How I Love Thee, "Literature"

Mr. Fillion, I absolutely refuse to READ anything until you take off your shirt.

I'll wait.

Goodknight, Terrible Cliche

Isn't it time to retire the whole "knight" as "night" thing? Please? I'm starting a movement here and now.

I, as a content creator, agree to never use knight/night in a cutesy way. It's not original, it's just lazy, like eating microwave popcorn for dinner -- the first time, it was novel, but over and over again it's sad. I also agree to never give a character the last name of Knight, because Knight Rider did that better than I ever could and every further use of Knight as a last name is obnoxious.

Signed:

1. Lucy Woodhull
2. _________________

PASS IT ON

If You Want to Sneak Away to theWaterfall With the Dastardly Duke,Turn to Page 12

I recently mentioned to my husband that I was thinking of attempting a "Choose Your Own Adventure" romance. Awesome, right? I had been looking for one of the original 80s CYOA books in every thrift store I visited to no avail. Since it had been many years since I read one of them, I needed a primer on exactly what the format was and how the possibilities and choices unfolded for the reader.

Last week I began fleshing out a plot bunny that first attacked me months ago, and I considered that it would be especially fun as a Choose Your Own Adventure romance novel. Ricky to the rescue! After he visited his parent's house for a couple of weeks he came home and handed me this boxed set:


Isn't he the best? It's from 1981 and the set contains CYOA numbers 6, 8, 9 & 10. Poor number seven appears to be MIA. Perhaps it chose to be a lone ranger.

Number ten is The Lost Jewels of Nabooti.



It looks as if it will prove to be mildly offensive in that 1980s un-PC sort of way.

I intend to read them to get a sense of how they flow and how the stories loop back on themselves. They promise "You can read each of these books at least 100 times and never read the same story twice!" I'm curious to see how a story that could end 36 different ways could apply to a genre in which the story must end with a happily ever after.

And lookee! I had forgotten that these books had illustrations.



Just think of the possibilities in a romance picture book. Yeah, baby! I'll take the Duke on page 25, please - and the position on page 42.

SAVE THE UNICORN!

Friends,

I believe that you know, if you've read the blog for more than one minute, that I love the Unicorn. 'Tis a noble beast, and magical, and pretty to look at. Plus, they are super good at making those pretty rosette things out of radishes.

As such, it came as a great shock to me that Unicorns are being ruthlessly slaughtered for their meat:

Woe betide me! How can such a great tragedy happen here in America, land of the free and home of the braves? (Um, except that we slaughtered a lot of Native American braves, so maybe this shouldn't come as such a surprise.)

This disgusting verbiage comes straight from the murderers' website, ThinkGeek.com:

Pâté is passé. Unicorn - the new white meat.

Excellent source of sparkles!

Unicorns, as we all know, frolic all over the world, pooping rainbows and marshmallows wherever they go. What you don't know is that when unicorns reach the end of their lifespan, they are drawn to County Meath, Ireland. The Sisters at Radiant Farms have dedicated their lives to nursing these elegant creatures through their final days. Taking a cue from the Kobe beef industry, they massage each unicorn's coat with Guinness daily and fatten them on a diet comprised entirely of candy corn.

FIRST OF ALL - Unicorns fart rainbows, they don't poop them. Sometimes they vomit them (see Exhibit 1). What they poop is harmony. EVERYONE KNOWS THIS, EVILDOERS. How can you betray the beautiful Unicorn and not even get their sciencey biological facts right? It is a slap in the face to every Unicorn, which is not worse than slaughtering them, but is still not nice.

EXHIBIT 1

SECOND OF ALL - The fact that the Unicorn killers are nuns just makes it all the worse. Maria from The Sound of Music would never do that! She would sing to a unicorn, or at least dress it in a curtain, no matter how old it was. Would you, vile sisters of God Satan, want to be ground up for Nun Spam when you got too old to say a Rosary without spittle flying off your maws? I think not. Plus, how could you waste all that Guinness? Wasting beer is the ninth deadly sin. (Listening to the soundtrack to High School Musical 2 is the eighth.)

AND PART C OF MY COMPLAINT - Anyone can get their daily recommended dosage of sparkles at Joanne's Fabrics and Crafts, or by reading Twilight. (Um... better get it at Joanne's - fewer side effects.) This is the non-evisceratey way to obtain sparkles. If you need them to work quickly, you can always inject them. This is really basic sparkle knowledge, folks. Just go consult your food pyramid, Exhibit 2.

Exhibit 2

ThinkGeek, you may think you are blameless in all this, as you are merely the purveyors of the murdered Unicorn carcasses - BUT YOU ARE NOT! You are just as guilty! How can you sleep at night, or play Red Dead Redemption, knowing the calamity you are spreading in the world? And not computer-simulated calamity, either - real, actual calamity.

I want you to Think about this, Geek, every time you shill a glittery can of repugnance. Actions have consequences. Every time you kill a Unicorn:

- A Teen Miss USA cries.

- Eight puppies develop the horrible puppy-poison ivy/hemorrhoids hybrid. They don't make a topical creme for that.

- Hugs become 7% less effective.

- George Lucas fucks up another Star Wars movie.

- BP blows up an oil well.

- A typhoon wipes out an orphanage.

- Angelina Jolie wipes out an orphanage.

ANGELINA CAN ONLY ADOPT SO MANY KIDS, PEOPLE. The madness must end!

WHAT YOU CAN DO TO HELP

If, like me, gentle readers, you want to help protect the Unicorns so that your children and your children's children* may enjoy their sunshiney goodness, please do one of the following:

- Put down the Unicorn meat, asshole.

- Call your congressperson.

- No, to hell with that. Call Barack Obama. He is a special friend to the Unicorns. How else would an illegal Communist Nazi Kenyan AntiCrist Socialist kitten-kicker be elected President? **



- Sharpen your Nun Stabber

- While praying.

- Call Jesse Jackson. People pay attention to shit when JJ is involved.





* Even though I don't think that children should have children. That's gross. They should be, like, eighteen at least.

** I cannot take credit for the Obama/Unicorn pic. Whoever made it, I salute you!

I'd Make Short the New Tall

I'm back!

The intrusive real world took me away for a little while, blog friends. I had to work twelve hour days of actual day job work work, which is less fun than blogging nonsense, but currently pays more.

As I was slaving away and pleasing my masters like a monkey butler, I would fantasize about the good life.

So I pose a question to you, gentle author-readers: What would you do with J.K. Rowling kind of money?

Here's the scene:

The phone rings. It's your high-powered, yet friendly literary agent. "YOU!" she says, "I have a three book, three million dollar book deal for you with your dream publisher!" Kalu-kalay! The books sell out within days! Then they sell out their extra printings! You appear on Oprah, who has continued to do her talk show and book club just to feature you!

Soon, you have heaps of money, gobs of fame, and millions of book lovers the world over clutching your masterworks to their bosoms in pure, unfettered joy.

What do you do?

Yes, you help yourself, your friends, and family with money and debt and such. And you'd give your money away to needy causes, of course. Yeah, that's nice. We'd all do that.

But what else do you do? What crazy, maybe secret things would you do with it?

Here's what I would do.

• Get a unicorn. Yes, they are real. It's just that they are a rich people animal that you, as a plebe, have never seen, like the Fantastapotamus.

• I'd re-build the Pan-Pacific Auditorium.
  
  
  You may recognize it from the movie Xanadu - they used the exteriors for the Xanadu roller disco itself. It burned down ten years later. I'd house my unicorn in it, and, of course, it'd be a rollerdisco rink for me and my friends.
  

• My husband and I would travel.
  
  Lucy: Would we buy a villa in some glamorous foreign country?
  
  Ricky: Well, we'd have to do that.
  
  Lucy: Which one?
  
  Ricky: We'd have to test them all out first.
  
  Lucy: Naturally.
  
  Ricky: I'd buy a bunch of fast cars and race them through Europe.
  
  Lucy: With all that money, you could buy friendship with the Top Gear guys and drive with them.
  
  Ricky: Yes!

• I would hire someone with a great and slightly evil imagination to do nothing but annoy all the jerks who were mean to me or mine. Nothing really bad... just stuff like follow them to a movie and cough next to them the whole time, or randomly tell them they look fat in that outfit, or send them official-looking letters telling them they have $2000 in old speeding tickets and then set up a fake government phone number just to jerk them around. Stuff like that. Come to think of it, maybe I could set up a business like that...

• I'd have a vintage wardrobe to rival Dita Von Teese's.

• I would help women. Brilliant, creative women. Invest in their companies, mentor them, introduce them to the right people. I'd start an Old Women's Network the way the men have the Old Boys' Club. But I'd give it a catchier name, like "Bitches Be Taking Care of Business" or something.

Now tell me: WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

I Win at Punching.I Fail at Marriage.

I write romance. I hope that some day, some super smart person will publish my awesome romance, because it is awesome.

But there are days when I feel like a fraud, a sham, a sham-un-wow! Because while the husband and I love each other an epic amount, and I truly believe we are soul mates in manner of Han Solo and Princess Leia...

sometimes I punch him in the face.

It happens in the middle of the night, and I think it may be caused somehow by zombies. It's not my fault, no matter what Ricky says. Here's what happens.

* Indicates me guessing the events, since I am asleep *

Lucy: Zzzzzzzzzzz.

Ricky: *Rolls over. Scooches toward Lucy. Touches her lightly on the arm in a loving manner.*

Lucy: "Hgggnthhthg."

Ricky: *Sighs handsomely. Puts head on Lucy's shoulder. Whispers: "You're the most beautiful woman who lives, and who ever lived, and I'm including supermodels."*

Lucy: "GgGGGGGGrrrrrrr!"

Ricky: *Kisses Lucy's cheek.*

Lucy: LUCYSMASH!!!! FLAIL! KICK! PUNCH! OMG SOMEONE IS ATTACKING ME!!! PUNCH AGAIN AND THE FLAIL FLAIL FLAIL!!

Ricky: "Aaaaaaaaahhhh!"

Ricky flees to the edge of the bed, crying in horror and rocking and moaning "Why? Why? Why?"

The next morning, Lucy awakes refreshed! She tosses her raven locks and turns to greet her love, her husband, her little cuddle muffin!

Lucy: I love you, cuddle muffin!

Ricky: Cuddle muffin your face, stupid mean nasty... (random muttering). I hate you.

Lucy: What? How can you say these things, my darling one?

Ricky: You punched me in the face!

Lucy: That doesn't sound like me. Was it zombies?

Ricky: NO IT WASN'T FUCKING ZOMBIES! GRRRrrrrr.

Lucy: It must have been zombies. Kiss me!

Ricky: [Unprintable.]

About the 837582865th time this happened, I began to believe his version of events, despite its lack of zombie action. I punch him in the face when he tries to love on me in the middle of the night. I don't know why. You'd think he would stop trying, but every once in a while my fabulocity gets the better of him (naturally) and he tries again, only to be kicked in the elbow and/or thyroid.

I would like to put this in a romance novel, but I don't think an editor would let me.

So what have we learned today?

Punching is the opposite of romance. Don't punch!

At Least It's Not Farting

My name is Lucy and I have a problem.

Actually, I have a lot of them. In no particular order:

• I'm short.
  
• Really short.
  
• I have feet so small they only make Hello Kitty shoes for me.
  
• I have a pathological obsession with my blanket, Blankie.
  
• I think I'm funny.
  
• Really funny.
  
• Hahahaha I just thought of a terrible new pun.
  
• I have a short attention span, like my height.
  
• I never remember how to spell deliscious. Deliicius. Oh, fine YUMMY.
  
• I think gargly is a word*.

But the problem I am going to talk about today is my burping.

I burp. A lot. And I do it aloud. In a big, resonating, gargly* way. Now, I am a small lady, as I may have mentioned, and I love to look girly and flowery in dresses and heels. So there I'll be, bopping around LA LA LA and then BBBBAAARRRUUURRPPPPPPPPP!!1!

Oops.

Children flee in terror. Animals bark and/or roar. Old ladies shake their canes.

And I laugh.

Yes, not only do monstrous burps that sound like they ought to come from James Gandolfini escape my red-lipsticked lips, but then I think they're cute and amusing.

THEY'RE NOT, OKAY?

Everyone tells me they're not:

• My husband
  
• My co-coworkers
  
• Random strangers
  
• My cat
  
• Santa
  
• The cast of Battlestar Galactica

But I can't help it! Sometimes I try to stifle them and make the sound stop. But then, other times, they just fall outta me like spray tan oozes off the cast of The Hills. Uncontrollably!

I don't know what to do. Doesn't matter what I eat.

I am Lucy, and I'm a burper. THERE I SAID IT.

Stay tuned for my book "THE ITALIAN RICH GUY'S SHORT YET BURPY SORTA-VIRGIN BRIDE"!

Yeah.

Anatomy of a Home Improvement Project:Husband Edition

Step 1: EXCITEMENT!

Saturday, 1pm.

Ricky: You’re going to love it when I’m finished! It’ll just take a couple of hours.

Lucy: Wonderful!


Step 2: HANDY MAN... IS HANDY!

Saturday, 2pm.

Hammer, hammer, hammer. Grunt, grunt, grunt! Manly man wipes his forehead on his shirt, looking manly. Lucy approves and thinks dirty thoughts about her husband, but knows better than to interrupt the thump, thump, thump & drill, drill, drill sequence of events.


Step 3: CUE OMINOUS MUSIC

Saturday, 4pm.

Drilling gets louder. The hour grows later.

Lucy: What would you like for dinner, honey?

Ricky: What did you do with my drill bits?

Lucy: Drill whats?

Ricky: *growls*

Lucy backs away slowly toward the wall, in her best “Crouching Wife, Hidden Scapegoat” manner.


Step 4: WON’T SOMEONE PLEASE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!?

Saturday, 5:00pm.

Lucy jerks her head. What was that noise? She looks up. Tiny pieces of ceiling scatter, floating gently to the ground like snowflakes. A wire protrudes from the hole, slinking down, down, down. She holds her breath in the silence. Should she say something? Is the wire supposed to be there, in the middle of the ceiling? Deciding that the entire ceiling could fall in before she’d go upstairs and interrupt Captain McGrunty, she goes back to her yoga.

Ricky descends the stairs -- clop, clop, clop. His unfocused eyes, beneath dusty eyebrows, narrow at the cord dangling above. He lets out a breath and heaves in another gulp of air. Then, slowly, he releases a series of foul invective the likes of which the world has never known! Words so curse-ey, so profane, they are illegal in most countries, and not even allowed on Fox!

Lucy cowers on her yoga mat in rabbit pose, lest a stray “fucking” or “goatblowing assclown” pockmark her dewy porcelain skin. Even the cat has the good sense to flee and sit in the bathtub, like they tell you to do during a tornado.


Step 5: DENIAL

Saturday, 5:10pm

Ricky: [Expletive.] [Expletive.] [Expletive.] This was supposed to be easy! Why is the *&%$#@#@$%$ wire going through the ceiling?

Lucy: Because you drilled a hole there? You look very handsome, honey.

Ricky: I put two holes through the wall upstairs.

*Crickets*

Lucy: Is that a new haircut? Aren’t your muscles bulgey today!

Ricky glowers, clops back up the stairs, and slams the bedroom door. The skies crackle and open up, releasing a deluge of Heaven’s tears upon the unsuspecting apartment. (Not really, but that would have been totally poetic. And wet.)


Step 6: GIVING UP

Saturday, 7pm

Lucy dons her flak jacket and oven mitts.

Lucy: Dinner’s ready.

Ricky: [Expletive.]

Only one [expletive], thinks Lucy. Progress!

Ricky: This was supposed to be done by now!

Lucy: (Grabs a butter knife just in case.) I made pasta.

Ricky: Don’t go upstairs.

Lucy wonders what has become of her bedroom. She imagines a scene from Apocalypse Now, but with more pillows.


Step 7: PROGRESS

Sunday, 1pm

Ricky’s sandy brown hair gleams in the sunlight as he stands on the balcony, working. He tells something out there to “fuck off.” Lucy grins, glad she’s not that thing. He comes back inside and fiddles at the wall. A few moments later, he smiles and poses, hands on hips.

Ricky: Look!

Lucy: At what?

Ricky: It’s a wall jack.

Lucy assures Ricky that it is the most wondrous wall to ever jack! She has never seen such a wall jack! That wall jack will surely go on to cure rabies, and win the Nobel prize in physics!

Ricky: My hands are all sticky.

Lucy: That’s what she said.

Ricky smiles at Lucy.


Step 8: HALLELUJAH!

Turns out that Ricky has connected the bedroom and the living room DVRs. They have become MEGA-SUPER-AWESOME-ROCKET-POWERED DVR, with twice the capacity and twice the unicorn powers of a single DVR.




Lucy tells Ricky that she has always dreamed about, nay, lusted for a MEGA-SUPER-AWESOME-ROCKET-POWERED DVR, and that her life is now complete! Kalu kalay!

The happy couple sits upon the couch and browses the cornucopia of television available to them.

Lucy: What’s that on your shirt?

Ricky: Spackle.

Lucy: I can get it off for you.

Ricky: That’s what she said.


FIN

Vikings Do It Whilst Horny

Oh, bloggie friends. I think I may have found a new writer to lust after from afar. My beloved writing partner Fellatia sent me, for my birthday, this book:



THE VERY VIRILE VIKING by Sandra Hill.

Fellatia said she was sending me a great book, with the best title ever.

She was right. THE VERY VIRILE VIKING?! Poetry.

I'm only a few pages in now, but I'm loving it.

Ms. Hill, I hope you won't mind if I share the first few lines with my three readers.

In days of old when men were... whatever...
Magnus Ericsson was a simple man.
She loved the smell of fresh-turned dirt after springtime plowing. He loved the feel of a soft woman under him in the bed furs... when engaged in another type of plowing.

I don't think it's too early to declare my love for this book.

I read the above aloud to my husband and he said, "That sounds like something you wrote." I needed to hear/read this, especially on a night when I was wondering if my sometimes crazy voice was too crazy to ever sell. Yes, I get reassurance from plowing jokes. I am what I am.

Please Don't Read This One, Mom

Via Jezebel:



So many jokes.

SO MANY JOKES.

Okay, friends. Best "Big Dick" joke gets a gold star from Lucy. Give it to me! (...she said to Big Dick!)