Are you an intolerable outrage junkie? Have you been stockpiling Bibles and cans of baked beans to prepare for the coming antifapocalypse? Did you hire a defrocked priest to exorcise the libtard out of your Keurig machine after the company pulled its advertising from Sean Hannity's TV show after Hannity defended a guy who fucked a fourteen-year-old girl when he (Roy Moore) was in his thirties? Do you think Timmy Tebow is the GOAT even though you know in your cold, dead heart he couldn't throw an on-target deep ball to save his soul? Or maybe you've been laughing so far but now you're kind of uncomfortable because you're the type of person who thinks that my genitals make me incapable of opening my mouth without "mansplaining"? Listen, you're not as bad as the Famous Keurig-Killers, but you can't defeat Fascism with portmanteaus.
If you answered yes to any of the above questions, I NEED YOU! I'm a writer, and I'm just sort of languishing over here. I'm an outsider. Not a fake outsider with eleventy million Twitter followers like some people who call themselves outsiders, but a real outsider with a little over two hundred Twitter followers and half a dozen fans. I've never been able to find an agent that gets me enough to take a chance on actually repping me. I get published in literary journals, but I'm not widely known. Because I can't find anyone who wants to publish my books I've published them myself, and because I published my books myself nobody wants to write about them, and because nobody writes about them almost nobody reads them. A few people have found my books by accident, which is not the best marketing strategy.
I need to find a way to trick someone into writing about one of my books. The way publishing works most of the time these days is you basically can't get a book deal until you get famous. I used to be pretty good at baseball, but it's too late for me to try to break into the majors, and I'm too shy to go on TV. The only thing I can do to get famous is to just piss a bunch of weirdos off.
Which is where you come in.
My new book, which is a collection of short stories, is pretty offensive. One of the characters is a superhero who sets a Confederate flag on fire with his laser eyes. Another character refers to Donald Trump as "Captain Spraytan." I—not a fictional character, but me personally, the actual author—refer to members of the men's rights movement as a bunch of "cockalorums and dingleberries." Plus this book of fiction is called The War on Xmas, playing off the fictional War on Christmas that Fox Newsians whinge about every December. So get on your high horse, ride it down to the bookstore, or your computer, and buy my book, and tell your stinky friends to do the same, and y'all dumbasses can have a righteous bonfire that will really show me where I stand while at the same time putting me in my place. Go ahead and burn it. There's no way I would have used a special type of ink that converts into an airborne poison when exposed to heat.
Still not offended enough to organize a boycott-a-book-by-buying-it-so-you-can-set-it-on-fire campaign? "Deplorable" is an insult. Jesus hates Nazis. Slavery was bad. Robert E. Lee was a traitor. Richard Spencer is a Hitler fanboy with a shitty haircut. Milo is a racist dufus who suffers from joke blindness. Donald Trump is a fucking rapist.
Still not offended? Here's an excerpt from the first story in the collection. It's called "Doppelbänger":
Melora left me, after five years of non-marital union, over my disposition. My acid tongue amused her, but it left a weird sensation in her vulva. And then suddenly, just about a year after our bitter split, came a card informing me that the honor of my presence was being requested by Victor Jensen Johnson and Melora Simone Roland, who would be united in the sacrament of holy matrimony, celebrated at a nuptial mass on the fourteenth of February in the year of our Lord two thousand and fifteen at six o’clock in the evening at the Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception, 1530 Logan Street in Denver, Colorado. Melora, the mellifluous one, is who trained me to say vulva instead of vagina, and she left me for a VJJ.
So I was grumpy and bitter, a fount of vituperation. What sentient being isn’t? If you’re not a raging misanthropist you’re not paying attention. Isis. Congress. Fracking. Murder. Lobbyists. Wal-Mart. Pedophiles. Rapists. Birthers. Birchers. Holocaust deniers. Fascists. Fundamentalists. Omnipotent corporations skullfucking the impotent people. Racist cops. Racist pundits. Racist leaders. Racist peons. White college kids having blackface parties. Superstition. Manspreading. People who talk on their cell phones in public restrooms. Sidewalk skateboarders who text and ride. Poachers. Pesticides. Credit cards. Climate change. Climate change “skeptics.” 9/11 truthers. Mitch motherfucking Albom. Fucking 19 Kids and Counting. Or is it Fucking 19 Kids and Counting? Plastic. Poverty. Insurance companies. People who trash up trails and campsites. War fatigue. Rally fatigue. Fact fatigue. The great unwashed, uneducated, unvaccinated. Ignorance. Patriotism. Here’s some fucking patriotism for you: my sister was raped by a soldier while on tour in Iraq, and when she reported it to her supervisor she was gang-raped by four men from her unit, men she had called her brothers. She killed herself, one shot to the head, and they walked free. The gods protected them, the brass, too; they all made it through without a scratch, no limbs lost, no traumatic brain injuries (that requires a brain), no post-traumatic stress disorder, all back in the States with their families, living their lives, raising hell over here. ISIS, by the way, did not invent recruitment through social media. And social fucking media. Cyberbullying. Internet trolls. Viral videos. Efuckingbola. Wife beaters. Men who wear wifebeaters in public. Homophobes. Drug dealers. Cartels. Meth-heads. Originalists. Tea party animals. Astroturfers. Populist plutocrats. Modern poetry. Burnouts. Binge-drinking. Binge-watching. At least Allen Ginsberg got to see the best minds of his generation destroyed by madness; the best minds of mine were destroyed by Netflix.
If that excerpt doesn't fill you so full of rage that you pay a lot of money to have your Keurig repaired just so you can smash it again then you might actually be the type of person who would like to buy this book just for the old-fashioned purpose of reading it, rather than boycotting it. Either way, it's available on Amazon for $13 or in the bookstore of this website at whatever price you choose to pay, in increments of one dollar, between $6 and $13. Yes, there's a goddamn $0.99 ebook version, but buying that won't show me anything; take another look at the title of this essayvertisement.
For those of you who do choose to boycott, I humbly suggest that while you're boycotting The War on Xmas you might as well go ahead and boycott Barn Again, too. Here are the instructions: "Because You Can't Burn an Ebook." And remember: "boycott" is one of those words, like "liberty" and "prolife," that changed its definition after Y2K, and now it means you buy the product you're trying to protest so you can take pictures of yourself protesting it so you can post those protesting pictures on social media.
Side note: I found an interesting documentary about Richard Spencer.
That's it. I hope you're real mad now. Buy the book. If you want to, I mean; I'm not your boss. It's just a suggestion. But buy it.