Excuse me? Hello? I'd like to speak to whoever is in charge of this blog. The oaf responsible for posting regularly has been seriously slacking off, and I'm thinking a little discipline is in order. I understand the author has a thing for diet Coke; perhaps we could take away - aaauugh! mmf! oof! ow-ow-ow! ok, ok, I'm going, leggo my hair...
Good heavens! I get distracted for a few days and some kook drops in to complain to the management. Don't worry; I dispatched them the second they started threatening my diet Coke. Can't have a bunch of maniacs running around the place. It's safe now; you can come out.
So, nice to see you all again. Keeping well? Families fine? Good, good.
Now, on to more pressing matters, namely me.
I have been super, uber, crazy busy this week, not only writing up a storm, but also the flooding, property damage, and FEMA demands that go with it. And I'm happy to report, things are simply clipping along in my novel. Meaning I haven't written a syllable in it since my last post. Shut up. Have you written anything in my novel since my last post? All righty then, enough with the judging.
To be honest, I'm looking for a few suggestions to help move the plot along. Maybe you can help.
When last we saw them, our hero and his two wild and crazy daughters had barely escaped with their lives after aliens or maybe a wrathful god or someone (I'll work that out in the revision stage) had firebombed their city and turned all of the inhabitants into very surprised-looking briquettes. All of them except our hero's wife, that is. She got turned into a pound of "I Can't Believe it's Not Butter".
Here's where it gets tricky: Evidently, this guy's two daughters have squeaky cheese for brains, because they seem to be under the impression that since their city is a giant smoking crater, everyone's city is a giant smoking crater. This has them feeling somewhat chagrined and discombobulated, on accounta their boyfriends are now pretty useless for anything beyond grilling up a nice T-bone, and as far as they know, ol' papa-san is currently the last male on earth.
Setting aside for the moment the fact that these young women really could have benefited from the occasional family outing to the beach or Disney-Egypt or someplace with - work with me here - other humans, which of the following plot lines is most likely to be both credible and inoffensive to the millions upon millions of sensitive readers who no doubt will be buying my book?
a) The girls, desperate to become single mothers so they can sign up for WIC as soon as it's invented, get their father so thoroughly plastered (because, while they forgot to snag a couple of guys and maybe a travel brochure on their way out of town, they did remember the booze) that when they each take their "turns" with him, he wakes up the next morning with absolutely no memory of the party the night before.
b) The dad, having been driven criminally insane upon learning that his daughters won't be getting married any time soon (see "briquettes"), devises a plan wherein he goes to another town - because, luckily, he just has regular cheese in his head, so he knows that there is such a thing as "another town" - and threatens to kill all the men if they don't convert to his religion. And since he's got them pretty darn spooked (it's the post-apocalyptic smoke still swirling out of his hair that makes him so menacing) they agree to his terms. Unfortunately, this requires that every man over the age of 13 undergo a little 'procedure' that involves the kind of pain and inconvenience that women could take care of on their lunch break before heading back into the rice paddy, but which apparently renders men nearly catatonic and completely incapable of leaving their Barc-o-Lounger or lifting anything heavier than the TV remote. And when all the guys are napping with ice packs in their laps, the vengeful dad scampers through town, killing everybody and stealing their cable.
c) One of the daughters wanders into a cave, fires up her laptop, and writes a novel about her weird new life in the desert and her confusion over why she can't stop thinking about barbecued ribs, and she's giving some thought to using a couple of words that her wonderful, faithful, temple worker father said a hundred and fifty seven times per sentence before he died, so who knows how many times he's saying them now that he's joined her wonderful, faithful, coal mining grandfather and her other wonderful, truck driving, former sailor grandfather in heaven, and those words are eensy, teensy, minor compared with what those Barc-o-Lounger dudes were no doubt saying, and besides, she's not even sure she's really going to use them at all but she sometimes gets her jollies tweaking folks who take themselves a bit too seriously. And suddenly, her computer is filled with comments written by invisible saints who, when they see her at church, smile and call her "Sister Squeaky Cheese Head", but who secretly think that Outer Darkness isn't nearly dark enough for her so when she's thrust there she'd dang well better close her eyes just for good measure.
So? Which direction should we take? I hope you don't vote "C" because I think it's almost too implausible.
Now, on to less hypothetical subjects. Consider the following items as teasers:
What if I told you that there would soon be a book available, written by some of your favorite bloggers, like, as a ferinstance, Braden Bell, Debbie Frampton, Ken Craig, Abe Yospe, and yes, wait for it, DeNae Handy (if we can get her to clean up her language)?
Would you want one? Would you want, say, eleven?
Well, it's not going to happen. I mean, sure, I'd love to see a book like that in print. Gosh, who wouldn't? But it seems that three of the above writers (I won't say who because I'm mature and I respect their privacy but their names rhyme with "Shmaden Shmell", "Shmebbie Shmampton", and "Shmabe Shmospe") haven't sent anything in to our editors yet, which means we may miss our publication deadline, and you, my darling bloggy pals, will have nothing to give to the pool guy next Valentine's Day. I have conveniently linked those writers' names to their blogs; why don't you drop by and offer them a little encouragement? Say something like, "I don't want to sound menacing, but do you have a Barc-o-Lounger? Cuz you may need one if you don't get those essays to DeNae by October 1st." I know they'll totally appreciate your support.
And what if I told you that sometime around Thanksgiving there will be a collection of musical arrangements, written for accordion, didgeridoo and armpit, available for download from this very blog or maybe another one that I haven't made up yet? Well, again, prepare to be disappointed. The collection is actually Christmas songs, arranged for piano and C-instrument solo, duet, or trio. Sheet music, not recorded music. That's Sherrie's bailiwick. Would you C-instrument players and your pianist friends be simply widdling yourselves with anticipation? Well, that's good to know.
And finally, what if I told you that there are still a few tickets left for the Bloggy Boot Camp in St. George November 13, and that Kristina took a survey of which speakers her readers would want to hear from the most, and I was the number one favorite after Jessica Bern, Kristina Pulsipher, Stephanie Hansen, Sugar Jones, Miri Leigh, Ted Rubin, and Alfie, the Yodeling Llama? Would that news have you selling a kidney or maybe one of your lazier children to register and come join the fun? Why, of COURSE it would! Do it! Do it now! Before all the tickets are gone or humans evolve out of their need for spare organs!
And after you've done that, will you please come back here and work on my novel? Clearly, I am far too busy to finish it myself.
Just remember to keep it clean. Drunken incest and mass murder may be well and good, but I absolutely draw the line at any biblical stuff.