Post by scarecrow on Aug 5, 2006 16:23:34 GMT -5
Guys and Gals
Foreword
Alas, unfortunate readers, you are in trouble. You should know that right off the bat, which is why this is less of a foreword and more of an advisory to stop you from wasting your time. If you’re reading this, you are in trouble. Save yourselves while you still can. Your time would be better spent writing your own sub-par story, or sending your friend that email about the defecating chimp, or pirating music with your peer-to-peer programs, or whatever questionable whim you’d normally use your computer for, because reading this will only get you into trouble.
Although, to be fair, it could be said that you’d be in MORE trouble. Let’s face it, things couldn’t have been so hot for you anyway. If you’re reading this because you’ve read this author’s work before and liked it, and/or you think that it’s worth your time to listen to the rambling of a computer nerd with ashy skin and enough acne on his face, chin and chest to grate cheese with, and/or simply because you have nothing better to do, you were already in trouble to begin with. You should know that somewhere in the Central American region an aimless, college-dropout coon with an ever-enlarging belly, ever-decreasing brain cells and, worst of all and most disgustingly, a prematurely-balding head, (a.k.a. your narrator) feels secure enough in his superiority to you to laugh derisively. Not externally, you understand, because said coon is too preoccupied with trying to pass off an insult at you as wittiness while typing up something vaguely resembling prose and wiping bogeys on his T-Shirt, but he’s laughing on the inside nevertheless. A tear-jerking, side-tearing laugh that hurts so good he needs to run to the bathroom quickly for fear of wetting himself at your expense. You’re even funnier than he’s trying so hard to be.
Because let’s face it: your narrator sucks. He ... sucks. He really sucks. He sucks so hard that the good people at Hoover modeled their product after his anatomy. The deluded aspiring writer at this computer terminal knows that he’s just a sad sack with a pipe dream, and that the only reason you’re reading his work is the same reason you watch the first few episodes of American Idol: to reassure yourself that everyone else is stupider than you are, and to have a laugh at the stupids with the voices so genital-shrinkingly horrific that make you laugh so tear-jerkingly and side-splittingly that you run to the bathroom in your mirth in fear that you’ll wet yourself at their expense.
And while we’re facing facts, let’s face the fact that your cheeky narrator has used the same terms that described the filler of America’s wide-scale humiliation broadcast to describe you: you are so tear-jerkingly, side-splittingly funny that he must run to the bathroom in fear that he’ll wet himself at your expense. Does that mean that he’s comparing you to, say, the hypothetical man who was clueless enough to sing “I Feel Like A Woman” for his audition, apparently ignorant of the fact that his 5 0’clock shadow and ginormous Adam’s Apple were startlingly glaring proof that he in fact wasn’t anything resembling a woman (or at least an attractive one)?
Let your narrator answer this question for you in that omniscient, infinitely wise, impartial and endlessly graceful way that all narrators conduct themselves.
Hell yeah, beyotch!
Ahem. That is, only if you are reading this because the ramblings of a dumb computer nerd with enough acne to grate cheese are something worth reading to you and/or you have nothing better to do. Because let’s face facts yet again: a prize your narrator isn’t. No matter how much he wants it, the odds of getting recognition for his borderline work is so slim it’s the only thing that’s skinnier than Kate Moss (zing!). Oh, sure, you’re reading it, and though that’s all fine and dandy, the only reason that this piece is rankled with mockery and condescension is because your narrator knows that he can find solace in belittling his readers, who he’s certain are dumpy rumps that will make him seem less gag-worthy in comparison.
Now that we’re done with the pleasantries, let’s get on with what the heck this stuff is supposed to be about. Guys and Gals. Hopefully, it’s got you asking a couple of questions, and unless you take yourself a little too seriously, you’re hopefully asking all the wrong questions. e.g. “Could that title be any more generic?” “Why is this hedonistic, immoral, sadistic butt-muncher writing about guys and gals?” “Why am I still reading this drivel?” “When will this narrator stop babbling this string of the most pretentious, verbose and mind-numbingly boring questions known to man?” “Who is Mad Max?”
Again, let your narrator field these questions simultaneously and effortlessly as only the best narrators can.
How should I know?
Well, Guys and Gals is an offbeat, off-kilter, off-putting and just plain off attempt of some guy with a penchant for cheeky narrators and written proof of his idiocy to write a series of books. It’s set in a high school with an ensemble of characters from different castes and cultures, in an obvious and predictable yet brilliant attempt by the author to get his oh-so-oblivious audience to relate to his characters without having to do anything.
If you’re still reading at this point, you’re in even MORE trouble than you were in the half-hour it’s probably taken your muddled mind to swagger up to this point. If you’ve read this far, it means one of two things: you’re waiting for an address or some kind of information you could use to track down your narrator and give him what’s coming to him, or you were mildly interested in where this was all going. If it’s the first one, call information and ask for Ima Jidiot, making sure to enunciate very slowly and repeatedly. If it’s the second one, this is your last warning. This series is just like watching car wrecks or MTV: it’s so bad, but you just can’t look away. Stop reading. Stop. Stop, you nincompoop, stop!
Well, your narrator’s hands are now washed. He is satisfied that everything that could have been done to stop you has been done. You’ve been warned, you’ve been insulted, and most importantly, this advisory has more than 1000 words in it to tire your already sluggish brains and diminish your already microscopic attention spans. There are even a few big vocabulary words in the mix to turn you off: simultaneously. Hypothetically. Hedonistic. Condescension. Cheese. Every second you continue to waste is your own fault (though, when you think about it, your time was never really that valuable to begin with). So read on if you think that the ramblings of a dumb computer nerd with enough acne to grate cheese with are something worth reading. Maybe underneath all the farced comedy, uppity melodrama, unlikable characters, ample grammatical and punctuation errors, bad puns, disguised insults and horrid pop-culture references in yet another eye-rollingly sucky teen story you’ll find something to truly enjoy, despite the fact that your narrator wangs chung.
Or maybe, like when watching the first few weeks of American Idol, you’ll just laugh at the patheticness of yet another mediocre, addle-brained fool’s aspirations with tear-jerking, side-splitting laughter so awesome you’ll run to the bathroom in fear of wetting yourself at his expense.
Foreword
Alas, unfortunate readers, you are in trouble. You should know that right off the bat, which is why this is less of a foreword and more of an advisory to stop you from wasting your time. If you’re reading this, you are in trouble. Save yourselves while you still can. Your time would be better spent writing your own sub-par story, or sending your friend that email about the defecating chimp, or pirating music with your peer-to-peer programs, or whatever questionable whim you’d normally use your computer for, because reading this will only get you into trouble.
Although, to be fair, it could be said that you’d be in MORE trouble. Let’s face it, things couldn’t have been so hot for you anyway. If you’re reading this because you’ve read this author’s work before and liked it, and/or you think that it’s worth your time to listen to the rambling of a computer nerd with ashy skin and enough acne on his face, chin and chest to grate cheese with, and/or simply because you have nothing better to do, you were already in trouble to begin with. You should know that somewhere in the Central American region an aimless, college-dropout coon with an ever-enlarging belly, ever-decreasing brain cells and, worst of all and most disgustingly, a prematurely-balding head, (a.k.a. your narrator) feels secure enough in his superiority to you to laugh derisively. Not externally, you understand, because said coon is too preoccupied with trying to pass off an insult at you as wittiness while typing up something vaguely resembling prose and wiping bogeys on his T-Shirt, but he’s laughing on the inside nevertheless. A tear-jerking, side-tearing laugh that hurts so good he needs to run to the bathroom quickly for fear of wetting himself at your expense. You’re even funnier than he’s trying so hard to be.
Because let’s face it: your narrator sucks. He ... sucks. He really sucks. He sucks so hard that the good people at Hoover modeled their product after his anatomy. The deluded aspiring writer at this computer terminal knows that he’s just a sad sack with a pipe dream, and that the only reason you’re reading his work is the same reason you watch the first few episodes of American Idol: to reassure yourself that everyone else is stupider than you are, and to have a laugh at the stupids with the voices so genital-shrinkingly horrific that make you laugh so tear-jerkingly and side-splittingly that you run to the bathroom in your mirth in fear that you’ll wet yourself at their expense.
And while we’re facing facts, let’s face the fact that your cheeky narrator has used the same terms that described the filler of America’s wide-scale humiliation broadcast to describe you: you are so tear-jerkingly, side-splittingly funny that he must run to the bathroom in fear that he’ll wet himself at your expense. Does that mean that he’s comparing you to, say, the hypothetical man who was clueless enough to sing “I Feel Like A Woman” for his audition, apparently ignorant of the fact that his 5 0’clock shadow and ginormous Adam’s Apple were startlingly glaring proof that he in fact wasn’t anything resembling a woman (or at least an attractive one)?
Let your narrator answer this question for you in that omniscient, infinitely wise, impartial and endlessly graceful way that all narrators conduct themselves.
Hell yeah, beyotch!
Ahem. That is, only if you are reading this because the ramblings of a dumb computer nerd with enough acne to grate cheese are something worth reading to you and/or you have nothing better to do. Because let’s face facts yet again: a prize your narrator isn’t. No matter how much he wants it, the odds of getting recognition for his borderline work is so slim it’s the only thing that’s skinnier than Kate Moss (zing!). Oh, sure, you’re reading it, and though that’s all fine and dandy, the only reason that this piece is rankled with mockery and condescension is because your narrator knows that he can find solace in belittling his readers, who he’s certain are dumpy rumps that will make him seem less gag-worthy in comparison.
Now that we’re done with the pleasantries, let’s get on with what the heck this stuff is supposed to be about. Guys and Gals. Hopefully, it’s got you asking a couple of questions, and unless you take yourself a little too seriously, you’re hopefully asking all the wrong questions. e.g. “Could that title be any more generic?” “Why is this hedonistic, immoral, sadistic butt-muncher writing about guys and gals?” “Why am I still reading this drivel?” “When will this narrator stop babbling this string of the most pretentious, verbose and mind-numbingly boring questions known to man?” “Who is Mad Max?”
Again, let your narrator field these questions simultaneously and effortlessly as only the best narrators can.
How should I know?
Well, Guys and Gals is an offbeat, off-kilter, off-putting and just plain off attempt of some guy with a penchant for cheeky narrators and written proof of his idiocy to write a series of books. It’s set in a high school with an ensemble of characters from different castes and cultures, in an obvious and predictable yet brilliant attempt by the author to get his oh-so-oblivious audience to relate to his characters without having to do anything.
If you’re still reading at this point, you’re in even MORE trouble than you were in the half-hour it’s probably taken your muddled mind to swagger up to this point. If you’ve read this far, it means one of two things: you’re waiting for an address or some kind of information you could use to track down your narrator and give him what’s coming to him, or you were mildly interested in where this was all going. If it’s the first one, call information and ask for Ima Jidiot, making sure to enunciate very slowly and repeatedly. If it’s the second one, this is your last warning. This series is just like watching car wrecks or MTV: it’s so bad, but you just can’t look away. Stop reading. Stop. Stop, you nincompoop, stop!
Well, your narrator’s hands are now washed. He is satisfied that everything that could have been done to stop you has been done. You’ve been warned, you’ve been insulted, and most importantly, this advisory has more than 1000 words in it to tire your already sluggish brains and diminish your already microscopic attention spans. There are even a few big vocabulary words in the mix to turn you off: simultaneously. Hypothetically. Hedonistic. Condescension. Cheese. Every second you continue to waste is your own fault (though, when you think about it, your time was never really that valuable to begin with). So read on if you think that the ramblings of a dumb computer nerd with enough acne to grate cheese with are something worth reading. Maybe underneath all the farced comedy, uppity melodrama, unlikable characters, ample grammatical and punctuation errors, bad puns, disguised insults and horrid pop-culture references in yet another eye-rollingly sucky teen story you’ll find something to truly enjoy, despite the fact that your narrator wangs chung.
Or maybe, like when watching the first few weeks of American Idol, you’ll just laugh at the patheticness of yet another mediocre, addle-brained fool’s aspirations with tear-jerking, side-splitting laughter so awesome you’ll run to the bathroom in fear of wetting yourself at his expense.