed more in Nam. How many of you have seen combat overseas?”
Heads surveyed the ground puddles.
“I thought as much. You have no idea what it’s like. He’s coming out the way I said or I’ll go back in there and join his campaign.”
Bullhorn saw pragmatism and said; “Fine, but no guns.”
Hal nodded and went back to the house where he found Deadeye on the computer sending an e-mail to someone which said; “Hal thought he fooled me with the medal stuff, but I know the score. Sometimes I just get crazy. It’s better for everyone this way.”
Hal said; “War’s over, buddy. Time to go home.”
Deadeye clicked on the “send” box and solemnly nodded to his pal, then walked out of the house with him. As he passed the Rulestone bodies, he turned his head up to the pouring dark sky and opened his mouth with an agonized, questioning face, but no words came out.
Seeing no arms the cops stood and watched the procession, glad they were out of danger, glad that the perpetrator was apprehended, sorry for the Rulestones, oddly grateful to men like Deadeye for their own freedom and remorseful for them at the same time.
Hal and Deadeye were escorted to the back seat of Bullhorn’s car and as they drove through the development saw the people viewing from their windows. One of them tried to imagine that this was the long overdue, respectful viewing of an ancient forgotten hero.
Eventually Deadeye’s lawyer worked out a deal whereby Deadeye would spend the rest of his life in a high security psychiatric facility, which he would come to consider as little change from his previous surroundings. Hal came back to Camino De Lucia to get McBundy and kept him with his other two horses. The White Rabbit lawn ornament stood undisturbed at attention.
Chapter 17
It was the best of summer days. Toward the end of July the “monsoon” season hit New Mexico, during which one quarter to one half of the entire year’s average, eight inches of precipitation falls in a two week per
Jeff wrote; "Deadeye was complimented etc. etc."
Whut?
Whut?
Jeff wrote; "Deadeye was complimented etc. etc."Whut?
BTW, for those of you addicted to "reality," Deadeye was a real person who lived in my neighborhood. His wife outfitted him with a garage woodworking shop, but he had lots of trouble trying to deal with potential customers. Eventually, he decided that someone was after him, and took to hiding in bushes. He was institutionalized, and though he did always fire his rifle in the air while riding his horse every Independence Day, he was never accused of hitting anything, not even a wooden lawn rabbit.
Jeff, whatever happens you'll be all right if you just remember;
"Time flies like an arrow.
But then:
Fruit flies like bananas."
"Time flies like an arrow.
But then:
Fruit flies like bananas."
Jeff wrote: "Mr. Rulestone considered the brown rabbit his beloved friend. He yelled; “You must be some kind of a dangerous nut. You killed my pet. I’ll fix you.” He went inside and retrieved his hunting rifle,..."
No way you could write that stuff, Jeff. You must be copying, as you can't afford a ghost writer. And BTW, you think it sounds intelligent, but it's not, and you only thought so because ………… I really shouldn't write what's more obvious than your well pronounced donut addiction.
No way you could write that stuff, Jeff. You must be copying, as you can't afford a ghost writer. And BTW, you think it sounds intelligent, but it's not, and you only thought so because ………… I really shouldn't write what's more obvious than your well pronounced donut addiction.
I suppose that it could be coincidental. But, my recent GR excursions have brought me to what seems an inordinate number of places which are concerned with the theory of the novel as well as its psychological effect on its writer. While the subject is actually one which since inception of the tertiary thought was personally thoroughly abhorrent, absurd, un-entertaining, and most of all an effortless source of low brow humor, the weight of those well-read and linguistically gifted adherents, has made me consider the possible error of my ways. In other words, maybe if I feign an interest in their bullshit, a few more assholes will buy my books.
Since, my primary goal is always to please and be liked, I have commenced upon an essay-novel-disjointed ramble, hopefully approximating whatever comes after the ill-defined term of post modernism. You might appreciate my difficulty in attempting to follow an unknown with anything made known on the page. Critics will be aghast, and consequently write lengthy essays which other critics who have chosen to write lengthy essays will commend. Slick person that I am I realize that they will essay each other and forget to criticize my book. Hehehe.
I’m thinking in terms of an ontological approach toward alphabets of varying species, some now unfortunately defunct, in an attempt to weigh in on (Please pardon the sophisticated pun.) the concept of whether or not human intelligence began with their ability to think in words. The assumption in that case necessitates a given which dictates that the early ones did not think while rendering and observing the pictures they drew on their lavatory walls.
Too simplistic you rightly say. Rest assured that my essay-novel-disjointed ramble will not begin and end there. Further, now advanced to middle brow reflections will address the epistemological notion that the eventual construction of the various alphabets depicted in form was indeed a construction unto itself, certainly until cyber letters became common, thereby suggestive of a negation of the ontological approach, big O’s only possible relevance forcefully wedded to a rather blasé diode switch, most likely promiseful and undelivering “participation” because of the anticipated money to be scammed on the web.
Initially it would seem that that both the Ontos and Epistos have their points, though those same points if implemented, would cancel each other out. ........ Apologies; so Freudian, as if there were no Campbell and we were never Jung.
Suggestions, for your continued pleasure?
FEEL FREE TO COPY THIS ONE JEFF. THERE'S NO COPYRIGHT AND IT SEEMS TO FIT WELL WITH YOUR ASSERTIONS OF HAVING SEEN BOTH SIDES ARTICULATED IN YOUR MOST RECENT BLOCKBUSTER. CHEERS, PAL.
Since, my primary goal is always to please and be liked, I have commenced upon an essay-novel-disjointed ramble, hopefully approximating whatever comes after the ill-defined term of post modernism. You might appreciate my difficulty in attempting to follow an unknown with anything made known on the page. Critics will be aghast, and consequently write lengthy essays which other critics who have chosen to write lengthy essays will commend. Slick person that I am I realize that they will essay each other and forget to criticize my book. Hehehe.
I’m thinking in terms of an ontological approach toward alphabets of varying species, some now unfortunately defunct, in an attempt to weigh in on (Please pardon the sophisticated pun.) the concept of whether or not human intelligence began with their ability to think in words. The assumption in that case necessitates a given which dictates that the early ones did not think while rendering and observing the pictures they drew on their lavatory walls.
Too simplistic you rightly say. Rest assured that my essay-novel-disjointed ramble will not begin and end there. Further, now advanced to middle brow reflections will address the epistemological notion that the eventual construction of the various alphabets depicted in form was indeed a construction unto itself, certainly until cyber letters became common, thereby suggestive of a negation of the ontological approach, big O’s only possible relevance forcefully wedded to a rather blasé diode switch, most likely promiseful and undelivering “participation” because of the anticipated money to be scammed on the web.
Initially it would seem that that both the Ontos and Epistos have their points, though those same points if implemented, would cancel each other out. ........ Apologies; so Freudian, as if there were no Campbell and we were never Jung.
Suggestions, for your continued pleasure?
FEEL FREE TO COPY THIS ONE JEFF. THERE'S NO COPYRIGHT AND IT SEEMS TO FIT WELL WITH YOUR ASSERTIONS OF HAVING SEEN BOTH SIDES ARTICULATED IN YOUR MOST RECENT BLOCKBUSTER. CHEERS, PAL.
Some semblance of levity is immediately required.
The signified can no longer hear the signifier.
BlairB wrote: "Hey, I didn't break it, so it ain't my yob to fix it. And just on general principles; MAY THE AVATAR OF FACIAL HERPES TAKE PERMANENT RESIDENCE ALL THE WAY UP YOUR NOSE."https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eFTLK...
It was Prometheus fault, but he supposedly meant well.
The heat which leads to the fire is actually a significant character in "Blasé Eight." There are 9-10 sizable human characters and stories, some not seeming to be inter-related at first. None of them think they're doing so, but they are all contributing to a fire-friendly condition. The same with minor characters. It's some sort of democracy or polytheism I guess.
Technically, this and Genevieve5 are the most difficult ones I've attempted, and will likely not repeat that as I know of no reason to. The "funny" thing is that these sell worse than the simple ones. "Wilbur" has something to do with greed, and that seems simple.
See, even Billy Joel helped build the fire. He's just not bright enough to see that.
Technically, this and Genevieve5 are the most difficult ones I've attempted, and will likely not repeat that as I know of no reason to. The "funny" thing is that these sell worse than the simple ones. "Wilbur" has something to do with greed, and that seems simple.
See, even Billy Joel helped build the fire. He's just not bright enough to see that.
BlairB wrote: "From "Blasé Eight." Totally useless out of context.Doesn’t matter since that’s as far as anyone read. BLAM-O!!!!
Jeff. I am now sure that you inspired G Arthur Brown's conception of God having an older mean brother. Little white lies are essential and indeed customary in the low end indie writer marketplace.
Millennial attention spans have been tittered about in numerous places. So kind of expected. You may have noted that picture books are getting more and more numerous. Yeztruly again led the way with the Genevieve series.
I really would do better with the high brow market, but those people stopped looking at indie stuff in 2013 with "Vampire Dominatrices from Mars Vs The Zombies of Christ" and similarly "funny" stuff.
How many books did you put out in 2013? Were some written pre-kindergarten?
I really would do better with the high brow market, but those people stopped looking at indie stuff in 2013 with "Vampire Dominatrices from Mars Vs The Zombies of Christ" and similarly "funny" stuff.
How many books did you put out in 2013? Were some written pre-kindergarten?
Hot books - cold books. Seems to be a current GR fascination. Formerly, I thought a hot book was one that sold a lot, and vice-versa, making all GR authored books cold.
But no, that's not what they mean. One current reader-reviewer insight refers to a preference for books which make them hot. Their cold book disinterest might be rectified if someone put out a translating dictionary which could inform the literal (synonym narrow) literati dumbed-downs that the "morning dew" means "wet pussy" at any time of the day. There are many others. The specificity is necessary for those who are unimaginatively trying to get hot from a book.
The other insight is even easier to convert. Just stick your disliked cold book in the microwave for a minute. Voila. If that doesn't work, do the world a favor and stick your head in it turning on the juice. Instructions are available in "Infinite Jest." I think that even Arthur got up to that part.
But no, that's not what they mean. One current reader-reviewer insight refers to a preference for books which make them hot. Their cold book disinterest might be rectified if someone put out a translating dictionary which could inform the literal (synonym narrow) literati dumbed-downs that the "morning dew" means "wet pussy" at any time of the day. There are many others. The specificity is necessary for those who are unimaginatively trying to get hot from a book.
The other insight is even easier to convert. Just stick your disliked cold book in the microwave for a minute. Voila. If that doesn't work, do the world a favor and stick your head in it turning on the juice. Instructions are available in "Infinite Jest." I think that even Arthur got up to that part.
Holy shit. I woke up and checked my sales on Createspace. I sold a copy of Vampire Dominatrices. I haven't sold a copy of that book since like 2015. This can't be a coincidence. Eddie, my boy, keep naming off my shitty books. Thanks in advance.
Good. I will. Sometimes I think I have a miniscule following here, but they don't want to admit it.
Any in particular? I could do a quick review of the concept, if any.
Any in particular? I could do a quick review of the concept, if any.
So is BlairB carved into his tombstone?
I always said they'd be throwing dirt on the bastard before he'd ever quit his (supposedly) hated GR, but in any case, they'd have at least several dozen other monikers to choose from.
Has Edward passed from this plane of existence?
Maybe they just took away his internet privileges at the old age home.
Good riddance to bad rubbish! Let us rejoice that there's one less UNKIND PERSON in the world. May his demise usher in a new era of pleasant, stimulating, hospitable, and un-trolled book discussion here on Goodreads!!*High fives all around*
We natives of New Jersey know that rubbish has a way of washing back up on shore every summer to slime. It's predictable and happens whenever the out of town landlubbers peak.
BTW, Arthur. I no longer hate GR. They actually allow more free speech than the other "social media" outlets. In fact, GR is not even considered to be in the top six, two of which I never even heard of. And Bezos is a totally spaced genius.
Douglas wrote; "new era of pleasant, stimulating, hospitable, and un-trolled book discussion here on Goodreads!!"
A "new" era presupposes that there was one prior. Right up your ass, dooood.
BTW, Arthur. I no longer hate GR. They actually allow more free speech than the other "social media" outlets. In fact, GR is not even considered to be in the top six, two of which I never even heard of. And Bezos is a totally spaced genius.
Douglas wrote; "new era of pleasant, stimulating, hospitable, and un-trolled book discussion here on Goodreads!!"
A "new" era presupposes that there was one prior. Right up your ass, dooood.
Well, someone has to maintain some semblance of proper decorum here. And since no one else was, …………………...
Jeff wrote: "Maybe they just took away his internet privileges at the old age home."
Jeff gets my award for best one. But, I've been investigating. Those bastards are charging Medicaid for it and not providing it to me, just like that opioid prescription I got.
Why won't anyone believe me?
Jeff gets my award for best one. But, I've been investigating. Those bastards are charging Medicaid for it and not providing it to me, just like that opioid prescription I got.
Why won't anyone believe me?
To be pedantic, probably, but I really don't know as it's too much trouble to check. Maybe I should as I find them funny 3/4 of the time, but we're scheduled to move in about a week, and there's loads of crap and details on my mind.
No, this was inspired as an attempt to be helpful to writers like Leo X, as well as noticing that in the majority of GR reviews I recently read (of others) the reviewer does exactly this. If it's verbose, they say it should have been more succinct, and vice versa.
I should note that none of them were done by top GR reviewers, and I was long ago told that this type of reviewer doesn't last very long.