This morning’s email from Mgmt included a couple of options for blog entries today. I hate both of them. To wit:
Lexicology post: “Word of the Day: Lollygag. Because isn’t that what we all secretly do on Fridays?”
Lucubrations post: “The sweet agony of Fridays: A nocturnal reflection.” “Why don’t you like either of these?”
Lollygag isn’t a cool enough word, and I don’t even know what this horseshit about the sweet agony of Fridays is even about.
“So what do you want to do?”
I dunno…not this. How about some jokes?
“Because your jokes are, far more often than not, completely unacceptable and inappropriate.”
Exactly. That’s what people need now, even if they don’t know it. Even if they’ve been so beaten into submission that they’ve forgotten how to laugh at things that are legitimately funny, even though they are likely offensive.
“But your jokes are way over the line.”
What line? I don’t subscribe to any line. And I feel exactly zero obligation to acknowledge, let alone adhere, to someone else’s bullshitty line.
“Fine. What jokes would you tell?”
I went to a paraplegic strip club.
“Oh no.”
The place was literally crawling with pussy.
“Absolutely not. Do you realize how many levels that’s offensive on?”
That’s what makes it funny. What is with you people and being offended? As if that actually matters. How about this one: What’s the best part of a hooker dying on you?
“You understand that even the set-ups for these jokes are offensive.”
I truly don’t. And I’m a fucking writer…it’s my job to be offensive!
“Your job is to sell books.”
No, my job is to write books. It’s your job to sell them. Now: what’s the best part of a hooker dying on you?
“….”
The second hour is free.
“That’s not funny.”
It sure as hell is.
“It’s in bad taste.”
That’s kind of my whole deal. In bad taste but…always accurate.
“What about answering some of your reader mail…we have one digital metric ton of emails we’ve received for you, and you haven’t even read, let alone responded to, any of them.”
Because the people that write in are generally BSC.
“They’re what?”
It’s a clinical term: Bat Shit Crazy. But go ahead…send me a letter, I’ll respond.
“Okay. Thank you. Here you go:”
Dear Diary of a Viagra Fiend,
I must confess, I’ve been an ardent fan of your work for quite some time now. But it’s not just the belly laughs or the guffaws that have me hooked. Oh no, dear friend. It’s how your words have magically transformed my morning ritual from a mundane chore into a caffeinated comedy club.
Every morning, as the sun peeks over the horizon, I trudge into my kitchen, half-asleep and fully grumpy. The coffee pot is my first stop, my oasis in the desert of dawn. As the dark, aromatic liquid fills my cup, I reach for your book, and suddenly, my kitchen morphs into a stage for your shenanigans.
Now, here’s the funny part (pun totally intended). I swear on my grandmother’s poodle that your words somehow make my coffee taste better. No, I haven’t lost my marbles. Stick with me here.
As I read your tales, I can’t help but chuckle, snort, or even downright laugh out loud. And let me tell you, there’s nothing like a good belly laugh to kickstart the ol’ taste buds. Suddenly, my coffee tastes richer, bolder, more…alive.
It’s like your humor has a secret ingredient that, when mixed with caffeine, creates a superpower of sensory delight. Is it in the sarcasm? The irony? Maybe it’s the rhetorical questions that make me feel like I’m part of your coffee-loving audience. Or perhaps it’s the exaggerated stories that make even my most dreary mornings feel like a sitcom.
Whatever it is, your writing has turned my daily dose of caffeine into a full-blown comedy roast (get it? Roast? I’ve been learning from the best!). So thank you, dear Diary of a Viagra Fiend. Your words do more than just entertain. They awaken my senses, tickly my funny bone, and yes, make my coffee taste better.
You need to publish another book. Please! Keep the laughs coming.
Yours in caffeine and comedy,
Janice
Jesus. What am I supposed to do with this? My book makes her coffee taste better? She’s clearly disturbed. And the letter seems to be to my book, not to me.
“I doubt that she’s actually disturbed. Do you think your readers are disturbed?”
You have no idea. Someone sent me a finger a couple of years ago.
“Jesus.”
Jesus indeed.
“She wants you to put something else out. That seems to be a recurring theme with these letters. Maybe you could talk about the 20th Anniversary Edition of ‘Diary.’
I haven’t signed off on that yet. And that wouldn’t be until 2025. I’m far more interested in 2024.
“So talk about 2024.”
I don’t want to. 2024’s going to happen whether I talk about it or not.
“You are, far and away, the most difficult client we have.”
Thank you. That means a great deal to me.
N.P.: “Dragon” – Galaxie
