Monday, February 14, 2011

time and space died yesterday

How are you doing today, Blog?

Well I've been doing shitty. Yesterday I was barely making ends-meet working as a dime-novelist in 1870s New England. My novels were all about the same man, a fictional cowboy with an impossibly large number of children and a beef with the Union Pacific. I called him Fertile Bill.

Critics claimed I could be the greatest novelist of the 19th century if I got out of the Train-Violence/Porn game and focused my efforts on a more respectable genre. I always told those uptight daffodils the same thing:




But, overall, things were going alright for me. I had enough money for food and booze and toy trains and lacy little braziers that you can put on toy trains. What more could I want? Plus, I was about finished with my magnum opus, Fertile Bill Traps a Train Then Finds Work Testing Contraceptives. In truth, I was nervous about how the public would react to it, as much of the novel is dedicated to an exhaustive description of what Fertile Bill calls an "Oklahoma Train Trap."

Yeah. Think about it.

Then everything went to shit. I was at home writing last night when there was a knock on the door. Waiting for me on the porch was a very short, bearded man with full cowboy accoutrement.

"Dear Christ, you're the shortest fucking cowboy I've ever seen!" I greeted him kindly.
"RAAAAAAAAHHHRRG," he replied, and kicked me six feet back into my house. I wasn't about to have any of that shit from a tiny cowboy, so I tackled him into my yard and beat him to death. As I was pulling out his wallet for completely admirable reasons an ID card fell to the ground.





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