Always Striving for a New Low
What’s sadder than a writer sitting at a quiet cyberspace crossroads, squirming and gesticulating at the rare clicking visitor, in front of a sandwich sign that says “Will Pick Grubs Off Your Pet Monkey for Your Reading Attention?” Easy: one who tries to directlybuy his readers’ attentions with a transparent pandering offer. Thus, I invite you to don your favorite pantyhose mask, conceal your true identity, and blacken your conscience—and then read.
No, no, this isn’t about reading just any old thing, all those National Enquirers you’ve got piled up bedside and the latest issue of Zombie Sex Kitten Sits on Game of Thrones and Contemplates Twilight—no, this is about reading something of mine. That’s where the corruption comes in: if you download, for .99, my remarkably juicy (yet 100% organic) novel of hitchhiking madness and tingling love triangles, and are the first to write an Amazon review for the dang thing, I will send you, in an unmarked brown paper wrapper, a $25 iTunes gift card. (And this card hasn’t even been used yet.)
You ask, how desperate can a writer get? Well, I was actually going to come to your house and make you read the book straight through, without any beer on hand. But I thought this would leave a smaller carbon footprint. Anyway, if you cheat and don’t actually read the book, but just go post a review, I will identify to the world that you are one of Satan’s minions, and you will be cast into the Lake of Fire. (Sorry, but once a Catholic, always a Catholic.)
Thus, you must read, and you must act the Amazonian forthwith. And even I am not so corrupt that I’d ask you to give me a good review—tell it as you read it. And if you see that one of your dirty competitors has beat you to the Tunes, well, you could always post a review anyway. For the children. For those few brave souls who have already read and reviewed, you’re out of luck, but I will autograph your forearm next time we meet. Here’s the delicate little item at Amazon, and here it is for B&N’s Nook. For those who crave paper, this ain’t your baby.
And please don’t tell my mother.
Tom, it’s disappointing that I’m no longer eligible for the iTunes gift card, but I will have a red Sharpie (semi-permanent) on hand for that John Hancock you’ve promised.
(And you better believe I’m going to tell your mother.)
I’m telling your (our) mother for sure — anything to win points!!
Wrong approach, ladies.
Tom, let’s discuss the scenario in which I DON’T tell your mother . . .
As for your book, I especially like the part where Odysseus invents fire out of doughnuts, thus leading to the obvious connection between Homer and D’oh.
Annie, if you bring your own Sharpie, that entitles you to two tattoos (two toos), one on each forearm.
And once my mother sees those weird tattoos, she won’t believe anything you say.
Miz Bentley, I have already headed you off at the pass, by purchasing 100,000 points in advance from our mother. It’s kind of like when you buy airline miles to fill out a frequent flyer flight. So, you’ll never really catch up, and might as well stop trying.
You don’t get the tattoo—I’ll just leave the Sharpie in a nice jacket of yours before it goes through the wash.
Blackmail, Joel?
Now I’m going to have to tell YOUR mother.
Exactly Joel. I’ll think of some other (better) offer for you, since you already have a tattoo of the Fall of the Roman Empire that stretches from ankle to ear.
I also enjoyed the Odysseus section of the book, especially when Ma and Pa Kettle come into the picture.
Annie, would you like her phone number? I’d so love for my mom to hear something new about me.
And Tom, while Ma and Pa really added to the dance scene, my tattoo is actually of the Roman Empire in the Fall. Subtly different. Quite colorful. Still reds and oranges, but, y’know, leaves, not flames.
Hey, wait a minute Dennison. I’M the one that does the scolding around here. Sheesh. Am I out of a job on my own blog? I don’t mind if you take the flag down at night, though, and make sure it’s up again in the morning.
Joel, I knew your tattoo wasn’t simply of that stuffy old Fall, but something fresher. Leaves are the new flames, as you know. (Psst! Don’t give Annie your mom’s number—she’ll be tattling about something you’ve done every day for the next year.)
Bribery, blackmail, unhygienic tattoo-giving, sibling intrigue, fig leaves barely covering flaming (syphilitic) private bits, horses as politicians (oh, sorry, I’m getting this confused with the Republican debates) and a corrupt, perverse ruler, insanely bent on grabbing unlimited power.
This blog is out of control, Bentlius Julius Caesar Germyanicus, more Caligula than the Roman Empire in the Fall.
Or, in the immortal words of film critic Leonard Maltin, it’s little more than “… chutzpah and six minutes of not-bad hardcore footage.”
So yes. I’m calling your mom, and Joel’s mom (thank you, Joel, I would like her number) and MY mom.
And maybe if the moms of America united, they could knock some sense into our presidential caesars as well?
I think my Mom’s number is 4. I know mine is 3, so hers must be bigger than mine, right? Maybe her number is 11.
Hey, besides being perverse, cruel and insane, Caligula wasn’t that bad of a guy. I’m sure he’d be among the top delegate-count getters in this year’s primary.
Oh, excuse me, can’t talk anymore, have to turn down the heat on the pan of flaming private bits…
This comment section has degraded into meaningless threats and counter-threats.
Actually, it did not degrade. That is where it started.
Jim, splendid to see you here! I’m sure you have a referee’s outfit somewhere—can you put it on and wade into the ring? (Bring a whip.)
Just happy to be ringside.