 ON PUBLISHING CONTRACTS, BLOGGERS & THE INJUSTICE OF BEING skippy
Dreams are terrible, horrible things. They tend to be so close, yet so very far away. Dreams taunt you at every turn and make your every waking moment an exercise in withstanding torture.
For example, all I've ever wanted was a beautiful stranger with giant hooters and a snapping hoo-hoo to approach me on the street and introduce herself by saying, "My clothes itch and you look like you could really use a blowjob. Would you like to go to my place?" That hasn't happened to me once, probably never will, and explains why I gave up dreaming when I was five years old better than anything else.
It's also striking how one person's dream can be another's nightmare. I've often thought about how nice it would be to be locked in a small room with a number of undersexed Mexican women, but Brenda Martin can't stop complaining about just that.
And then there are book deals.
I've spent most of my life trying to figure out how establish a career by sitting around the house and getting drunk. The only occupation that seems to facilitate that is professional writing, preferably the authorship of books. Did you know that almost all of America's winners of the Nobel Prize for literature before 1950 were insufferable drunks? All F. Scott Fitzgerald had to do was write The Great Gatsby - which is a very short book - and he was granted a lifetime's worth of alcohol and beautifully bodied drunkard women.
Unfortunately, writing The Great Gatsby seems to take an awful lot of talent and I have none. Also, it's already been done.
 Instead, I've devoted the last five years to cataloguing the reasons why everyone but me is retarded and all the truly wonderful things about the female form. Sadly, publishers don't seem to be very interested in my intellectual superiority and award-winning rimjobs. They're far too busy being swept away by scumbags like James Frey, who resort to lying about the deviant activities that I commonly get out of the way before breakfast.
Most of my readers know that I'm the go-to guy on moral degeneracy, but nobody seems to have alerted the fine folks at Random House to that fact. What I lack in inborn writing ability, I more than make up for in the ability to injest vast quantities of unwise chemicals until I fall down and vomit on myself. And that should count for something, shouldn't it? Blogging seemed to be the ideal path to a life of irresponsible sunstance abuse and sucking up to Oprah. All the original Wonkette, Ana Marie Cox, ever did was write about being repeatedly sodomized, and now she gets to go on TV and talk about politics with Chris Matthews. I on the other hand write about sodomy on a fairly regular basis, and all it's ever gotten me is your eternal love. Oh, and it's given me the opportunity to get naked with a few women that I'd otherwise never have a shot with because I'm a congenital loser and a singularly unsightly one at that. Don't get me wrong, there's limitless blog money out there. I'm just not getting any of it. A good example of wild blog money is Christian Lander of the highly regarded Stuff White People Like. The New York Times is reporting this morning that Mr. Lander has signed a $300,000 deal with Random House. $300,000 for an author who almost never writes about the joys of sodomy? How can that be? To be fair, sex is one of the things that white people like as documented by Chrstian.
Mr. Lander’s more yuppified targets presumably like sex just fine — especially if sex is with Asian women, whom 95 percent of white men have dated or wanted to date at some point, he notes in No. 11, Asian Girls.  So that's the secret! I've written at some length of my desire to sodomize white, Indian and black girls, but I overlooked Asian ones. That's not to say that I don't want to sodomize an Asian girl. In fact, there are few things that I'd like more. I'm dedicated to the proposition of building a rainbow coalition of ass.
I just didn't know that including Asian girls was so important. The great publishing houses of North America seem to have a profound case of yellow fever. Who knew?
Well, I'd just like to state for the record that I'd very much like to sodomize an Asian girl. I'll sodomize several of them at once if that'll get me $300,000 any sooner. After all, I have ten fingers that I won't be doing anything with. To show how dedicated to my craft I am, I'll even start with Asia Carerra.
So can I have a book deal now?
Story ruthlessly stolen from the Ace of Spades HQ
Easy Listening Recommendation of the Day: Everyday I Write the Book By: Elvis Costello From: Punch the Clock
Permalink Labels: Big Ups To Bloggers, I Hate Myself And I Want To Die, Life With skippy
|
