Yesterday I whined about struggling to come up with a post which means it was one of the seven days of the week. Humbly and meekly, avec un petit aide musical, I asked for assistance from all you lovely humans and biomechanical constructs -- some of you are too fucking odd to be flesh and blood, I'm certainly convinced of that -- and got it in spades, clubs, hearts and diamonds. There were many fine ideas, but for the first one, I'm going with something that Lisa suggested:
Contrast the way Blago's alleged criminal activity and ethics violations have been handled by the Illinois state legislature and Sarah Palin's ethics violations investigation was handled (or not, as it were regarding criminal investigations by the weak Fed).
For an essay of this much import to our great democratic process, I believe we can do one thing, and one thing only: go to the principals themselves, and let them make the case for their innocence in their own words, let them shed light on the dark, dark shadow these witch hunts have cast over the Lord's good earth. God Bless America.
"Tonight's top story, how a man with hair so luscious I can see it from my house, can get into so much gosh darn trouble."
"I'm not giving the motherf---ing state legislature the f---ing time of day. F--- them."
"Now, gosh darnit Rod, you shouldn't use that doggone language!"
"Dude, she wants me! I'm like Dustin Hoffman only with better hair!"
Chimpy, you were blogging heaven. Couldn't think of a goddamn thing to throw against the electron wall? Use The Google to find a stupid picture of you -- but I repeat myself -- add a badly composed line, et voilà, I was done for the day. Just watch:
"I told you he knows how to use a phone, Major! You owe me ten bucks!"
Now? Oh sure, there's plenty of crap going on in the world in between album reviews -- someone please release something already -- such as past pretzeldents and serial killers Middle East fuckery and everyday dumbassery, the soul of Murka temporarily pacified if one doesn't ruminate for too long about how our war criminals have gotten away with it and the fact that if single payer hops along I'll pay for your mug of hops, limit one customer, yes, read the fine print I'm only telling you thrice "-- that's two, dude --" angry Shakespeare: fuck ye! fuck ye! coffee or tea, Dick Armey's Army of Dick featuring Generalissimo Rush the Prick, would you like fries or pills with that, bacon and eggs, ketchup and ham, jelly or jam -- yes, I'm hungry, breakfast was hours ago -- loose lips sink ships even tugboats.
According to Wikipedia, it's the unofficial birthday of this dude and who would dare question their triumphal authority, so here's something from heaven --
-- and something from hell:
Ain't no yin without a yang, yo. Anyone have any blogging ideas, feel free to suggest something reasonable, i.e. not too taxing, in comments.
As you know -- or don't know as I'm not sure whether I do or don't know whether you know or don't know -- I don't mind tags because it keeps me from having to use my brain.
"zzzzzz"
See? The problem with this one isn't the tagger 'cause she's groovy, but the meme itself because the only photos I have on my hard drive are stuff I stole from the internets as I'm the last man in the Western hemisphere without a digital camera.
The Rules:
1. Go to the 4th folder in your computer where you store your pictures. 2. Pick the 4th picture in that folder. 3. Explain the picture. 4. Tag 4 people to do the same.
There's only one folder where I keep crap, so here's the fourth one:
This is Gustave Caillebotte's famous Paris Street; Rainy Day from 1877. Last semester during our l'histoire française class, we were tasked with having to do an oral presentation as part of our punishment the learning process. I loathe giving oral presentations. I'd rather write a 20-page paper than speak in front of the class for even ten minutes. I'd rather listen to a Chimpy press conference -- sorry, that is stretching the rubberband of reality.
But, thanks to the technowizardry of powerpoint, which I had never used before as I'm old, I was able to take a visual topic and focus the eyeballs of my classmates on purty pictures instead of me, thereby decreasing the terrifying nervousness by about 27.3%. I'm sure my French was atrocious, but at that point, I didn't give one iota of shit.
If they keep on votin', levy's gonna fail If they keep on votin', levy's gonna fail When the levy fails, kids'll have no place to paint
Anyway, it's comical in a 'let's go on a fifty-state killing spree targeting anyone who supports our system of disturbingly misplaced priorities!' -- really, none of you find that funny? Wankers -- kind of way that whenever a school district has to tighten the belt, it's always the same casualties. You know, those frivolous, unnecessary, non-productive luxuries.
Anyway II: Wrath of Khan, Doodily brings home her junior year registration sheet, and lo and behold, everything that's been greyed out, i.e. cut like the steak off an expensive strip of gristle, is art and music and drama and literature and film. At least some foreign language classes survived. In other words, virtually every creative elective. Even the lone science that she'd actually be interested in, astronomy? Chopped like a gangrenous limb and tossed in the county dump to be pecked at by rabid vermin.
Given the fuckery of the Chimpified economy, we knew the sucker would bomb last November, and it did, but it's depressing to see the visual evidence nonetheless. So I told her to buck up little trooper and put your autodidact helmet on and she looked at me like I had Socrates crawling out of my ear.
Scouring the tubes with baking soda and vinegar -- there's quite a lot of filthy, filthy stuff in here -- for something to post about, as I've hit the dreaded stage of posting not out of desire, but because it's expected -- hey, they told me to do it, and if you think I'm going to ignore they, you are mixed nuts -- I decided to follow the diagnosis of my unofficial therapist, Freida of the Bees, PhD in Armchair Psychology, Liberty University '02: she has physiologically and existentially determined that my previous post was a disguised cry for help, a cry to be a virgin once more.
Upon first glance, I vehemently disagreed with her conclusion, but since I don't know the operational and logistical direction of my own brain any better than anyone else --
"Believe me, I don't know, either."
-- I deduced that she could be correct. How the hell would I know? Plus it gave me a post and for that, I am eternally in your debt, Ladye of Texyse, until I pay it off. You want a homemade paper football? People in Texyse like football. It's a law, like posting regularly and using sunscreen.
Anyway, it sounds a horrific proposition on the surface, I know, but in the intervening years, I've picked up a vast reservoir of suave to help guide me along this fresh start, so all I need is for you ladies -- sorry dudes, much appreciated, but it just ain't my gig -- to start the bidding for my deflowering. Hey, the economy sucks, I need loot.
And since this isn't based in anything religious, at least in a godly sort of way, Sunday copulation won't come after Mass, but after football, and once that's done, NBA tripleheaders. Remember, it isn't the deed, but the anticipation. See, waiting a few more hours is extra sexy. God bless godlessness.
"Oh, Randal, if I got $3.8 million, I'm sure you could get $3.80."
Last, well, I just hope you'll be happy when your limbs are getting ripped off and your eyeballs are bitten right out of their sockets by animal-human hybrids run amok.
Save for waking up in a bad mood -- it happens 6 or 7 times a week, you happy fuckers -- I've got zip. Oh, I've actually got a million grumblings bouncing around in my generally empty skull, but I've no good way to articulate the ones I wish to articulate, which is okay for blogging because I can bullshit my way through that, as you'll soon see if you're foolish enough to read on, but not for fiction writing.
"Life is like a box of nothing?"
You've got it.
"We'll see. Sports?"
Fuck Pittsburgh. Fuck Arizona. Fuck the NFL for having stolen our team and our would-be GM for Baltimore. Fuck the Lakers, the Celtics, the Magic, the rest of the Central division, the Thunder for having a stupid fucking logo that some 8-year old with crayons could've come up with, but some ad firm yokel got six figures instead, fuck LeBron who'll leave in two years and fuck the Indians logo, a racist, ugly as fuck thingamajig.
"What does all that have to do with your teams either choking or sucking year after year?"
More than you know.
"That doesn't make a lick of sense."
I triple-dog dare you.
"Politics?"
The system is what it is. Let me know when Western war criminals whose current location we are aware of serve jail time instead of being let off the hook, thereby giving the green light to future Richard Nixons, Ronald Reagans and George Bushes to kick brown-skinned nuts and cunts and bring about Patriot Act III: Agnew Returns! I'm a naive, divisive, single-issue guy like that.
Wish I had been your president.
"Even a glass-is-always-empty bastard like you has to appreciate some of the things that Hussein X has done so far."
Sure, in the way I appreciate a quarterback not tossing five interceptions while having all day to throw. Defending the Constitution is part of the job, isn't it? I know that's not a popular opinion in these apparently euphoric days, especially after the last pretzeldent used it to wipe his ass, blow his nose then scrape the mayonnaise from his mouth, but I don't care. If your last IT guy purposely loaded multiple viruses in your system, embezzled company bank accounts and disappeared to South America, wouldn't you demand the new guy not to? Of course, not being an IT guy, I don't know if IT job applications specifically state "please don't load viruses into the company's computer system, embezzle our accounts and disappear from law enforcement," and if they don't, then I apologize.
Now, if they can keep Russell Tice from dying in a mysteriously timely plane crash -- can we have some of the wingnut Supremes and Big Sammy take his place instead? -- get a long string of prison sentences for all the spying fuckery and alter our belligerent foreign policy in a meaningful way -- not shifting billions to Israel to blow the fuck out of Gaza, for example -- then color me mildly impressed. As I am with Hussein X not wearing his suit jacket. Cyclopean kudos, dude. Fuck those things. Since we're on such good terms, how about a signing statement keeping LeBron in Cleveland?
"Giving up on the war criminal angle already? I understand. Neighborhood empires talk the talk but never walk the walk."
Exactement. There's a good reason impeachment was off the table. Hard to tie your own noose if there's no rope in front of you, right Nancy? And don't forget that American Idol was on quite often, you 1.9 million that managed to show up in DC on Tuesday. At least the fuckers outside our borders know the gig. Go, world, go.
"Work?"
Don't get me started on the fuckers that walk into that joint. Stop asking stupid questions that I know you know the answer to because I told you the answer the last three times you asked. Stop asking me how I am, will you? I'm at work dealing with you instead of being at home writing. Have a blessed day? How about you have a secular day, fucker. No, have a Satanic day, you likely McCain voter. Beelzebub! Bleargh!
"Your devil would be a scantily-clad babe, Mr. Bitter. How about you do your job and at least pretend to be gracious --"
Okay, Aristotle. Should've given you some hemlock, too. Take symphonies in moderation?
"You'll miss out on string quartets."
Take power chords in moderation?
"Fine, pass on melancholy, single note lines."
Take football in moderation?
"Suddenly hate basketball?"
Take Chex Mix in moderation?
"I'm surprised you didn't say sex."
You know my sometimes-better-half hates me.
"True. So, overdosing on Chex Mix is healthy?"
Bloody right it is. And perfecting the combination of nuts and pretzels and Worcestershire sauce and secret ingredients so that it approximates the power of Proust's madeleine is a quest not to be undertaken lightly. We have various recipes and though having come close, my sometimes-better-half having more success than I, it still isn't as good as the stuff my mom used to make years ago. I'm starting to wonder if the secret ingredient is human flesh. We do taste like chicken after all and it's cheaper to knock someone off then buy a pack of frozen wings. I had always thought I'd be the murderer in the family. Weird.
"O Cthulhu, ease our suffering in this, our moment of great despair. Yea, admit this kind and spineless president into thy arms of thine White Housely area, up there. And Yog-Sothoth, he lay us upon the band of the Old Ones, and yea, though the Hindus speak of karma, I implore you: give him a break."
Philadelphia at Arizona: Okay, so maybe the Cardinals are the 2006 Colts. Though, despite Jake Delhomme's career-long tryst with mediocrity and inconsistency, did anyone envision six turnovers? The fucking Browns, well, we would've kept it within a couple of touchdowns. Sure, Marshall Faulk Jr. is banged up, but if you give God's Favorite Quarterback time, he'll bloody you up like the mat in a Middle Eastern battle royale. Jim Johnson won't allow that to happen. Eagles, 27-20.
Baltimore at Pittsburgh: Gee, should I root for Cheney or Osama? Tennessee, despite blowing both its own feet off -- with a slight assist from the refs -- exposed the Ravens' glaring weakness against speedy outside rushers (and perhaps against mediocre receivers, for Kerry Collins nearly nabbed a 300-yarder). Willie Parker is a speedy outside rusher. And for all the talk of the new Joe Cool, he's managed to turn eight turnovers into a grand total of 33 points (recall that one of Baltimore's touchdowns against Miami was an interception return). Such putrescent output won't be enough. Oh, and Terrell Suggs might not play. Steelers, 17-10.
Caught between the rock of The Novel From Hell, the hard place of stupidly starting a brand new story, and the terrible yet necessary work of jumpstarting the brain for the next round of l'école française -- at least I was smart enough to put aside that whole 'good husband and father' thing for the time being -- I humbly thank you recent taggers from the bottom of my wretched heart.
Hey, I know us library types are hotter than a crate of stiletto-heeled matchsticks doused with lighter fluid and set ablaze via a thousand-megaton nuclear bomb, but don't blame me for the drawing of the scantily-clad babe as I would never objectify women that way; apparently a certain someonewould. Traitor!
Rules are usually not sexy one bit strap, but you know how these things are generally dressed. And since there are some, strip them away if you wish. If you're into bondage fun, you might find them orgasmic after all: pass it on to five other bloggers, and tell them to open the nearest book to page 46. Write out the fifth sentence on that page, and also the next two to five sentences. Personally, I have a problem with that last part because it gives a modicum of freedom to the recipient and that isn't very American.
Göring had by this time been stressing to the British Ambassador, Nevile Henderson - who gave the air of being more accommodating to German claims than his predecessor Sir Eric Phipps, whom he had replaced in April, had been - Germany's rights to Austria and the Sudetenland (in due course also to revision of the Polish border). To a long-standing British acquaintance, the former air attaché in Berlin, Group Captain Christie, he went further: Germany must have not simply the Sudetenland, but the whole of Bohemia and Moravia, Göring asserted. By mid-October, following the demands of Konrad Heinlein, the Sudeten German leader, for autonomy, Goebbels was predicting that Czechoslovakia would in the future 'have nothing to laugh about.' (Hitler 1936-1945: Nemesis by Ian Kershaw)
We don't have to tell the truth, do we? Because, frankly, Randal's truth isn't very exciting, though Randal likes to pretend that it is. Yes, in tribute of the greatest leadoff hitter ever, Randal is talking like Rickey.
The rules, chumps: 1. Link to the person who tagged you. (Randal's still working on it) 2. Post the rules on your blog. (can't you read?) 3. Write six random things about yourself. (still trying to conjure up some falsehoods) 4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them. (Randal will get to it) 5. Let each person know they’ve been tagged and leave a comment on their blog. (that sounds too much like work to Randal) 6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up. (you're dangerously close to cutting into Randal's porn-surfing time)
1. Once upon a time when Randal I was a wee lad, I was learning to play the violin but I quit after a few months because the teacher was the stereotypical, blue-haired, old school hardass refugee from Eastern Europe. Music is supposed to be fun, you fucking corpse. Well, I assume she's a corpse. If not, she's either pushing triple digits or found a way to cheat death, in which case, congratulations. Who knows, instead of having zero musical ability like I currently have, I could've grown up to suck.
2. Yes, I actually do hold conversations with myself from time to time and when they are voiced for all to hear, my kids find it outwardly amusing, though I'm sure they harbor concerns that their dad is a fucking lunatic which he probably is because he calls his oldest Doodily, which is a snippet of a winded Ned Flanders' rant from this hilarious episode that we both dig. Some families eat dinner together. We watch The Simpsons together.
3. Despite my sometimes-better-half and I promoting the notion that the only dumb question is the one never asked -- for example, Mr. President, when exactly did you decide to be a war criminal, before or after you found Jesus? -- my kids have become wary of asking me anything because I tend to go off on multiple tacks and end up finally answering their initial query about twenty minutes later. Everything may or may not be political, but everything is interrelated even if at a microscopic tangential level -- no, I'm not talking some bullshit karma crap. Karma doesn't fucking exist and history proves that -- and I hope that at least a few nuggets, the ones that will actually be helpful as they experience this simultaneously wonderful and ridiculous world, from my novocaine blatherings sink into their skulls.
4. I once had a threeway with Gillian Anderson and Kate Winslet. Okay, I made that one up. But I daydreamed about it once or twice.
5. I own two ties. This one is true.
6. All your onion ring are belong to us.
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
I'm going to preemptively pardon myself for the murder of my brain.
You know who could fix all this fuckery, this vociferous violence, this clamorous catastrophe? No, not an ambassador charged only with the flaccid humanity and conventional weaponry of the United Nations, but a solitary yet powerful being with vast interstellar gravitas, intelligence and fists of genetically-enhanced fury.
That's a cool shot. Looks like he's about to fuck you up through the ancient art of the Universal Horror Black and White Staredown.
Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, Übermilf snarkily suggested that I supplement my whining with a drunken playwright side project. Ask, and ye shall receive.
But first, I would endeavor to ask for something from you: forgiveness in advance for the literary blasphemy that is about to unfold as, even though its revelation was delayed until now, it was written while imbibing frog juice during halftime of the Carolina-Arizona game last night. I had planned on posting it afterward, but, in my drunken stupor further fueled by the debilitating shock of the inconceivable asskicking laid down by the Cardinals, forgot.
Thank Cthulhu for autosave.
Act I Bartender Ted sneaks a drink to Larry Craig in the old, run-down dump that used to house post-RNC get togethers during the Eight Glorious Years that are now, sadly for the patrons, a distant and rapidly fading memory.
Bartender Ted: Make it fast.
Larry Craig: Out here?
Bartender Ted: Not that, booze! Drink it!
Larry Craig: I'll be glad to pay up -- tomorrow. Larry begins to sing. I'll gladly you pay you tomorrow for a drink today. It's the Feast of The Dude Abides tomorrow!
Bartender Ted slams his fist down on the counter.
Bartender Ted: NO!
Larry Craig: Don't mock pipe dreams. I find mine in the bathroom stall.
Fresh from his stint as a war correspondent, handyman extraordinaire and all-around regular guy, Joe the Plumber, enters the bar.
Joe the Plumber: Hi, gang!
Everyone: Back from Israel already?
Joe the Plumber: You're all going to hell!
Act II A bunch of crap happens that I'm too drunk to write out.
Act III More bunches of crap happens, full of melodrama and pathos and all kinds of other shit that students of the Greek tragedians write term papers on.
Act IV Everyone is sad that a Republican victory is nothing but a pipe dream after all and thus further drown themselves in drink, unlike me, who drinks because I think I make more sense while loaded.
Joe the Plumber: I didn't pay my taxes! I don't have a plumbing license!
The cops barge in, brazenly brandishing weaponry.
Everyone: DON'T TASE HIM, BRO!
Irish Cop: You stole me lucky charms! And ye didn't pay your taxes! And ye don't have a plumbing license. And -- ye was on welfare!
Everyone: GASP!
Joe the Plumber: Now you're all going to testify that I'm nuts, right?
Everyone: YES!
Larry Craig and Karl Rove run upstairs. Karl Rove stands on the fire escape.
Karl Rove: I don't believe in nothin' no more! I'm gonna do it!
Larry Craig closes his eyes and hears Karl Rove jump and splatter his gooey innards all over the sidewalk.
Larry Craig: Whew!
Everyone else is beyond plastered and begins to sing. Larry Craig remains on the fire escape.
Everyone: DOWN WITH SOCIALISM! DOWN WITH THAT ONE!
I was two out of four last week, which means I'm good enough to take Chris Berman's job. Further, I wouldn't do that annoying 'he-could-go-all-the-way' shit ad nauseum.
Baltimore at Tennessee: I do believe that the Titans are a better team, but being a born cynic, a bearer of toxic hatred towards the Baltimore franchise and a Cleveland sports fan, I have naturally failed to Gaza-ize the debacle of January 2001 where the Titans destroyed the Ravens in nearly every possible statistical category save the scoreboard. Merci, Monsieur Del Greco. And it's not as if Kerry Collins himself has fond memories of these guys, either. As much of a staunch supporter of fanciful sabermetricism as I am, you simply cannot discount the fact that you're dealing with humans, not computer programs. Thus, I'm going to permit myself a brief moment of hope and assume that only one of the teams I'm rooting against will advance. Tennessee did get a week off to rejuvenate and this is football, after all.
"That's not very cynical. Remember, Kevin Mawae is out."
You're right. Dammit. Ravens, 20-17.
Arizona at Carolina: If the Panthers don't run the ball forty times, especially given the fact that they have two guys that combined for over 2300 yards and 28 touchdowns on the ground, I'll be shocked. En plus, there's no way that the Cardinals play stout defense a second week in a row; the 2006 Colts they aren't. Sure, they can fling it around a bit, even if Anquan Boldin doesn't play -- Steve Breaston ain't a bad third -- but it won't be enough. Out of these four games, this is probably the easiest pick. Which is why I'll likely be wrong. Panthers, 34-21.
Philadelphia at N.Y. Giants: If the 2007 Giants can do it, right? Wrong. Sorry, Philly, I really wanted to pick you guys, but field goals won't cut it this time out against the three-headed monster and the best offensive line in the NFL. Oh, and pray to Cthulhu for extra snow and wind. That's always fun. Noo Yawk, 20-16.
San Diego at Pittsburgh: It's not that I feel a healthy LaDainian Tomlinson is a requirement for Californication, but it wouldn't hurt against the best defense in the NFL. Given the crapitude of Pittsburgh's offensive line -- 23rd(!) in rushing, 49 sacks allowed -- San Diego certainly has a shot if they can grind Roethlisberger into the frozen turf. On paper, this should be a replay of their meeting earlier this season, an ugly, defensive affair. With the potential for funky weather, what the hell. Toss another TD for each on the board. Steelers, 22-20.
The Antichrist bless you, United States Postal Service, for my goddamn EP finally arrived. What EP, you say? Something that none of you will like one iota, I'm sure, Deathspell Omega's single song, twenty-two minute Veritas Diaboli Manet In Aeternum: Chaining the Katechon. Not dissimilar from last year's monumental full length Fas - Ite, Maledicti, in Ignem Aeternum, though a bit more focused en dépit de blocky architecture akin to an ancient temple, the dudes from France eschew any eerie atmospheric intro and go for the jugular right from the start, ripping your goddamn throat out for more than a few minutes before shifting out of the escalating, atonal riffwork into a serpentine, diabolic yet vaguely beautiful chord progression slowed down before recapitulating in speed, everything reminiscent of a doubled-in-length Vivaldi concerto played on guitars tuned in Gehenna.
We spoke of a temple, what of it?
And what the bloody hell is a katechon?
Break out your second epistle to the Thessalonians and whatever exegetical works you feel will heighten understanding because I only attended Catholic school for thirteen years and was asleep for the first six and lusting after the girl with the long brown hair for the last seven. In short, the katechon is the delayer, the one who restrains, the preventer of the parousia; you know, when Baby Jesus comes back to fuck the bad guys' shit up. Remember, an Evil Guy® has to reign, everyone subscribes to Apostasy Weekly, then we all get soft, new togas and harps.
'It is disturbance and anxiety as absolutes/for the world is becoming/still, a temple stands and a star shines,' slathered with dissonance and a violent battery, before, nearly a dozen minutes later through a blood-soaked landscape of repudiation, debt, conflict and exceptionally-produced strings -- obscure as all good black metal should be, yet sharp and biting -- now become, not a lament, but praise for postponement, 'the temple still stands/its walls a prison/for the Katechon.'
As an atheist, theologically, the EP's source material, though historically interesting, means nothing; keep your salvation. Aesthetically, the lyrical and musical commentary is not merely a prosaic Luciferian middle finger to the status quo -- the to-be-unfulfilled reverse idealism of the angry young man, one could say -- but a celebration of freewill. And really loud guitars.
No, I don't have some earthshattering personal revelation nor a richly textured screed on the inevitable collapse of modern American society; the first-class fuckery currently at play in the Middle East; or the Russkies condemning Old Europe to frostbite and a painful, lonely death; I just wanted to use a Napalm Death album for the title of a post appropriately full of nothing but self-centered whining.
Though I do often fear the spectre of emptiness in my head, which in turn leads to despair at the prospects of yet another vacuous entry chez moi. The Novel From Hell, consuming perhaps too much of my focus and thus leaving this site of electro-crap flush with more worthlessness than it otherwise would have been flushed with -- thus deserving a good flushing in the manner of Sir Thomas Crapper -- is, if not at a dead end, then certainly at a fork, spoon and knife in the road where the map is one of those decrepit, yellowing, barely legible kinds that you see in old Treasure Island ripoffs or that you made when you were a little kid, soaking the finished product in tea and letting it dry to get the cracked, weathered look of something arcane.
"Sure, everyone did that. Geek."
Oh, like none of those fuckers ever played pirates? X marks the spot?
"Maybe as adults."
Sexy. What isn't sexy is being stuck, finding a way out, then realizing that in the days and weeks and months ahead that way out demands the weaving of new matériel and previously-hinted-at themes through all the two hundred or so pages previously written yet which speak of the future. Which remains in our past, as it's not a sci-fi time travel deal, although by the time I'm done, maybe it will be. Not really, but I cannot say for certain as I am not Nostradamus as he's French and dead and I'm American and alive. Sure, the whole thing is a clusterfuck of overwrought and boring proportion -- the novel, not Nostradamus, for who doesn't love reading about destruction, misery and the apocalypse -- and I enjoy writing the same way the flagellants loved Baby Jesus, but, well, fucking hell.
"And? Maybe you might want to think about finishing it first. And editing it. Oh, and learning to write well might not be such a bad idea, either. On second thought, do us all a favor and take up tiddlywinks."
Maybe I will, brain, maybe I will. Think they have a World Series for this?
