Archive for the ‘Literature’ Category


The Bible: Fancy Plans Edition Vol. 1

October 29, 2009

This one goes to 11.

(A quick explanation on this post: This is actually culled from a comment thread over at Stop Annoying Me, the Internet’s finest source for booze-powered cynicism. Tannerleah takes on a variety of topics including soccer moms, John Gosselin, Randy Quaid’s stick-up techniques and pretty much anything else that reeks of stupidity/calculated bullshit.

A man among bloggers, TannerLeah has single-handedly revived such classic ideas as abusing yourself to June Cleaver fantasies, proudly sporting visible erections pretty much everywhere, comparing self-promotion to walking around with your “thingy” out and livening up even the dryest subject matter with biting wit and cleavage shots.

This particular post dealt with the newest “end of the world” hysteria, which posits that the Mayans have that shit down cold, thanks to the combination of outdated calendar systems and “noble savage” assumptions. TL asked for a Biblical perspective, which is exactly what follows this long-winded opening statement.

Some of you may have seen this already. Please try to keep the spoilers to yourself until everyone has had a chance to read it. Thank you. And thanks to TL for allowing me to reclaim my comment and walk around acting like this is “new” content.)

22:1 He showed me a river of water of life, clear as crystal Pepsi, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb,

22:2 in the middle of its street, home to Madness (but not Bedlam – that phrase is copyrighted). On this side of the river was the tree of life, bearing twelve kinds of fruits, 25 kinds of vegetables, and several fine shoulder cuts. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations, being all aloe vera and shit.

22:3 There will be no curse any more. The throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it, and his servants serve him, all piling into the throne like so many clowns into a VW.

22:4 They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads (THIS END UP).

22:5 There will be no night, and they need no lamp light; for the Lord God will illuminate them, with a very powerful form of radiation, which the idiots will call “The Light of the Lord,” and which will not be safely recyclable. They will reign forever and ever, weather permitting.

22:6 He said to me, “These words are faithful and true. The Lord God of the spirits of the prophets sent his angel to show to his bond, James, bondservants the things which must happen soon, which is a very relative measure and not at all quantifiable. Like a handswidth. Or a cubit.

22:7Behold, I come quickly, He warned the ladies, retrospectively considering that ‘Beware’ may have been a better choice of word. Blessed is he who keeps the words of the prophecy of this book, which will be tough, because the hole punch is on the fritz.

22:8 Now I, John, am the one who heard and saw these things. When I heard and saw, I fell down to worship before the feet of the angel who had shown me these things, so I really didn’t have the best vantage point for seeing, per se, but trust me on this.

22:9 He said to me, “See you don’t do it! I am a fellow bond, James, bondservant with you and with your brothers, the prophets, and with those who keep the words of this book/Trapper Keeper. Worship God. Duh.

22:10 He said to me, “Don’t seal up the words of the prophecy of this book, for the time is at hand, and as I mentioned before, the hole punch is failing at the only thing it’s supposed to do.

22:11 He who acts unjustly, let him act unjustly still. He who is filthy, let him be filthy still. He who is righteous, let him do righteousness still. He who is holy, let him be holy still. Or whatever. We’re not here to judge. We’ll leave that for the Baptists.

22:12Behold, I come quickly,” He warned again, only fainter as He was about ready to come. “My reward is with me, to repay to each man according to his work, except for Judas, that cheap-skating bastard. He’d sell his own mother if she was on fire… or something.

22:13 I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End, the Entrance and the Exit, the Up and the Down, the Parking Light and the Highbeams.

22:14 Blessed are those who do his commandments, that they may have the right to the tree of life, and may enter in by the gates into the city, because they’re gates. They’ll be clearly marked “Entrance.”

22:15 Outside are the dogs, the sorcerers, the sexually immoral, the murderers, the idolaters, and everyone who loves and practices falsehood. You know, we may just hang out here for awhile. Everything on the inside is sort of like early morning cheerfulness, only 24-7.

22:16 I, Jesus, have sent my angel to testify these things to you for the assemblies. I am the root and the offspring of David; the Bright and Morning Star. See other nicknames above. You can also call me J-Dog.

22:17 The Spirit and the bride say, “Come!” He who hears, let him say, “Come!” He who is thirsty, let him come. And He will reply, I already did. Sorry. I was hoping we wouldn’t make a big deal out of this. Screw it. You want a beer? Or three?”

22:18 I testify to everyone who hears the words of the prophecy of this book, if anyone adds to them, may God add to him the plagues which are written in this book. I’m serious about this. Don’t do anything more than add your own impressions, beliefs, outdated behaviors and hatred towards women. Other than that, try to at least keep the gist of it. God & stuff.

22:19 If anyone takes away from the words of the book of this prophecy, may God take away his part from the tree of life, and out of the holy city, which are written in this book, which is now blowing away in the wind. Stupid &$%$# hole punch.

22:20 He who testifies these things says, “Yes, I come quickly.” Amen! Yes, come, Lord Jesus. (Thanks for bringing that up. Again. Why don’t you just put it on a t-shirt or something.)

22:21 The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with all the saints. Amen. By the way – Re: 2012. You may want to carry an umbrella or something that year.



New From the Fancy Plans Press

October 6, 2009


IKEA's online shopping assistant said, "Just toss them on the floor."

IKEA's online shopping assistant said, "Just toss them on the floor."

Living on Pennies per Year: The Homeopathic Guide to Budgeting

Borrow This Book! The Fairly Essential Handbook for Mild Mannered Revolutionaries and Conscience-Ridden Kleptomaniacs

Strunk & White’s The Elements of Texting

So You Want to Be a Journalist: Making the Most of Your Last-Minute Major in the New Millennium

Covers such essential ground as: suing Google, suing blog hosting, suing bloggers, erecting paywalls, insulting your readers’ intelligence, cranky bitching, etc.
(Future installments may include: investigative techniques, finding reliable sources, working with your reader base, actual journalism, etc.)

Sharing is Stealing: Child-Rearing Advice from Parents in the Music Industry

  • Why every child needs their own set of toys
  • Nothing says “Happy Birthday” like writing our a check to cover performance royalties
  • Keep that radio turned down, dammit! (That check for performance royalties is coming out of your allowance, mister.)
  • Illegal downloading is “wack,” or so says relevant actress Alicia Silverstone
  • How would you like it is some came and took all of your toys and did whatever they wanted with them? I mean, you would still have your toys, but like they took an exact copy of your toys. For free. And then they enjoyed your toys themselves or shared them with their friends and didn’t even pay you for, well, not exactly taking your toys, I guess… Let me start over. You have toys that you paid for. Someone else wants to use your toys. Again, not your actual toys, but an exact copy of them and they wouldn’t have to pay for them… I mean, you paid for your toys so it’s not fair that they don’t pay for their set. People should pay for stuff because stuff costs money. Even though you don’t play with all your toys… because like every set of 14 or 15 toys only has about 1 or 2 toys that you even play with more than once… Sharing is stealing! I don’t need to explain this!

Growing Up in the Shadows: Solange Knowles in Her Own Tweets

  • someone just keeps pollinating my days…:)))))))))) and clever notes to sprinkle a little more beautimous and awesomery energy my way:)
  • Star and triangle shaped iced cubes! Why do I get a big kick out of things like this???
  • Can’t believe movie was sold out!!! Uber sad faces.
  • @xdaniel lol. I speak greatly about my hood. I love Houston lookn ass girl.

One World, One Village: The Young Person’s Guide to Co-Opting Other Cultures

  • Bob Marley’s Greatest Hits and you’re in, mon. Especially if you’re holding.
  • The keffiyeh and other essential gear for the pretentious twat
  • White boys & rap; or Eminem: groundbreaking fluke?

The Naive Tourists Guide to Staying the Fuck Out of Trouble: East Coast Edition

  • New Jersey – officially off-limits
  • Emergency plans including “Roll up the windows!” “Lock the doors!” and “Floor it!” (includes helpful tips gleaned from Bonfire of the Vanities)
  • Winning 3-card monte strategies
  • How to buy drugs without looking like a narc (for instance: “Can I possibly trouble you fellows for some narcotics?” is completely wrong and possibly deadly)

Coming soon: West Coast Edition

  • Enjoying a “Fuck wit Dre Day” on less than $40 a day
  • When a stop sign is not a stop sign: the rolling stop in 3 easy steps
  • How’s my driving? Follow up question: How’s my shooting?
  • 90mph merging strategies
  • Overpriced bullshit: the Haight-Ashbury legacy
  • Fastest driving routes to get “straight outta Compton”

Deep South Edition

  • The legal ramifications of not being “from around here”
  • Making small town corruption work for you
  • Black? Consider visiting the East Coast or West Coast instead
  • Atlanta: glittering metropolis or duded-up backwater town?
  • The sights, sounds and smells of the “Redneck Riviera”: Your guide to the Florida panhandle

Our Organ Banks, Ourselves: The Reality of Being More Useful Dead Than Alive

The Goofus & Gallant Guide to Formal Occasions

  • Gallant prepares his remarks carefully using 3×5 cards; Goofus rambles on at length about his fascination with quote: “the surviving members of Wham!”
  • Gallant waits quietly to be introduced; Goofus kills another guest for “eyeballing” his date

Half-Full Proverbs for a Half-Empty Life (Illustrations by Half-Ass “Painter of Lite” Thomas Kincaid)

Your Inner Slut: Freeing Yourself from Moral Oppression (foreword by Tara Reid)



I Will Return

August 15, 2009

(Note: This is inspired by the Taman Shud Case, an unsolved case involving an unidentified man found dead on an Australian beach in 1948. To this day, his identity remains a mystery and various clues and interviews have only increased the confusion. Please give it a read, either before or after, or this entire piece may come off as incredibly abstract.)


This is where it began.

This is where I began. Not exact, but close enough.

The point on the time line is indeterminate. The geologic point has been overgrown, overrun, razed, rebuilt, burnt, salted and reborn. The entrance is submerged under the earth’s ongoing trauma and humanity’s damaged psyche.

I was of the sea. I was null and void. I was shaped by warring forces, formless beings of immense power and childish jealousy.

I was a malfunction. An afterbirth of titans, angels, demons and gods. I was malformed. I was so hideous no god would claim me. I was so horrible no people would have me.

I was unleashed, without guidance. Without purpose.

I rose from the depths. Destroying life. Igniting change. For millions of years, I existed nowhere. An idea. An illusion.

My impulses would not be controlled. I leapt through time and space. I was made whole in destruction. I was freed by chaos.

I was a scapegoat. The blame for the gods’ abuse of their worshippers was laid at my feet. I wore their shame to save their power.

I had no motive. I simply was.

I fulfilled a million curses from a thousand tongues. I eavesdropped on a million prayers destined for deaf ears.

I was alone.

My names were legion.

I was the Tower of Babel. I was “here there be monsters.” I was revolution. Tyranny. Anarchy. I was the Crusades. I was the smallest creature destroying millions through plague. I was the center of every conflict. I was the false god of mass suicide. I was humanity turning on itself time and time again.

I am carried in a vessel. A man like any other. A constant companion. For hundreds of years. There have been others, but I have been with him the longest.

He is ageless. He exists without a past or future.

He has seen without comprehending. He has moved through others’ lives. Existing without living. His motions are involuntary. He is because I am.

He has begun to resent me. He has acted out of fear and hatred. He has never known peace. Happiness. Love. He wishes to stop. He feels the ache of a hundred centuries. The burdens of a million lives. He is regaining sentience and he seeks closure.

His mind is hollow. His speech, garbled. He writes in code to me. He tells me of his pasts. He is fading.

I have been selfish. I have held on for too long. I moved with him throughout the world, setting plans in motion. Damage. Disrepair. Disarray. He was unaware and complicit. He needs release. He jots down another note on a scrap of paper.


It is unintelligible. A garbled prayer to a god that no one will worship. A mouthless scream in random letters, born of the emotions he has been denied. The dreams that never came. The life he never led.

He is clean, free of worldly entrapments. His possessions are in one suitcase, safely locked away. He has no family. No friends. No home.

He never was.

So I (and We) sit on the beach, gazing into the black, rolling water. He holds a scrap of paper in his right hand. A final request. A begging for the void. A keening noise fills my (his) ears. He turns the paper over. Instead of the usual jumble of letters, I (we) see two words: “Taman shud.”


A thousand years rush back in an instant. An empty vessel. A man. A poet. A philosopher. A scientist. But at this point, where I emerged, still just a man.

The millennium passes. I am back on the sand, gazing into the sea.

His voice finds itself after nine hundred years of silence.


I grant his request. My (his) eyes focus on the sky. His right arm goes numb, and the words (his prayers, his requests) fall to the sand.

I extract myself from him, pulling psychically and physically, propelling myself from his body. The force of my exit ruptures and distorts his organs. I reveal myself briefly and his mind is aflame. His soul thrashes and wails, before fleeing.

I could grasp his soul and devour it. Or ride it to another vessel. But I, too, want to go home.

I can see the future. It shifts and distorts. I see men playing gods. They conquer pain. They remove disease. They blend and fuse genetic ephemera into a fountain of youth. They extend their lives while neglecting the consequences of their actions.

They fail to see that something only has value if it is limited. That a life worth living is forever entwined with eventual death. Without death, there is no essence. No urgency. No importance. Infinity is worthless.

They will continue, compounding error after error in their arrogant efforts to unravel the mysteries of life. For such a learned group, they seem to be unaware that “unravel” has two very different meanings. They seek to unravel the keys to eternity as though they were untangling a length of cord, seeking order from chaos.

Instead, they will unravel life as though it were a fraying scarf, pulling at the thread until all that is left is a worthless tangle of yarn.

All secrets will be reburied. Disorder will stake its claim. They will discover, upon my return, that I am the needle and the haystack.

I return to the sea to gather my strength. Heal my wounds. Hone my edge.

I am alone.

I am a weapon.

My name is Entropy.

And I will return.



Condé Nast Publication’s 2009 Magazine Lineup

August 13, 2009

There are many who have stated that print media is dying. Well, it is, but let’s not let that spoil its last breaths. CondéNast, pusher of fine magazines everywhere has spent the last several years perfecting its lineup, trying to pinpoint exact demographics in hopes of a sale. How exact? See for yourself.

The adult bookstore hadn't been the same since Rudy Giuliani took over

The adult bookstore hadn't been the same since Rudy Giuliani took over

Ostentatious Bullshit Monthly (also includes four yearly specialty issues: Cigar Smoking Asshole, Third Wives’ Gazette; Bugatti Waiting List and Platinum: the Gold Standard)

1,001 Olestra Recipes

Hustler, Jr.

Celebrity Convict Personals

Aztek Enthusiast

Grit High Society

Plaything (a TS/TV offshoot of Playboy, Inc.)

Games Special Edition: Global Thermonuclear War

The Packrat Post (published 4-6 times daily)

Impromptu Fly Swatter Tabloid (featuring tapered pages, lower center of gravity than competing tabloids)

Narcissiste! (printed on reflective Mylar)

1,001 Cleopatra Compilations

Kiplinger’s Guide to Failed Magazines

Fad Diet Enthusiast (a division of O Publications)

1,001 Crochet Projects (Sweater ideas for everyone: From your dachshund to your Real Doll)

Women’s Cycling Monthly (Missing an issue? Contact your physician.)

AARP Swimsuit Issue

Paul Mitchell’s Haircut 100

Roadside Graffittist

Rape Allegation Weekly (a division of NFL Publications)

101 Home Remedies (contains about 50% disclaimers; 30% Merck ads)

Phrenology Today


Mailbag (Nothing but Letters to the Editor!)

American Philatelist (It’s stamp collecting, perverts.)

Conde Nast Annual Corrections and Retractions Issue (2009 issue features over 400 pages of blown calls, sketchy research and half-assed reporting)

HAM Radio Enthusiast (This issue dedicated to all three of you.)

Thrilling Private Eye Stories! (Specializing in divorce, insurance fraud)

Have You Seen Me? (Public awareness magazine brought to you by the US Dairy Council and Concerned Citizens of America: Got kids?)

Dateless Wonder Personals (Thousands of weekly reasons why some people should be single.)

The American Journal of Creationism (Now with 70% more rhetoric; 40% less research!)

Flute World (Tablatures for Jethro Tull and… um… hmmm…. Zamfir!)

4-Color Printing Errors (Or could be the latest issue of Wired. Looks like the CMYK offset may be intentional? Wired it is!)

The American Journal of Serious American Journalism (Subscriptions by invitation only, you filthy bloggers!)

GQ Ads-Only Year End Spectacular (Smells fantastic!)

World’s Best Soylent Green Recipes (A division of People.)

Them Magazine (We’ve been against US Magazine since day one.)



Fancy Plans Guide to the All-New Hardy Boys Adventures

July 3, 2009
After rolling the 2d12, Joe Hardy accidentally summons a "Lumbering Wildcat"

After rolling the 2d12, Joe Hardy accidentally summons a "Lumbering Wildcat"

A quick primer for those of you unfamiliar with the Hardy Boys series of rubber-stamped mysteries.

Frank and Joe Hardy – Fearless, intrepid, fastidious, square. Always just a step or two behind the perpetrators, needing just one more seemingly random coincidence to break the case wide open. In a word: insufferable.

In real life, the only break from peer-group ass-beatings these two would get would come during brief respites as their peers rested and massaged their ass-beating limbs.

Chet– Their “chum,” as he is referred to. Incessantly. Exists solely to provide very occasional comic relief and to ask a stream of questions leading to expositionary dialogue. Some samples:

“Fill me in on the details.”
“Run that by me one more time.”
“How did you know X was involved with Y?”
“How do you figure?”
“Has anyone been referring to you as ‘meddling kids?'”
“Recap the story so far and update us, I mean me, on any recent developments.”

Dad – Shows up in disguise during the last quarter of the book, offering some key insight or piece of damning evidence. Of course, we won’t know this until he shows up in the final chapter to rescue the boys from certain death/dismemberment, usually with some serious law enforcement in tow.

As always, he’ll deliver several paragraphs of exposition detailing his side of the case, which is always something he’s been keeping an eye on for awhile. However, despite his “investigation” he can’t be bothered to make an arrest until his offspring are staring death in the eye.

Mom: Who knows? Busy making cookies and enjoying a constantly empty house?

Which brings us to the here and now. While this series would seem to have joined the Bobbsey Twins and Nancy Drew in the been-there, done-that annals of old-timey serials, there is, of course, money to be made by tapping the nostalgia of their original readers to purchase books for their kids and grandkids.

Here’s what the publishers have lined up for the next wave of Hardy Boys mysteries:

The Case of the Missing Homework
With the day winding down, the insufferable brothers race the clock to remind their teacher that their promised homework hasn’t been assigned yet, much to the dismay of Chet and their other classmates.

The boys soon find themselves in a hairy situation as several of their fellow students gather outside the school to beat their fresh-scrubbed asses. Their dad arrives in the nick of time to defuse the situation, congratulating them on their honorable behavior and taking them out for a malt.

The Riddle of the Mysterious Sext
Someone at the boys’ high school is sending racy pictures and garbled text to their cellphones. Can the boys find the vowels they need to unravel who exactly wants to “do2hawtbros@1nce”? Their dad shows up just in time to confiscate their phones and, consequently, get arrested for possession of child pornography.

The Haunted Amusement Park
The boys are invited to spend a week at Wonderland Ranch. Mystery is soon afoot as the boys discover an eerie lack of “ranch style” animals and an overabundance of “Jesus Juice,” served by monkey butlers.

After several attempts to speak to the owner (who never shows his entire face and refuses to exit his oxygen chamber) about their concerns, the boys lapse into a drunken sleep, occasionally interrupted by disturbing dreams. Their dad shows up at the last minute to rescue the boys and collect a $20 million settlement.

Unfortunately for the boys, no one had used the word "chums" in over 40 years

Unfortunately for the boys, no one had used the word "chums" in over 40 years

The Curse of the Mexican Mule
The boys run afoul of local smugglers during their spring break trip to Cancun. They sober up quickly as they become entangled with a local drug cartel. Badly wounded after their attempt to “talk things out” with the local drug lord (“It’s not just the language barrier, Joe. It’s their awful Mexican ideals!”), the boys are left for dead in the heat of the Sonoran desert.

Their dad cuts short his business trip to Las Vegas to answer the boys’ distress signal and introduce them to their new mom.

Note: This is the first time the series has featured the phrases “full cavity search” and “America’s tough, but fair, drug policies.”

The Purloined Art
The boys assist the RIAA in hunting down the last known Kazaa user in the U.S., a Mrs. Robert Saperstein, whose granddaughter has left 11 songs in a shared folder. Although the computer isn’t functional due to its last Windows Update occurring in June of 2000, the boys, with help from their dad, ensure she gets what’s coming to her: an $880,000 fine and another black eye for the music industry.

The Hometown Incident
A wave of brutal vigilante violence sweeps through the boys’ hometown, spurred on by their success as teenage servers of justice, legal system be damned. Sack-of-doorknob beatings, kangaroo courts and weekly lynch mobs are the norm.

The boys attempt to calm the crowd by explaining that their amateur sleuthing is worlds away from brutalizing random teenage shoplifters, but the boys’ “can-do” spirit and sickeningly cloying speech patterns only fan the flamers. Cooler heads prevail once the boys’ father shows up to paint the town red, rename it “Hell” and declare martial law.

The Secreted Body
A mysterious letter sends the boys to beautiful New Jersey to hunt for the long-missing Jimmy Hoffa. They are soon warned away by colorful locals who “wouldn’t want anything to happen to that mother of yours. When this fails to get a response, they change the veiled threat to cover that “get-out-of-certain-death-free card of yours. You know, your dad.”

The boys find themselves bound for a watery and anonymous death when their father shows up and smooth-talks the boys to freedom, using mainly several million in unmarked bills.

The Runic Photo
The boys uncover an old picture depicting an ancient runic language. They circle the globe looking for the key to unlock the code, visiting ancient Sumeria, Mesopotamia and the local library.

They remain stumped until an anthropologist at Johns Hopkins points out that they are in possession of a badly faded segment from the dust jacket for Led Zeppelin’s fourth album. Their dad arrives just in time to laugh his ass off, before getting stoned with the good doctor in his basement.

The secret is: gets you drunk for cheap

The secret is: gets you drunk for cheap


The Errant Portal
During a quest to retrieve an overdue book for the school library, the boys stumble across an inscription containing the “God number,” which allows them to travel freely to and from the past. After an extended visit to yesteryear, the boys return to find the world nearly destroyed.

The boys and their father speculate on what could have triggered this cataclysm:
“When Chet called Mother Theresa a whore…”
“When Joe shoved Einstein down that flight of stairs…”
“When Dad knocked up Joan of Arc…”

Their dad makes a few quick jumps and everything is soon back to normal. Or is it?
Note: It is.

The Case of the Missing Uncle
The boys discover that their Uncle Art never returned from his trip to Sweden. A discussion with Aunt Margaret only further confuses the matter as she is now living with Aunt Amy, whom they had never met before.

Before the boys can delve any deeper into this matter, their dad shows up to give them “the talk.” Dad explains, “Remember when I got a divorce from mom, because of you two?”
“You said that wasn’t our fault!”
“Your mom said that. Anyway, it turns out that she left because she didn’t like herself and wanted to be a different person. So… Art divorced your Aunt Marge so he could be someone else who definitely isn’t your Aunt Amy, so let’s have no further questions about either of these two perverts whom you will never be seeing again.”

The Darkest Hour
With their business winding down due to a lack of interest or remaining, unincarcerated criminals, the boys begin hawking their mystery-solving skills door-to-door. They begin to help/annoy the locals by finding answers to their problems. Here are a few:

The Mysterious Machine
Not really considered canon due to A.) its crossover with the Scooby Doo characters and B.) it being a piece of very sexually explicit fan fiction, dealing with the van being in a near-constant state of “a-rockin,” often with Scooby himself involved.



Book of the Month Club: Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: The War Within

June 22, 2009
Hi, Jeff. I just got a copy of your book, and I've got some bad news for you...

Hi, Jeff. I just got a copy of your book, and I've got some bad news for you...

Tom Clancy’s latest book is headed for the airport book racks everywhere. Another intriguing tale of cloak-and-dagger intrigue set against the backdrop of current events, Clancy again teams up with long-time co-writer Jeff Rovin for this intense tale of espionage, suspense and breathtaking intrigue. As a bonus, fan favorite Jack Ryan plays a major role.

Jeff Rovin, known for movie novelizations of such cinema classics as Mortal Kombat, Cliffhanger and April Fool’s Day, has recently severed ties with the monolithic Clancy Industries novel mill, in an effort to finally have his name appear on the front cover of a book he actually authored.

We have been privileged enough to secure an early manuscript with some markup from the man himself, Tom Clancy. Let’s take a peek:

   Jack gazed at the monitors intently. He and his trusted friend, Matt Stoll, were in the depths of the NORAD/SATCOM subbasement. He spoke quietly to Matt Stoll, the computer genius.
   “Pull me up a list of time-sensitive events from the NSA’s log.” He spoke quietly, adding no more details than necessary. Matt was a computer genius, and he often knew exactly what Jack was looking for before Ryan even knew it himself.
   Matt’s fingers minced danced across the keyboard. Acronym after acronym STFU, WTF, OMGWTFBBQ flashed across the screen. Jack stared intently at the monitor, seeking to make sense of this random pattern.
   “Stop there,” Jack shouted quietly. “Scroll back a bit.”
   They both saw it at once, a profile shot of goatse Roll Fizzlebeef.
   “Where do I know him from?” Jack asked to no one in particular quietly.
   Then it came on to him. 1982. The White House lawn. Fizzlebeef had been protesting President Carter’s oil policies. Just before White House security had covered the lawn, Jack had shut him up with a stern look and an ether-soaked rag.
   “Fizzlebeef!” he spat quietly. “A complete degenerate. His anti-American activities run the gamut, from hiring non-union autoworkers to laughing at David Letterman’s inappropriate jokes.”
   Stoll spoke to Ryan. “It seems he is looking to collaborate with the French Muslim contingent. There’s info here on flights, sightseeing tours, rabble-rousing speeches and a purchase of a English-to-French-to-Scribbly dictionary at the Leeds Airport Barnes & Noble.”
   “The French?” Ryan snorted wide rails of coke derisively. “Those beret-wearing cupcakes couldn’t terrorize their way out of a wet public transportation system.”
   Stoll laughed quietly. He asked intently, “Why would an American want to harm our country?”
   Sometimes Stoll’s naivete was too much, computer genius or no. Ryan spoke slowly, using small words quietly,”People in this country are privileged. Sometimes too much. They like the idea of their freedom, but don’t want the responsibility that comes with it. Warrantless wiretaps, TSA strip searches, your Social Security Number on everything. These are a small price to pay for the rights we have remaining enjoy.”
   “We’ll get him. Fizzlebeef and his whole cadre. We always do. The enemy almost always makes the mistake of underestimating our intelligence slightly more than we underestimate theirs.”
   Another terrorist plot? Ryan instinctively thought of his mistress wife, a molecular biologist at Stanford. He thought back to when they first met, as idealistic college students. He remembered her brain being just as enticing as her stunning head technique good looks. They would often stay up late into the night, going ass-to-ass head-to-head on political issues.
   He sighed quietly and intently…
(I’ve seen enough. Not enough acronyms. No product placement. Not nearly enough jingoism. And I don’t know what you think you’re going to sneak by me with these various sick interjections. Come see me immediately. — TC)
(Fuck you, you lazy hack! Come find me! — JR)
(Fuck me? Fuck me??!! I run this goddam country you fuckin commie, fuck you! — TC
P.S. Please come see me. I’ll need you to turn in your security badge, IBM Selectric and miniature American flag. Thank you. — TC)

Well… That ended awkwardly. Godspeed, Jeff. I hope there are many mediocre blockbusters in your future. Tom, I’m sure there are any number of lousy, unpublished who would kill foreigners for a position in your novel mills.


For more well-written hatin’ on popular authors see this site: The Thriller in a Manila…


Fancy Plans… Book of the Month Club: Clive Cussler’s Sparta

June 19, 2009
Actual cover art TK, but should only involve changing the title and adding 8% to the cyan

Actual cover art TK, but should only involve changing the title and adding 8% to the cyan

Clive Cussler, author of over 800 novels, returns with another gripping tale of adventure on the high seas. In the latest installment of the neverending Dirk Pitt saga, Dirk finds himself on the maiden voyage of the Sparta, an experimental submarine handcrafted by eccentric billionaire, Roll Fizzlebeef.

Sparta features the steady co-writing of Paul Kemprecos, the show horse of the Cussler novel farm, which means he gets his own word processor, desk, corner office, and, should the book sell over 2.5 million copies, his choice of Cussler’s many virgin daughters. If you look carefully at the dust jacket, you can almost make out his name below the 240-point type announcing that CLIVE FUCKING CUSSLER has agreed to take credit for someone else’s work.

Here’s an excerpt:

They were sinking too fast. The intercom crackled, summoning Pitt to the bowels of the submarine.
   Pitt hustled to the engine room. Fizzlebeef and his crew were bathed in the eerie red light of the control console. Dirk inhaled the heady scent of seamen and engine oil.
   “The engine’s running too hard,” the crew chief informed him. “There’s too much pressure. The nuts are about to blow.” Dirk’s fingers traced the nuts pensively, feeling them strain from the pressure, swelling as if to meet his touch.
   “It’ll seize up completely if we don’t lubricate it.” The voice of Roll came from behind Dirk. He turned to face the captain. Fizzlebeef was a monster of a man, hard as a rock, his shirtless chest glistening with sweat.
   “Grab that lube,” he ordered, “We’ve got to get the driveshaft moving again.” Dirk handed the tube to the captain. Roll bent over the engine and shot a massive load onto the shaft. Swiftly, he began rubbing the massive shaft with both hands.
   “It’s too hot!” he declared. “I’m not sure if this will help relieve the pressure or not.” Dirk quickly knelt down and assisted Fizzlebeef, massaging oil into the underside of the exposed shaft.
   The motor began to shake. A piercing noise filled the engine room. The keening noise reached a climax. The motor shuddered heavily before exploding, showering the men with its hot, steaming load.
   The lights went out. Above them a catwalk collapsed, raining men onto the floor below.
   Dirk heard a cry from the crew chief. “Sweet Jesus. It’s so deep inside me.” Part of the shaft had come loose and penetrated the young man. He gasped loudly as Dirk gently inserted two fingers into the hole. Dirk continued to push in deeper until he reached the end of the shaft.
   Another loud gasp came from the chief. His heart had stopped.
  Quickly, Dirk located the now-limp organ and began rubbing and squeezing it. He worked slowly at first, feeling for any sign of life. As it began to pulse and stiffen, Dirk began massaging it more vigorously. The organ filled with blood and began to throb and push against Pitt’s hand. Dirk turned his attention to the other limp and prone crew members.
   He began to clear a path to the backup generator. He groped around in the dark, gathering fallen seamen with both hands and pushing them into any opening he could find. He flipped on the breaker and heard the backup engines roar to life. The craft began to rise steadily, urged on by the long strokes of the pumping pistons.
   Pitt’s relief was short-lived. The backup engines ground to a halt and the lights flickered out. Dirk felt the crushing despair and helplessness of a prisoner whose furlough has just been revoked. One instant: an escape from a death sentence aboard a watery prison. The next: being pushed to his knees by the invisible sweaty, tattooed hands of fate.
   Dirk looked at the crew and saw his fears reflected in their eyes.
   They had no choice.
   They were going down.

Wow! Intense and gripping! I’m willing to bet Cussler and his lifetime companion Kemprecos will gain an entirely new audience with this tour de force. The give-and-take between the authors is exhilarating, watching them try new angles and positions tirelessly, constantly trying to do each other one better. Until next time…


Quick addendum: Check out this fine website for more fun with Cussler.
The Thriller in a Manila


CLT’s Hand-Cranked Quote Machine v.4

March 7, 2009
"Not" a crook

"Graceful Exit"

This should be the final quotes post. For now. If you would like a transcript of these posts, please send $29.95 (American or Zimbabwean currency only, please) to:

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Not a shred of evidence exists in favor of the idea that life is serious.
Brendan Gill

Ah, love. The walks over soft grass, the smiles over candlelight, the arguments over just about everything else.
Max Headroom

Marriage succeeds love as smoke does a flame.
Nicholas Chamfort

Classical music is the kind we keep thinking will turn into a tune.
Kin Hubbard

There are two kinds of music – good music and bad music. Good music is the music I want to hear. Bad music is music that I don’t want to hear.
Fran Lebowitz

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