Tag: book

Fistfucking The Platypus

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I’ve read every overpriced advice book there is at the bookstore.
Who Moved My Cheese? and Throwing The Elephant didn’t help with my miserable stupid job, meaningless life, and spiritual bankruptcy. I just got shit on more.
So, I decided to write my own overpriced advice book: Fistfucking The Platypus.
I put tons of bad advice between the covers, added crappy drawings that a third grader with two broken hands could doodle up, and then put a twenty-dollar price tag on the hardback.
Despite my not mentioning platypuses, PETA doesn’t like it.
They can just bend over like…
You know.

The Book Of Roger

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Ladies and gentlemen, please turn your hymnals to Roger Chapter 5 Verse 3.
What? You nay heard about Roger?
Well, I photocopied it up and stuck it in your books, so shut yer traps and read along or yer all going to Hell!
“Two monkeys were fucking on a unicycle the other day, arguing over an ice cream cone.”
What are ye daft? Why are you lot looking at me like that?
Got a problem with the Gospels or something?
This is The Book of Roger. And Roger didn’t mince words like all the other pansies who wrote The Bible.

Penguins

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I’m sitting at home, reading a book.
There’s a knock at the door.
I get up, walk to the door, and open it.
There’s penguins there. Ten of them.
They have lit torches. And pitchforks.
One steps forward. I think he’s the leader.
He says… CUT IT OUT!
I say… WHAT?
He says… CUT IT OUT! NOW!
The others nod their beaks.
I look at them, confused. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT
He checks his Blackberry, looks at the mailbox.
OH. SORRY. WRONG PLACE.
They leave.
I pick up the book.
“Cooking With Penguins”
Damn it.

Yorick

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The old jester imagined that he would be telling jokes in court to laughing royalty, screwing maids in the barn, and dining on the best of what the castle’s kitchen had to offer.
Instead, he had a mouth full of mud and his back ached from the weight of the young prince.
“Horsey!’ shouted Hamlet.
Yorick groaned with each kick to his ribs.
At first, it was a delight. But with each passing week of being a plaything, Yorick grew weary.
Yorick never did get the laughter, maids, or feasts.
He died a broken man, a feast for the worms.

Way With Words

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Felix’s novels were a War Crime against Literature. So, for these crimes, he was banished to the circle of despised Literary Critics.
He didn’t just have a way with words – he had his way with words. In the worst possible way, in the back of his unmarked white van.
When he was done with them, he’d send his article to the publisher and leave the bloody, sweaty, shivering words on a playground for the children to discover.
His headstone will be blank. No words would associate with this monster, and no numbers are brave enough to cross the picket lines.

Shopping List

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My shopping list is on the New York Times Bestseller’s List.
I don’t know what happened, but I got a call from a reporter asking me questions about being an author, and I had no idea what was going on.
Oprah, Good Morning America, Regis… they all want to talk to me.
I don’t know what’s so compelling about my shopping list, but I guess it touched a whole bunch of people.
One critic claims that I plagiarized my list. Another says that it was ghostwritten.
All I know is that I really need milk, eggs, butter, and trash bags.

Dunstan The Unstable Existentialist

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As I sit by the fire, reading Sartre in my Kierkegaard Underoos, I ponder the meaning of life.
Then, I realize. Life exists, whether it has meaning or not. It is an end to itself, regardless if I am consciously observing it.
Anything else would be a lie, and we all know that the first person we lie to is ourselves.
Utterly absurd, this all is. There is no meaning to life except whatever meaning we impose upon it.
I, for one, shall believe I am a egg and cheese sandwich. I am part of a nutritious and complete breakfast.

Drummer Boy

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I played my drum for him.
I played my best for him.
Did he like it? Did he smile?
No. He cried! He cried like a shrieking pig!
Why the hell was I playing a drum for a kid in a barn, surrounded by goats and camels and rats?
You don’t play drums for babies… you shake rattles. You pluck strings. Or play a flute.
You make goo goo noises in their faces until they clap and laugh and smile.
Stupid baby.
Probably won’t survive the night, anyway.
Hey, nobody’s watching the gold that old fart brought.
It’s mine! Sweet!

The Landscape Of Dorian Grey

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As we back across Dorian’s perfect lawn, like a plush green carpet, we stop to admire its beauty.
The eternally young monster lay in a pile of dust in his foyer, shown his accursed painting, but outside in the fresh air… the grass… the grass…
“It’s always looked… perfect,” I said. “Too perfect.”
We head back inside, looking for a painting of landscaping.
What depiction of brown, wretched, barren grounds awaits us?
Instead, we come across a painting of a puddle of water, lumps of coal, a rotten carrot.
Well, I guess that explains Dorian making a snowman in July.

Book By Its Cover

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My master says not to judge a book by its cover, but it doesn’t take an archmage to realize that his spellbook’s a pretty nasty bit of business.
At first glance, you notice the silver needles along the binding dripping with poison while the dragonhide cover trails wisps of smoke, right?
But how many people would notice the howling bog-wraiths trapped as the bar code on the back?
I mean, who puts bar codes on the back of a spellbook? It’s not you’re going to want to list it on Amazon with an ISBN, right?
Archmages can be weird sometimes.