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Addict
Join Date: Aug 2003
Location: Riverside, California
Gender: Male
Posts: 128
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No Title in Mind...HAS A LITTLE NAUGHTY LANGUAGE...
Here is a horrible short story that I concoted and wish to be ridiculed for, I'm thinking of turning it into a novel, by the way after my long absence it is nice to be back haunting the forums once again, Enjoy!!
Title: Sugar Bear...You know...like the Elton John song...
Begin Story Here:
Prologue: Disclaimer: The author wishes it to be known that this work is entirely a work of fiction and any similarity between the characters in this work and real persons, places, or things are, in fact, completely intentional. Furthermore, this work is an experiment in fiction-literature and is not literally intended to be taken literally…(I’m so clever)…no pun intended…so please place tongue firmly in cheek while reading this…stuff…and suspend disbelief for a few moments…Thank You
- The Author
Chapter 1: Why does every novel start out with chapter 1, wouldn’t it be fun to start with chapter 87 instead? Peace!
Writing twenty pages seems easy, doesn’t it? Just sit down at the desk, place your fingers on home row and begin…click…click…tap…tap…tap…click…STOP
Two lines into the first page you realize, “I have nothing to say”. Poring for hours on end over countless “inspirational works,” those manuscripts that have yet to be published, making you feel like your lack of accomplishment is the same as others’, making you feel less desperate, only to be left with a blinking cursor…blink…blink…blink…
It taunts you with a rhythmic motion; “Shit,” you say to no one in particular, while your cat promptly vomits on the kitchen floor. “Shit,” you repeat.
Five minutes later you’re parked in front of the T.V. wearing nothing but tighty-whities and eating a gallon of low-carb chocolate ice cream while chain smoking Marlboro Mediums, because the Lights are like smoking air and the Reds make your throat scratchy and give you headaches. Meanwhile the vomit solidifies and dries onto a nice pink-yellow-salmon-fuchsia stain on the floor…someone will get it later.
Welcome to my glamorous life. Strike that, this situation doesn’t even qualify as such, the sarcasm isn’t sarcastic enough, you have to be witty to be sarcastic and you have to be sarcastic to be witty, other times you just drivel nonsense and call it art. Whatever. Welcome to the life of aspiring writer Jason H. Schoch, the H. doesn’t stand for anything; it’s just something you have to do to make yourself sound cool, and differentiate yourself from the pack. I mean, come on, how many writers out there would write themselves into their own novel and then have the gall to expect a publishing house to read it. Oh by the way, I plan for this novel to be no more than fifty pages long, the publisher should be able to charge no more than $8.99 for this piece of work, and you, the dear reader, wallets with reading glasses, will most likely purchase this book for three reasons and within those reason there are two subreasons:
1) You heard all the bad press that this sorry work got and you decided to purchase out of:
a. Genuine Interest
b. Pity for the author
2) You heard from a friend how avant-guard this work was and decided to read it for yourself:
a. sub reason a is an explanation of the absence of text from subreason b: no reason, just felt like it
b. blank
3) You heard the work become critically acclaimed and go on to make the author a billionaire like that chick from Harry Potter
a. BTW (I’m net-savvy) I do not condone referring to women as chick, broad or dame will do quite nicely
b. Yes, those words have such an anachronistic feel about them; agree?
I like Yuban coffee.
You know how writing in the first person is supposed to be the easiest form of writing, because it’s just like having an inner monologue? Well, everything is relative. It’s easier than writing in the third person, yet not as easy as watching T.V.
If your still reading this, I would advise you to close the book now and go spend your time doing something productive like writing a screenplay. Or if you’re watching this go storm out to the ticket counter and demand your money back. This is not worth your hard earned cash or your time.
For the rest of you, all I have to say is, “I’m sorry.” Apologies sound so weak
The following is the productive of constructive procrastination.
Its 10 am on a Sunday and we see our hero sprawled out in bed, shirtless with a wristband, no two wristbands around his wrist. (Who didn’t see that coming) Oh, by the way, this is not one of those happy, go-lucky, morality tales that is supposed to teach you a lesson at the end, it is the product of the same apathy and disenchantment with modern American culture that allowed films such as Fight Club and Blade Runner to find an audience.
Chapter 2: There was a point to this somewhere…wait…wait…let me see…oh yeah, its over there! Why don’t you have a girlfriend yet?
Stalling….Stalling…Stalling…Need to write pages…over-active imagination…deadlines+impotence=bad times…
Chapter 3: In the search for the origin of the cosmos, scientists have found…the following public service announcement is sponsored by…
Sometimes, I get fed up with consumer capitalism. Yeah, I know that we are all slaves to the man and that is our lot in life to accept, but does anyone else feel insulted by the level of programming that is espoused to us by commercials?
In fact, every time I see a commercial I make a point of not buying the product just to spite the company advertising it. Yet, I do love to drive my 2002 Nissan Altima around while wearing my Anchor Blue jeans and Dickies shirt…such quality at low prices is hard to beat…SHIFT…Perspective
MMMMM…..Capitalism
Chapter 4: Enter the obligatory female love interest…stage right…Nolden…
What the hell kinda name is Nolden for a female love interest…no wonder this guy can’t get published…stupid loser…
I was driving down the street one day listening to the radio…I think, Jukebox Hero by that band…uhhh…Foreigner…or something was playing. Anywas, one day I was driving down the street and…
…then I saw her there…Jukebox hero…stars in his eyes…he had one guitar…keep rockin’…now I’m a believer…
I thought I remembered what she looked like…but I can’t so I’ll make something up…didn’t she have blonde hair…I think she was wearing some kind of shirt…she was a girl…chick…woman…whatever you want to call her…
And then she looked at me and I looked at her and it was like, so totally a connection between us, you know?
Vernacular…Baah
I saw her again when I went to get breakfast…I can see the book review now…Jason’s unending commentary ruined the flow of the entire story… I give it two Weinstein’s down…Bob and Harvey want nothing to do with this piece of crap…
I was sitting there, minding my own business when all of a sudden this chick Nolden walks up to me and asks me for a quarter to use the phone. I replied, “Yes, I think I have a quarter somewhere..."
Chapter 5: Blonde or Brunette? You decide…
Hair color is one of those things that is subjective…obviously the product of an ill educated slum of a human being…
This is especially true in matters of women’s hair color…a blonde could be a brunette…a brunette could be a blonde…both blondes and brunettes could be both blondes and brunettes…and then there’s redheads….
I leave it up to you to decide which Nolden is….
As I was driving down the street, Nolden knocks on the car window and asks if I have a quarter so she could make a phone call, you see I had met her earlier at the diner for breakfast, I though I already gave her a quarter but I guess she needed another one.
In the meantime, while I was searching for two bits, Nolden jumps in the car Dukes-a-Hazard style and puts a knife against my throat; “Take me to the fuckin’ cleaners,” she says.
“What?” I replied.
“Exactly,” she replied.
So we drove to the cleaners…Led Zeppelin III kickin ass in my 8-track player…
We eventually got there a little past 8pm and we walked inside. She went to the counter and she picked up two red sweaters, a blonde colored blazer and fourteen brunette skirts. I thought those hair styles went out of fashion years ago…apparently not. She gave the dry cleaning woman 10 dollars and eighty-seven cents and a wink and we promptly left the cleaners.
“That was easy,” she said.
“What?”
“Exactly,” she replied
As we walked out of the cleaners she began to talk to me at length about various stuff. She had on knee-high leather boots, a red mini-skirt, a red cardigan sweater, with a polk-a-dot shirt underneath and, in my mind at least, was wearing straight blonde hair.
Chapter 6: The conversation…what happened after…thirty days in the hole…impatient writer spouting drivel…
TO BE CONTINUED
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