Finally, a Codpiece Held on by Velcro

I spoke too soon, which is almost always the case.

I said the title problem with my book was resolved. It pretty much is, but yesterday I got an email from my editor, saying he hadn't noticed "The Nigerian Candidate" when I suggested it a week or two ago. He said he liked that title a lot. And it goes with the subtitle "A Fat American Tortures Really Stupid Foreign Spammers," instead of the original "How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Spam."

You might enjoy part of the email I sent back to him.

I love the subtitle, but I think it ought to be "Fat Rich American," because that makes it snottier. "Fat" without "Rich" doesn't have the same effect. But the original subtitle is really good, too, and it's smarter, and regardless of what the romance lady says, EVERYONE gets it immediately. I hate writing down to an audience.

Is she riding you about this? The next time she brings a romance in, you should stand up and say, 'Let's call it "Knees up, Mouth Closed."'

By the way, I just today realized I had left the story of Smith Bowani out of the book. I convinced this idiot that I was various people, including Stephie Hopkins's personal assistants, Mabel Sirrup and Mrs. Butterworth. He's the one in the photo I sent, holding a card reading 'Mabel Sirrup.' I told him Stephie was paralyzed after being run over by the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile.

Can you believe a grown-up man gets to write things like that as part of his JOB?

Couple of photos I published a long time ago:

Stephie's nemesis, Darth Mayer, and his fully armed and operational Death Wiener

Click the thumb for a good giggle.

A strangely agitated commenter said I shouldn't complain about being ignored by A-list bloggers, because Tucker Max and Maddox and I are popular and the A-list bloggers aren't. That was really flattering, except for one thing. Tucker Max has a bestseller, and Maddox is at the top of the Amazon list, and I'm still farting along on the Internet at 1400 visits per day.

Other than that, you know, THANKS.

Hey, I got a BlogAd yesterday. So that's 12 bucks to the good, right? Although Henry Copeland took part of it. It's rough, having a pimp. I tried to talk him out of it, but he told me to get my bitch ass back to the keyboard and make him some money. Or no more smack.

If I were Henry Copeland, I think I'd buy myself some chartreuse suits and some multicolored alligator shoes and some bling and an old Eldorado convertible and make a couple of hot young "assistants" drive me around while I drank Thunderbird in the back seat. Why not? It's not like people would stop doing business with him. Except for the Pajamanians. They have their own pimp. And he already has a nice hat.

In other news, I'm up to page thirty-seven of my hot new romance novel, Knees Up, Mouth Closed. We're already having a title dispute. I wanted to call it Knees Up, Mouth Closed, BITCH, but I got a lot of flak from an editor who says it may be mistaken for George Michael's biography, which has almost the same name.

The main character is a guy named Egan Pumpwell. Women love rich-sounding first names like Egan. Egan is going to be a sensitive pirate. Many times in the past I have pointed out that every romance novel needs a sensitive pirate, because that's the kind of nonsensical ideal immature women (i.e. the majority) dream about. Egan will never wear a shirt, because he has to pose on the cover with his abs on display and both nipples in the wind and just a hint of a Woodrow. I may leave the pants off, too. I'll have him wear a big macho pirate belt with suggestive sword hanging from it, and instead of pants he can wear grease paint that matches his spandex jockstrap.

You know what the heroes of romance novels are? They're Chippendale dancers, acting out the roles suggested by their costumes. Seriously. I've never been to a male strip club (except as a performer and midget wrangler), but I've seen pictures. Take a photo of a male stripper, before the clothes come off, and you have the cover of a Barbara Cartland novel. Barbara herself looked like Gore Vidal in drag, but that's another matter entirely.

When I die, I want to go to immature people's heaven. The men will all be sensitive pirates with no pants, and the women will be fighting in fountains about whether Miller Lite tastes great or is less filling or is just basically carbonated pee. And Survivor will be on every night, even though every TV has 10 to the 53rd power channels and never gets turned off, even when guests come over for wife-swapping parties.

Anyway, Egan is a concert pianist when he's not raping people kidnapped from other ships, and in his spare time, he protests seal hunts, works with retarded kids, and writes haiku. Not "haikus." "Haiku." In addition, he never farts or leaves the seat up, and his penis is approximately seven feet long. He beats a lot of people up and cuts their throats and so on, but he generally has a good reason, and anyway, his lady love, Autumn Crevice, knows she can change him. The crew has noticed that Autumn looks a lot like a young Gore Vidal with tits the size of mop buckets, but they're afraid to say anything, because they know Egan will whip their ass.

Autumn started out as a captive, but after Egan raped her fifty or sixty times, she started to like it, and she forgives him, because she knows it was just the hurt little boy inside him, "acting out." She still has to sleep chained to a bulkhead, but now it's a consensual thing.

Autumn has a rival. Silver Crease. Sometimes she distracts Egan, but that's only because she's a flashy little whore who waves her boobs in his face, and one day, the bitch is going to get hers, possibly by being gang-raped by crocodiles while on fire and being eaten by ants, and that will bring Autumn about nine hundred times the pleasure Egan ever gave her with an orgasm, because what women love more than anything is seeing better-looking women in agony.

It needs a little fleshing out, and maybe a plot, but I think it has legs. Egan should probably turn out to be the lost heir to the French throne, without seeming French enough to give off a gay vibe.

That's all I have at the moment, but I'm planning to eat some peyote later on.