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The Beta Male Manifesto – Part 2

May 15th, 2006 · 1 Comment


Leadership and the Beta Male


Beta Males tend not to be risk-takers. They have survived the eons by valuing safety over adventure. You will not find a beta-male on the polo field, or helicopter skiing on a virgin glacier, but make no mistake, there are many a beta that will go, three, maybe even four days without flossing. (Although, admittedly, there was a point during the Paleozoic period when the beta-male gene line was nearly wiped from the face of the earth by a virulent strain of gingivitis.) And when his imagination leads to hope, the young Beta Male may even gamble. Whenever you meet a guy who says he put himself through college by shooting pool or playing cards, rest-assured that his education was actually paid for by a cadre of hopeful Betas. But more often, among Betas, safety is the rule, and with safety, comes dependability.


In the workplace, only a Beta male knows how to unjam the copier, access the network, and bypass the company internet filter to get to the porn sites. Beta Male nerds are not socially inept geniuses, they are just socially inept – instead of a burning genius he is compensated with a dull competence. That said, the Beta, for whom anxiety is the trailing-edge curse to his cutting-edge imagination, tends to deliver on time, seldom calls in sick, and returns his messages promptly, if only because he can see the dire consequences of being fired at every turn. While you’ll find Alpha males in great numbers among the ranks of entertainers, astronauts, and military commanders, The Beta male tends to excel at retail sales, accounting, and surrender. Take the steady Beta Male out of capitalism, and the system collapses on the Alpha Male ideal that the strong will always prevail over the weak to the benefit the group, when in fact, it’s the strength the group that benefits the group. (Putting, decidedly, the wisdom of survival into the realm of neither the Alpha or the Beta Male, but the female, for whom cooperation is the strong suit, and about whom we are still not going to talk, lest our thesis become as the gut-shot dog of Bush foreign policy. )


While the Beta serves as the very vertebrae of the backbone of American business, in politics, he is often the behind the most heinous fuckery and outrageous weaselosity. Carl Rove, Robert Novak, and James Trafficant are all classic Beta Males. (Yes, there are Betas in both parties. The Beta Male votes Republican because guys like Bill Clinton, or basically anyone with charisma, might take his money and his woman away. He votes Democrat because you never know when you might have to take advantage of some of those social programs.)


Beta Males do not lead countries, they run them. And those who fail to recognize the distinction tend to fail not only as Beta males, but as human beings in general. A Beta male feeling the responsibility of an Alpha Male is how you end up with a guy in a bell tower with a high powered rifle. You don’t want the Beta Male making executive decisions, ignoring his natural weaknesses and proclivity for daydreaming. Many serial killers are simply Beta Males who have channeled their leadership shortcomings into less than healthy habits. That said, you can’t beat a Beta when it comes to workplace massacres. It was a Beta male who first made the word postal a cause of death. Most healthy Betas, however, will avoid overt confrontation at almost any cost, and will choose to sulk, whine or lurk rather than attack. Scratch a stalker, and you’ll find a Beta Male with a handful of restraining orders yearning to break free. The only true Beta Male martial art is based entirely on the kindness of strangers: the fearsome kung fu of passive-aggression.


On the battlefield, you’ll find the Beta Male typing orders rather than giving them, or occasionally wiring explosives to bring down a building, burn up a village, or generally braise an entire population – master of fire, if nothing else. It was a crafty Beta Male who first discovered fire, and true, it was almost immediately taken away from him by an Alpha male (Alphas missed out on the discovery fire, but because they did not understand about grabbing the hot, orangey end of the stick, they are credited with inventing the third degree burn instead.) Still, the original spark burns bright in every Beta’s veins. When Alpha boys have long since moved on to girls and sports, Betas, in order to sublimate their frustrated sex drive, will still be pursuing pyrotechnics well into adolescence and sometimes beyond. Alpha males may lead the armies of the world, but it’s the Betas who actually get shit blowed up.


Famous Beta Male military commanders are – well, there are no famous Beta military commanders, but if there were, they would have names like Alexander the Average, , Peter the Consistent, William the Congested, or Ivan the Relatively Unpleasant. With few exceptions, Beta Males don’t become famous.


In fact, staying below the competition radar is one of the marked advantages of the Beta Male. The way that Beta males thrive is because no one believes they exist, and therefore they make great spies. Not James Bond, Aston Martin with missiles, boning the beautiful Russian rocket scientist on an ermine skin bedspread sort of spy, more the bad comb-over, deep cover bureaucrat fishing documents out of a dumpster spy. His overt non-threateningness allows him access to places and people that are closed to the alpha male, wearing his testosterone on his sleeve. A Beta Male very-well may have a throwing knife concealed in the frame of his briefcase, but it’s a good bet that he only uses it to open letters and clean his fingernails. The Beta male, can, in fact, be dangerous, not so much in the Jet-Li-entire-body-is-a-deadly-weapon way but more in the drunk-on-the-riding-mower-making-a-Luke Skywalker-assault-on-the-tool-shed sort of way.


Which is not to say that the Beta is always the one ground under the heel of the confrontation’s boot – even the most docile Beta will look upon a George Will or a Dennis Kucinich and think to himself, “Mon Dieu, I must relieve that little bitch of his lunch money, post haste.” (Betas are suckers for the Foreign phrase affectation.) Everyone is happier if he has someone to look down on, as well as someone to look up to, especially if he can resent both. This is not only the Beta Male strategy for survival, but the basis for capitalism, democracy, and most religions.


Next, in part three, we’ll examine the Beta Male as a Mate.

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The Beta Male Manifesto – Part 1

May 15th, 2006 · 2 Comments

Over the next few blog posts I’m going to share with you guys an essay I wrote on the Beta Male. Much of the material was pulled from a Dirty Job, but it actually makes a little more sense in this context. Those of you who heard me speak on the Dirty Job tour, will recognize some of the concepts. The Beta-Male Manifesto By Christopher Moore


From the first time we see the silver-back Elmo pounding his chest on Sesame Street, to the time that some silver-haired creep swipes our green Jell-O at the geriatric center luncheon, we are confronted with the commanding creature known in nature as the Alpha Male. And while we all accept that the limelight will always fall on the politicians, professional athletes, CEOs, and other Alpha males for whom leadership seems to come as naturally as handcuffs and perp walks, it is another breed of male, a lower-key, less-dominant variety, that actually directs human existence. The world may be lead by Alpha Males, but the machinery of the world turns on the bearings of the Beta Male


The Beta Male in the Natural World


A good example of the Alpha-Beta difference in the animal kingdom occurs among elephant seals. The elephant seal, a Toyota-sized species of pinneped, is so named for the male animal’s prominent, trunk-like proboscis, which immediately brings to mind the Darwinian aphorism for male display, “The bigger the nose, the bigger the hose.” During mating season, all of the elephant seal females beach themselves, and luxuriate in the sun, looking bored and making charming belching noises meant to attract males. (A similar mode of behavior can be observed among human females on the beaches of Cancun and Ft. Lauderdale during spring break.) Males confront each other at the shoreline, and through a series of battles with other males, that are more show than actual combat, a “beach master” is chosen – usually the largest and most fit of the competitors. This Alpha male will proceed to mate with all the females of the group, while the vanquished Beta males wait at the surf line for females returning from mating (often embarrassed because they are wearing the same outfits they had on when they left the water yesterday) and will try to mate with her on the rebound, sometimes bellowing as a way of disguising himself as an alpha male. In fact, Betas are so desperate to escape their Beta Male identity, that biologists have observed them gamboling in the surf in Groucho glasses dangling Porsche keys. Thus, the Beta-male gene will survive in the elephant seal population, proving that he who gets it most, is not always as successful as he who gets it last. Human Betas, who often stay virgins until well into their twenties, could be said to be using a similar strategy, although it probably has more to do with access to alcohol and general lowering of standards among human females as they get older.


While in many mammals, it is the bigger, stronger, more flamboyant Alpha male gene that determines the direction of the species, in human beings, unique in their development of language and culture, the Beta male is the reigning the king of beasts, so to speak.


(For the purpose of the article we’ll ignore species like killer whales, elephants and lions, where the Alpha animal and leader of the group is female. The “big teeth” of the Alpha female is cooperation, which has the effect of making all male strategies seem silly. These examples just confuse the issue and cause undue uppityness among human females.)


Imagination: The Big Teeth of the Beta Male


While Alpha males are often gifted with superior physical attributes — size, strength, speed, and good looks — selected over the eons by the strongest surviving and, essentially, getting all the girls, the Beta Male gene has survived not by meeting and overcoming adversity, but by anticipating and avoiding it. That is, when the alpha males were out charging after mastodons, the beta males could imagine in advance that attacking what was essentially an angry, wooly bulldozer with a pointy stick, might be a losing proposition, so he hung back at camp to console the grieving widows whose Alpha-male mates had been stomped into mastodon moss. When alpha males set out to conquer neighboring tribes, to count coup and take heads, beta males could see in advance that in the event of a victory, the influx of female slaves was going to leave a surplus of mateless women cast out for younger trophy models, with nothing to do but salt down the heads and file the uncounted coups, and many would need find solace in the arms of any beta male smart enough to survive.


There’s a good chance that in the caveman community, that the Beta Male never got the hot, smart, Darryl Hannah cave woman, but there’s an even better chance that he got everyone else. The beta male is seldom the strongest or the fastest, but because he can anticipate danger, he far outnumbers his alpha male competitors. Rather than strength, size, or charisma, the Beta Male adapted to adversity by developing a massive imagination.


The problem for the Beta in modern society, is that his imagination has become superfluous – a vestigial encumbrance. Like the saber-toothed tiger’s fangs, or the Alpha male’s testosterone, there’s just more beta male imagination than can be put to good use. Consequently, in the modern world, many beta males become hypochondriacs, neurotics, paranoids, or develop an addiction to, comic books, video games, or porn. For while the beta male imagination evolved to help him avoid danger, as a side effect it also allows him fantasy-only access to power, money, and leggy, model-type females who, in reality, wouldn’t kick him in the kidneys to get a bug off their shoe. The rich fantasy life of the Beta male may often spill over into reality, manifesting in a near-genius levels of self-delusion. In fact, many Beta Males, contrary to any empirical evidence, actually believe that they are Alpha Males, and have been endowed by their creator with advanced stealth charisma, which, although awesome in concept, is totally undetectable by women who are not constructed from carbon fiber. Every time a super model divorces her rock star husband, the Beta Male secretly rejoices (or more accurately, feels great waves of unjustified hope,) and every time a beautiful movie star marries, the Beta Male experiences a sense of lost opportunity. The entire city of Las Vegas – plastic opulence, treasure for the taking, vulgar towers, and cocktail waitresses with improbable breasts—is built on the self-delusion of the Beta Male.


Continued in Part 2

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I DO NOT READ

April 19th, 2006 · 4 Comments

You guys know I don’t read at my readings, yet I had to read the other night in Harrison, NY. So, by request, Here’s the Essay that I wrote, and read, for that event.


I DON’T READ, By Christopher Moore


I’d like to start this reading, by saying that I do not read.


When I say I do not read, I mean that I don’t do public readings – in other words, I don’t read in public, but because I tell lies for a living, no one believes me. So here I am, at another public reading, even though, I do not read.


I do not – not read, because, like some finicky toddler eyeing a food item he’s never tried, a turnip, say, I fear the unknown and untried. (Even though history has proven that turnips cannot be trusted.) No, I have tried reading. I do not, not read because I haven’t been there, done that. No. It is because I have tried reading and failed miserably that I don’t read.


I mean, I read. In private. When no one is watching. You probably do as well. I think we can all, as adults, admit here, that we have, at one time or another read. But not in public! With a sound system and people recording it. What is public is public and what is private is private and if that wasn’t the case then we might as well all just do porn, our naughty bits in a whirl, our hormones flying to and fro, hither and yon,


and no one wants to see that.


That’s all I’m saying.


Yet, despite my right to privacy, Which is kinda-sorta defined in the Constitution And for which courageous men have given their lives And many public servants have sworn to uphold Several of whom have actually meant it, I stand before you here, tonight, telling you that I do not read.


Reading.


Last Saturday I was walking by the Liberty Bell. Really. In Philadelphia. Where they keep it. And I saw three cops checking the ID of an East-Indian Man And his two young sons. They didn’t check my ID. When clearly I could be up to something. And they didn’t check anyone else’s ID. (I watched for a while.) Just the brown, vaguely foreign-looking guy. I don’t have a point. I was just reading about rights and freedom and stuff. And I thought it was kind of ironic.


I wish I had been carded in front of the Liberty Bell. Because then I’d be ranting at you, instead of reading,


Which I don’t do.


I might have read,


gleefully read,


If I had not been traumatized at an early age When my Mother’s sister Shirley, who lived with us Was reading aloud to the family one night And during a particularly spirited passage of Poe, (From the poem, Annabell Lee, I believe) Skidded off the end of the line And was crippled in a nine adjective pile up. Thus rendering her illiterate for the rest of her life. How sad it was, to see sweet Aunt Shirley, wandering around the house, Asking, “Can I use the blow dryer in the tub?” or “Is this dry-cleaning bag a toy?” or “What’s in the yellow box.”


“Cheerios,” Shirley, “For the love of God, there’s Cheerios in the box! Look at the picture, for fucks sake!”


And then we’d feel bad, when she would follow with, “Then who’s that kid on the milk carton?”


Well, that alone, is reason enough for me not to read, I think. But no, because I developed early, reaching the reading level of blue jets long before the other kids, I was teased, and made to feel a freak. And they made me read. “But I don’t read!” said the sad, but immensely talented little boy. “Read it,” Sister Mary Nicotine, would croak, when it was just the two of us in the cloak room. ”Read it, slow, like you mean it, and don’t skip a word.” Then she would close her eyes and lean back on the cloaks, (which were kept in the cloak room,) and she would make me read it, again and again…”


It’s okay. I’m alright now. That was a long time ago, and although if I see a nun or a cloak now I spontaneously urinate, I’m okay. I don’t read, but I’m okay.


Later, in my twenties, when I was living with a woman who had two young sons, I was asked, once again, to read aloud. And I did. Not because it was easy, but, for the children.


Over and over,


I read, against my own better judgment, the same story, about the Eggs Chartruse and Smoked Pork…


I do not read, in a box, I do not read, with a fox, I do not read in a house, I do not read, with a mouse. I will not read, to a crowd I will not read in public, aloud.


I read it, every night, because the children asked for it, and all would seem to have been harmless, except later, both boys went on to be have sex change operations, one became a crack whore and the other heads the department of heinous weaselosity at the Whitehouse.


I might as well have just kicked the human spirit in the nads.


I might have just tossed a dead rat into the blender with the milk of human kindness and called it a day, but no, here I stand.


Reading.


I’ve been out on book tour for the last three weeks, going from town to town, plane to plane, not reading. When I show up for a signing the people at the book store ask, “Do you want to read?” Despite the fact that my advance people have been there for days, getting the blue M&Ms and the Bulgarian Spring water in place for my appearance, making sure that sheets with less than a 400 thread count do not abrade my delicate flesh, yet there they stand, asking, forcing me to point to section six, paragraph 5, of the agreement, which clearly states, that as a party to this agreement, they understand, that I do not fucking read.


Now, if I were on book tour, and I said, for instance, that “I didn’t fly,” it’s highly unlikely that my editor would invite me up to the observation deck of the Chrysler building and toss me off because she did not believe me. Otherwise there would have been a Ray Bradbury shaped dent in Lexingotn Avenue a long time ago. No, I think that I can say, with some conviction, that my editor has never tossed Ray Bradbury off.


Probably.


Yet I have often said, “I do not read,” and here I am, being tossed off, figuratively, in front of each and every one of you.


If I had said, as my tour was being planned, “I do not drive.” Someone would be provided to drive me or I’d be reimbursed for cab fare. Yet I told them I do not read, and here I am.


Reading.


And not at an amateur level – I am reading at a professional level, with professionals.. You might as well prop your non-driving, cataract befogged grandmother behind the wheel at the Indianapolis 500 and tell her to step on it, and don’t spare the horsepower –, get out of the way, Bobby Rayhall, the pace is now being set by a driver with the reflexes of a house plant. I tried to tell you. At any speed, I am unsafe to read.


I thought when I wrote the book, that it was understood, at least tacitly, that a reader would be provided,


perhaps even several.


Frankly, I think it’s an insult to all of you. You know you could do a better job, I know you would do a better job, yet here I am, doing it for you.


Three weeks ago, in Santa Cruz, California, I was doing a taped interview at the local NPR station, when the interviewer pointed out a paragraph in my new book and asked me to read it for the tape.


I don’t read, I said. I know, he said. But if you could just read this. I know, but I don’t read because I suck at it. I know, he said, but I can edit out any mistakes. So I read. And twenty false starts later Each which I punctuated with, “Fuck!” Twenty takes later,


He said, Wow, you really don’t read. That’s all I’m saying, “I said.


Later he emailed me that he had left in many of the reading mistakes in the show, Sort of like a blooper reel. Some bonus content for the NPR audience during pledge week.


After the show ran, hundreds of listeners sent back their tote bags, their coffee mugs, and their DVD sets of The Complete History of Blurry Old Photos by Ken Burns , asking for their money back.


I told them. But they didn’t believe me.


When I was in Pennsylvania last week, a bear ate a kid. It was sad. But kind of funny. Not that the bear ate the kid. You may have misinterpreted my reading. Although that may be, well — you know why But it was funny because they were going to trap the bear In a live trap Baited with donuts. Which I thought was strange. Because clearly, the bear had already shown his dietary preference.


He had not come out of the woods To eat a donut.


They’re probably going to catch the wrong bear.


They clearly should have baited the trap With a kid. Perhaps holding a donut, for safe measure.


Or perhaps they should have asked the bear to read. Ha! you say. “Bears don’t read.”


Neither do I, yet here I am.


(But for future reference, If you choose to live trap me. A donut will be perfect bait.) You can shoot me with one of those tranq guns. And when I wake up. I’ll be chained to a podium. And you can poke me with sticks. Until I read.


When they asked the gypsies to read, I read nothing, because I was not a gypsy. And when they asked the Jews to read, I read nothing, because I was not a Jew. Then they asked the Catholics to read, and I read nothing, because I was not a Catholic. And when they asked the cats to read, I read nothing, because I was I not a cat, But I listened carefully, Because it would have been cool, you know, if it turned out that cats could read. Because you could leave post-its on the couch. That said, “Hey, don’t scratch this, you furry little mook!” I could leave a note in the cat box, “Hey, don’t kick all the litter out on the floor. And then, the cats would leave me a message back. But, sadly, cats don’t read. And neither do I.


I have a Dream! That someday, A man will be judged by the content of his composition, Not the quality of his elocution.


Imagine if I were talking to you. Instead of reading to you I’d be looking you in the eye Instead of you staring at my bald spot.


Stop it.


And when I looked at you, You’d see the sincerity in my eyes. Because I wouldn’t be wearing these glasses Which I need for reading.


I know what you’re thinking. If not for the hair loss and the glasses And the despair He’d be a fine piece of man meat If it wasn’t for his reading.


I’d do him, you’re thinking. If his reading wasn’t so – weak.


You’re thinking:


Boy, that Garrison Keillor can sure read. That dulcet baritone rolling sultry out of a Norwegian With the shoulders of a freight train And the face of a Shinto Demon. I’d do Garrison Keillor, if he were up there now. Instead of this fucktard.


I’d be Garrison Keillor’s Prarie Home Companion Good Long Time. You’re thinking. You tramps.


When I get home from this book tour, I’m going to teach my cats to read. I know, they’ll keep insisting that they don’t read. But you know how cats lie.


I know they can type. I’ve often left my office, only to return to find a cryptic message on the screen Where before there had only been the draft of my new book I just don’t know what language they’re typing. But from their behavior, It appears that they are trying to say In cat type. “I’m going to go fuck up the couch And take a nap.”


Now you’re probably saying,


He’s not even reading.


He’s just,


(Turn page)


Making stuff up, now.


He could just be looking at the page


He probably doesn’t even read in public.


And it’s that sharp perception, That analytical excellence. That keen intellect That makes me like you.


I’ve always liked you. As an audience, I mean. Not in some sleazy way. You’re the best.


I only wish that I read. So I didn’t have to leave you unsatisfied. Watching me gather my things. And sneak out the door. My shoes in my hand. My underwear in my jacket pocket.


I’ll call you. I say. “Okay,” you say. But you just want me to go. So you can get some sleep. Before work.


Thanks.


COMMETS http://bbs.chrismoore.com/viewtopic.php?t=6922

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Warning — Harrison, NY Moorons

April 15th, 2006 · No Comments

You guys.


I know there is an event listed on the blog in Harrison, New York on Tuesday, April 18th. If you’re planning to attend, I’ll be happy to meet you and sign your books and all that, but you should know this:


THIS IS NOT THE CHRIS SHOW


I know that in the past they’ve listed my events as readings and I don’t read, I talk to you guys, but despite the fact that I have insisted for over 12 years that I don’t read, they have set me up in a reading. And because there are other authors there, it would be disrespectful to turn it into the Chris show.


THIS IS A READING


I know what you’re saying. "But Chris, you don’t read. We all know that." And you are correct. I can’t explain why I have to do this reading because my head would explode, and nobody wants that, but I don’t want you guys to travel really far as some of you have for the other events (thanks, by the way) expecting for me to do what I do, because I’ll be doing what I don’t do.


This only applies to this one event. Before and after, it will be bidness as usual, with an Ambien-adled Author Guy asking people what the hell he was talking about for 45 minutes to an hour.

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Monstrous Antics

April 10th, 2006 · No Comments

Still touring, kids. Here’s a very nice article from the SF Chronicle by Marta Acosta. Click the pics of Monique’s creatures — the Squirrel People– ooooooo.


http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2006/04/10/DDGEPI5SCK1.DTL&type=books

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His Nineness Thanks You

April 2nd, 2006 · No Comments

Hey kids. I know I’m way overdue for a report from the road, and it is coming as soon as I get a chance to write it, but here’s a big thanks to you guys.


Thanks for buying my books. Thanks for coming to my events. Thanks for the great support. And thanks for putting A Dirty Job on the New York Times bestseller list — debuted at #9 this week.


For this week, you will please refer to me as "his Nineness".


But really, it’s all you, isn’t it?


I’m verklempt. Talk amongst yourselves. I’ll be in touch soon.


Comments http://bbs.chrismoore.com/viewtopic.php?p=75409#75409

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Here we go! A Dirty Job On Sale!

March 21st, 2006 · No Comments

Tour starts today, kids.


I’m doing Talk of the Nation Today on NPR. Check your local listings. It’s 12:40p here on the West Coast.


Thanks for all your terrific reviews on Amazon and B&N.com. Keep ’em coming.


Hope you enjoy the book. See you. I’ll report in as I get a chance.

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The Zen of Airport Security

March 10th, 2006 · No Comments

Shoes on, Shoes off.


Pursue the eightfold path, But please step over here first.


What is the sound of one-hand pat down?


Does a nail clipper have a terrorist nature? Boo!


If you see the Buddha on the road, report him.


The bowl is empty. Keys! The bowl is empty.


Look deep into your luggage. No fair using the Xray.


Chakras on the tray. Quickly, back in their place!


Comments: http://bbs.chrismoore.com/viewtopic.php?p=70484#70484

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Personalized vs. Signed

March 7th, 2006 · No Comments

Hey kids. I’ve had a request to clear up the difference. First, on my web site there’s a link to order signed books. Most of these books are a special signed first edition of A Dirty Job that I signed a month or so ago. They are just signed, no inscription. You can get them from any of the links on the page.


Personalized, however, is a different story. If you want a book for someone as as gift, with "To Stinky, From your very best friend in the world, Christopher Moore" or something like that. Happy Birthday, Merrry Christmas, Eat Shit and Die, whatever, you are going to need to make arrangements with the stores I’m going to visit. The contact information is also on the links, but you’ll want to call them by phone. I wouldn’t trust the web for this. (Although you might be okay with Mysterious Galaxy orders e-mail, as long as you get a response.)


For personalized copies, call:


Mysterious Galaxy in San Diego 800-811-4747 Dreamhaven Books in Minneapolis 612-823-6070 Books Inc in San FRancisco 415-931-3633 University Book Store in Seattle 1-800-335-READ Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale (888) 560-9919


If you have any trouble, e-mail me. And if I’m coming to your area, you can come by and get your book signed in person and say hi, dammit.


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IMPROVED BY DELICIOUS CHEESY GOLDFISH CRACKERS

March 6th, 2006 · No Comments

Some examples of my theory that almost any situation can be improved by the addition of some delicious cheesy goldfish crackers.


“Sorry about your Mom. Beautiful service. Goldfish Cracker?”


“Sure, my plane is plunging out of the sky at 600 mph., but these cheesy goldfish are very tasty, and in the event that we survive, we’re going to need sustenance. “


“And that brings me to you, Lion. Son, you will always be a great big wuss, but as you cower in fear of flying monkeys, take comfort in these tasty goldfish crackers.”


“Now we are going to torture you by placing electrodes on your testicles, so you might want a handful of these tasty goldfish crackers before we start.”


“Yes, the Fucktard as been elected for a second term. Perhaps some goldfish crackers?”


“Ah, yes Fortunato, I am going to wall you up in there, but if you look in the corner by that bottle of amontillado, you’ll find a whole bag of tasty goldfish crackers.”


“No, Bob, it’s not how it looks. I accidental dropped a goldfish cracker on my penis and Melody was snapping it up before it fell on the floor and the dog got it. Come on, I was you your best man! Here, have the rest of the goldfish crackers, I insist.”


“No, Dude, we’re not taking away your civil liberties, we’re trading you for them. Here’s your goldfish crackers. Should I pimp my robe with stripes like Renquist did?”


“They aren’t just piranha, Mr. Bond, they’re Wisconsin piranha, with a special taste for cheese products. You’ll never get across that moat wearing those Gouda boxers without distracting them. So I’m going to leave you to your fate now, with just this bowl of goldfish crackers.”


“Hi, welcome to the Perky Gerbil, I’m Brett, I’ll be your herder tonight. Just handcuff yourself to the bar, enjoy some delicious cheesy goldfish crackers, and we’ll get started in a jiffy.”


“No Billy, Mr. Snuggles is fine. We took him to live on a farm where he can run in the fields and eat goldfish crackers all day long.” “Well, technically you’re not supposed to eat anything twelve hours before heart transplant surgery, but I think we can look the other way for a few goldfish crackers.”


“Sorry, retard, this is Texas, you are hereby sentenced to death by lethal injection. What would you like as your last snack?”


“Have a seat Mr. Johnson and we’ll begin the audit. Help yourself to the goldfish crackers.”


“She’ll live, but she’ll always be in a persistent vegetative state and have to be fed through a tube – so, you know — more goldfish crackers for you!”


“Yeah, Kazlowski, I know. I used to be the sweetheart of cellblock B my own self. Know what’ll get that taste out your mouth? Some delicious goldfish crackers. Come on back to my cell, I got some hid with my shivs.”


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