Mid-year bah humbug!

It's heading towards the end of June.

I don't need to tell you that.

Everyone is sick and a bit tired, it's cold as hell, it's definitely the mid-year slump, can i hear a hell yeah?

Oh, you're too tired for a 'hell yeah' - fair enough.

So short of buying you a weekend for two in Tulbagh this weekend (which is completely out of the question, and if I may say quite unrealistic of you to expect), all i can really do to try brighten up your day is post a funny picture and hope for the best.

Here's one that @Deems sent me. I like it. (Not as much as a weekend for two in Tulbagh, but hey, beggers can't be choosers!)



If it's too small and you're too lazy/grumpy/old to reach for your specs, click on it once or twice and it should go bigger.

Oh and happy mid-year-slump-wednesday.

tweetery.

This comes from here. I heart it, so i'm sharing it.

Happy Toosday.

Sucked in by the idiot lantern

Morning, rise and shine, right, here's yesterday's column, in case you missed it.

A MILLION MILES FROM NORMAL – By Paige Nick

SUCKED IN BY THE IDIOT LANTERN

I’m a bit of a sucker for reality TV. Please don’t hate me for it. It’s a guilty pleasure I was hoping we could just keep between us.

Much like other guilty pleasures (like ice-cream and unsuitable men) it can’t be good for any of us in the long run. Sometimes you can physically feel yourself losing brain cells as you sit there watching and drooling. But by then it’s too late, the grey matter is long gone, so you may as well at least stick around and see who gets voted off this week.

They’ve got reality shows for just about everything these days. If you think you can dance, if you think you can be a bounty hunter, if you think you can cook, if you think you can marry Hugh Heffner, if you think you can survive on a desert island, if you think you can spray tan.

There are reality TV shows set in rehab and hospitals and soon outer space I’m sure. Reality TV for morons and douchebags and housewives and sixteen year olds having their birthdays, and sixteen year olds having their babies on their birthdays. There’s no depth we haven’t plundered, and this is only just the beginning.

One of the more horrendous ones I came across recently is called Bridalplasty, where brides-to-be in America do challenges to win plastic surgery before their big day. Decorate the best cake and get Botox, beat the other contestants in a wedding dress relay race and win a boob job. It’s pretty horrific. Who knows what the groom will find when he lifts the veil on wedding day.

And I haven’t even started on The Discovery Channel’s reality offerings yet. It’s kind of the guy version of reality TV. Most guys will turn their noses up at Reality TV, unless it’s on The Discovery Channel, then it’s somehow okay. The channel gives it a manly legitimacy. Guys will tell you The Bachelor is rubbish, but are quite happy to switch over to Discovery and watch a man stuck in the desert drink his own urine to stay alive. They’ll tell you it’s not reality TV, it’s a documentary. Um, sorry, but same difference!

I have a mate who calls TV ‘the idiot lantern’. Maybe he’s right. But there’s something incredibly enjoyable and relaxing about watching some of this mindless crap, even if it is the equivalent of going out and getting a lobotomy on an arbitrary Tuesday night.

It suddenly occurs to me that there is one reality TV show they haven’t come up with yet. One for writers. They could call it ‘Who wants to be an author?’ or more appropriately, ‘Who wants to be a starving author?’ or ‘Project Rejection Letter’ has a nice ring to it too.

The formula could be the same as any other reality show. Bring in a cast of writers who are sure to clash, stick them in a house together, add some booze and extreme pressure, and start filming.

There would be the neurotic one, the arrogant one, the hot one, the activist one, the funny one, the bastard, the one with low self-esteem, the one with a borderline personality disorder, the chain smoking alcoholic drug addict, the hipster, and of course the paranoid one. It would be carnage.

They could compete against each other in weekly writing elimination challenges, like ‘Spot the bad apostrophe’, ‘How to live below the poverty line’, or ‘There’s nothing to write with, now what are you going to do?’ until there’s only one author left slumped behind a typewriter in a pool of his own serotonin.

Or even better, let’s pit different kinds of genre writers against each other. For example you could have Marian Keyes (chick lit), Dan Brown (dick lit), and JK Rowling (cash lit) writing against the likes of literary fictionistas - Salman Rushdie, JM Coetzee and V.S. Naipaul and of course they should throw in Paris Hilton, just for good measure. What? Of course she is a real author, she wrote the bestseller Confessions of an Heiress!

The only real problem I can foresee is that writing isn’t much of a spectator sport. There’s not all that much to see. I just finished my second novel so I can tell you from first-hand experience that it’s not the most glamorous thing you can do with your clothes on. If by clothes you mean the same pair of elastic-waisted pyjama pants and a grubby sweatshirt, eighteen days in a row.

There is also an inordinate amount of time writers spend pre-writing, which includes such exciting activities as tidying your desk, avoiding actually writing, surfing the net and calling it research, answering emails, drinking, smoking, hanging out on Twitter and Facebook, and of course, watching reality TV. None of which makes for particularly riveting viewing.

Perhaps that’s why the TV makers avoid the writers and stick with brides willing to kill each other for a little bit of bum liposuction and a nose job.

Fashion smashion

Okay, can we all just step back and admit something for a second...

fashion is fucked up, right?

Who's to say what's in and out, what's hot and what's not?

Okay, look, I'm not a complete heathen, I get your basic fashion trends and I usually try and keep up as much as is possible. I understand that the long boot over jeans or jeggings is so hot right now. Or that this colour is the new black, then that colour is the new black, then black is the new black. But it's more the crazy fashion shit that I really don't get.

My friend Amanda sent me this recently:

Horses hooves! Really now! Clippety cloppity, clippity cloppity.

here's the blurb about them:

'...these will set you back about ZAR 14,000, they comprise of 5000 horse hairs. They were commissioned to celebrate Cheltenham Festival’s 100th anniversary and are apparently “...the perfect accessory for racing fans who want to stand out from the crowd.”


More like the perfect accessory for racing fans who want to look like complete douchebags!

5000 horse hairs? Shame and it's winter, there are some very chilly My Little Ponies out there right now.

And Lady Gag isn't the only one to blame when it comes to crazy fashions, there are a ton of designers out there smoking a whole weekend's worth of crack all at once, and then making shit like this:

What, you mean you don't have one of these:

Oh my goodness, I can't believe you don't have one. You are so passe!

And what about this:

What! You don't have one of those either? I have four, one in white, one in red, one in black and one in crazy.

And of course back to the horsie theme:

And I've heard of helmet head, but this...

And this jelly fish, lamp pole look is all the rage:

This one just creeps me out:

Little hands stitching your clothes onto you. Insert horror music in here please, mwuhahahahahaha! That's some freaky Helena Bonham Carter shit, right there!

Somebody please call the fashion police immediately.

More mean cards.

A chap named Albert read my column on Mean Cards in Sunday's paper and sent me this:

I thought I'd post it for sheer Wednesday cheer.

Happy flipping father's day!

Morning, here's yesterday's column from The Sunday Times. As an added bonus, you'll see it's illustrated. Hope you enjoy.

A MILLION MILES FROM NORMAL – By Paige Nick.
HAPPY FLIPPING FATHER’S DAY.

Happy Father’s Day dads of the nation. The fact that it’s today was violently brought to my attention whilst waiting in the queue at a shop the other day, running my eyes over the bazillion Father’s Day cards and paraphernalia that had suddenly sprung up, like umbrellas for sale at a set of traffic lights during a sudden shower.

When I was a kid I used to spend hours making extravagant cards using glitter pens and every crayon in the box. But these day’s I’m more of a scribble on the side of the second-time-used wrapping paper, with the only working pen I can find in my car at the last minute (my eyeliner pencil) kind of girl. You know how it goes.

So taking a closer look at all those shiny wishes stacked up in front of me, I started wondering who actually writes these things? And not just the Dad’s Day ones, I’m talking about all those schmaltzy, Canderel-flavoured cards you come across all year round.

'My love is like a red, red rose...'

'Your lips are as soft as rose petals...'

The poor rose, bet it never wanted to become synonymous with soppy love. And why the rose, what makes it more romantic than any other flower? Who’s to say the Snap Dragon, Delicious Monster, or Venus Fly Trap couldn’t be the epitome of love too?

‘If I had a rose for every time I thought of you, I’d walk through a garden forever.’ Oh my vomit!

Is writing this stuff actually somebody's job? Does some poor schmuck spend eight hours a day sitting with his Thesaurus in his lap, looking for as many different synonyms for 'special', or 'precious' or 'darling' that he can find? Seriously, that can’t be much fun.

So I was busy doing some research, trying to find out who writes these things (I wanted to send him a condolence card) when I came across a range of cards out there called Mean Cards. Which in my opinion are much more appropriate for the kind of hectic, hard-core times we find ourselves living in.

Why send a soppy, impersonal condolence card when you can send one that says, ‘Have a drink, it will make everything all better’ instead?

And the next time someone sends me an invitation to their wedding, I'm totally sending them this Mean Card: ‘Thank you, but I’d sooner chop off my hand.’

Well, at least it’s honest. I believe it’s time for a greeting card revolution! Forget the schmaltz, and the sappy poetry, the time has come for honesty and truthfulness.

And why should we only send cards on the big-name occasions like birthdays, Father’s Day, and anniversaries? Why not send these new, improved, more honest cards for the smaller, everyday occurrences too. Say a friend overdoes it at a party, why not send them a card that says; ‘You drank too much and made a fool of yourself last night.’

Or if you absolutely have to send an engagement card, how about this one: ‘Congratulations on your engagement, but she may just be in it for your money.’ Or if that’s a little too harsh (read true) for your liking, then what about this one: ‘Congrats on your engagement, but is it perhaps because you’re pregnant?’

And all Get Well Soon cards don't really need to be so sickly sweet, do they? How about: ‘I was wondering if maybe you’re faking it to get attention?’ If that’s not motivation to get better soon, so you can kick the sender’s ass, I don’t know what is.

Bring on the revolution! No roses, no carnations, no silly rhymes, just the truth, in all its glory. I think it could totally work, if you’re a bit of a douche-bag and you like that kind of thing.

So to all you fathers out there on this auspicious Father’s Day:

Happy Father’s Day. Hope you get to sleep late, have a big breakfast, read the newspaper, and then go off to play 18 holes.

So, just like every other Sunday then!

Mean cards. All the rage. If you like that kind of thing, you asshat.  :)

Winna, winna!

Okay, so I waited all day yesterday for Price Waterhouse Coopers to arrive with their briefcase and giant calculator to help me decide who should win, but maybe they got held up in the rain.

So all on my own I read through all the entries in line to win this:

and this:

But there were some really nice ones, so I couldn't decide. So instead, I printed them all out (yes, I know, I'm a giant nerd) and cut each one out, then folded them up and put them all in a hat. Well, it wasn't really a hat, I'm not much of a hat wearer, it was actually my empty teacup. And then I shook it and shuffled all the papers up, and then I drew out the winner... who is... drum roll please...

Well done Jacci. Please email me your details on paige@polka.co.za ASAP and i'll get in touch with you to organise delivery of your prize, quick sticks.

And then in second place I drew out 'Little Miss Medic', so you win a copy of my first book, A Million Miles from Normal. (Email me on the address above, okay, so we can get you sorted.)

Thanks so much to everyone who entered, wish I was a multi-gabillionaire so I could give you each a copy. Hey, I'd even settle for being a multi-thousandaire.

And big thanks to Douwe EgbertsSA for the coffee, i believe it to be going to a very good cause.

Thanks again, and hope you all have a spanky weekend.

Am I too gullible, or is this awesome?

As I've already mentioned here a couple of times, I tend to get quite a bit of crazy-ass but flippen amazing mail in response to the Sunday Times Column every week.

On Sunday night I got this letter i've copied and pasted in verbatim, below.

Now you tell me, am I just being gullible, and it's actually from a 49 year old podiatrist from Belhar, pulling my leg. (That's the beauty of the internet, right? ) Or do incredible kids like this actually exist in the world?

(no subject)
I loved the article about "No need for Bring a Pig to Work Day"! it was hilarious!!!!!

I am only 13, so i don't go to work, but high school is a similar ball game, but you don't get paid for it. i laughed so much!


and i think a nap at work is a good idea, but a map in school is even better! that way my math, E.M.S and my afrikaans teachers will stop shouting at me for falling asleep in their classes.


Awesome article!!!!!!!!


check ya later
 
Let me list the reasons this kid is awesome:
 
1. I wasn't smart enough to read a newspaper when I was 13. (Except for Dagwood and Garfield!)
2. Not one single spelling mistake or text speak word that I could see in the whole letter.
3. She falls asleep at school! I used to fall asleep at school! See, awesome!
 
Unless I'm just being gullible and it's actually from a 59 year old financial advisor from Brakpan.

Hey, a quick reminder, you have till Thursday arvie to enter my Free Stuff competition to win a copy of my new book, This Way Up, and some awesome coffee from Douwe Egberts. :) Happy Wednesday/Sort of Friday.

Bobbylicious rocks!

Bobby has a blog, and it looks like this:



She did a very cool thing. She just finished reading my first book, A Million Miles from Normal, and she made a fashion mood-boardy thingy to celebrate. It's very cool, nobody has ever done anything like that for me before. I'm digging it. Look:

Now if I can please have that dress and those shoes, and yes that purse will do, and maybe that nail polish too. Thank you very much.

If you want to read her review and check out her blog then go here. Gowan, you know you want to, it only takes one click.

Bring a pig to work day.

Hello folks, how goes it over there? And over there? What about you over there? Flippen cool, I hope?
Here's yesterday's column, just in case you were so hung over you couldn't move far enough to get a paper, or if you were still at your dealer's house, or maybe you were still so drunk from Saturday night, your eyes couldn't focus? Or maybe you were in jail? Just in case any of the above, here's the column:


A MILLION MILES FROM NORMAL. By Paige Nick

BRING A PIG TO WORK DAY

The guy who sits behind me’s, second cousin’s girlfriend brought a pig into the advertising agency where I work. Do I need to repeat that? And which part? The guy who sits behind me’s second cousin’s girlfriend? Or the fact that she brought a pig into the office?

It was really cute (the pig, not the second cousin’s girlfriend). Apparently they’re all the rage these days. Dogs and cats are so passe, and budgies, forget about it. The pig is the new black. Apparently they make fantastic pets. Smart, surprisingly clean and pretty damn adorable if this one was anything to go by. It was teeny tiny weenie, about thirty centimetres long and it was black with a little pink snuffly nose and pink ballet shoed hoofs, and a curly little piggy tail. And this little piggy’s name was Floyd. Pig Floyd.

I’ve heard of Bring a Girl Child to Work Day, and Cleavage Day and Casual Friday, and for a while there we even had Friday is Tie Day. But I didn’t know that there was a Bring A Pig To Work Day. If only I’d known. Unfortunately I don’t have a pig, but I’m sure I could have found some bacon somewhere.

What can I say, when it comes to bacon, I’m Jew-ish. I’m a big fan, who wouldn’t be? I’m sorry, I know it’s wrong, but I’d eat bacon wrapped in bacon if it was on the menu. Other than biltong, bacon is the number one reason I don’t get vegetarians. The only reason I can imagine that you wouldn’t eat bacon, is if you’ve never actually tasted it before, then you wouldn’t know any better.

But back to Cleavage Day. Who else is with me in thinking that it had to have been a guy’s idea? In fact, I’m imagining a whole bunch of blokes sitting around one Saturday at half time.

GUY ONE: ‘Hey dudes, let’s invent a day, like No Top Day, and then all the chicks will come to work without tops on, it will be legendary!’

GUY TWO: (Clearly the least stoned of all the guys.) ‘Are you mad? There’s no way they’d go for that! What about a No Bra Day instead?’

Then all the guys whooped and did fist pumps and knuckle bumps at the very genius of their idea, until another guy spoke up, most likely the lawyer in the group.

LAWYER GUY: ‘Okes, I really don’t think they’re going to go for that either. The most we can hope for is maybe a Cleavage Day, at a push.’

GUY ONE AGAIN: ‘Hey I know, what if we say it’s for charity, do you think they’ll do it then?

LAWYER GUY: Well, it’s no Tits-out Day, but there’s no harm in trying.

And so Cleavage Day was born (in my mind).

In retrospect, what on earth possessed us women to first agree to it and then actually go along with it? What’s in it for us? It’s not like we get anything in return, like a Wear Tight Pants to Show off Your Package Day. Or a No Shirt If You’ve Got a Six-Pack Day, or heaven forbid, Who’s Got Balls Day. Although I could think of nothing worse.

Now that I think about it, perhaps it’s not more Bring A This or Wear A That To Work Days that we need to enhance our working lives. I think that could quite simply be achieved by instituting some good old-fashioned Kindergarten rules in the workplace. Like how about a Play Nicely And Share Your Toys Day? Or an Always Wash Your Hands After You Pee Day. And I’m almost positive that work would be a much friendlier place if we all had a little nap every afternoon and then woke up to a glass of milk and a cookie before getting back to work. Who needs massive amounts of cleavage all over the place when you’ve got milk and cookies? Oh, what’s that you say, you’re a guy and you’d rather have the Cleavage? Well, then I guess there’s no need for a Bring A Pig to Work Day after all, they’re at work already.

Sunday bloody Sunday.

The truth hurts, right?

PS: I don't recall where this came from, so apologies that it's not attributed. If you sent it to me, thank you.

PPS: Hey, here's something that doesn't totally suck - I'm giving away some free stuff. You've got till end of Thursday to enter. Scroll down for more info.

Free stuff!

It's been ages since we (and by we, I guess I mean me) did a giveaway here at A Million Miles from Normal. And yesterday I got given a wonderful gift pack from Douwe Egberts, a company who has been making superior coffees for over 250 years. Sheesh, that's a long time. They must be very tired, although still quite wide awake at the same time.

Since I haven't had a cup of coffee since 1999, I fear that if I had to take even just one sip, my head would explode. So I thought I'd give this 100g jar of medium roasted Pure Gold to one of you lot.

And since you'll be up all night anyway, I thought I'd throw in a copy of my new book This Way Up, too.

So while you're bouncing off the walls on a superior coffee high, you'll at least have something good to read.

I'm afraid this giveaway is for Capetonians only. (Sorry!)

To be the winner-winner, tell me in the comments section below why you want the book and need the coffee, (or for extra brownie points you could just throw in a dodgy dating/sex story instead, you know how I love those!)

Good luck, I'll post the winner on the blog next week friday morning, very first thing.

crazy names

Know what I love?
Names made out of other names.

They're always funny.
You and hubby can't decide between Sharron and Rhonda?
why not compromise and go for Sharonda?
Granny on his side named Desray, granny on her side named Jessica?
No problem, don't piss either of them off, call her Jesseray.

Dad named Keith, mom named Lynn? easy peasy lemon squeezy, meet their dauther Keithlynn.
Mom and dad couldn't decide between Keisha and Danielle, so they ching chong cha-ed. Pity it was a draw. But nice to meet you Dakeisha.

you've got to love a good compromise.

Homemade condoms, really?

Whatever next? You ask yourself when you think you've seen it all.

Then Chris, from Somerset West, sends you this picture in response to your latest column in the Sunday Times, which is all about The Condom Conundrum (Who should supply it, when is the right moment to pull it out, etc etc):

He snapped the pic on an Island in Thailand (of course)

and then you think, ah yes of course. That's what's next.

Condoms that are not only homemade (ahem, excuse me, but how?) but also have a 20 year guarantee. I mean I've had some dry spells in my time, but that's ridiculous. Only twelve year olds should have to carry condoms around in their wallet unused for long stretches of time, and even then hopefully for only five to ten years at the very most.

And then furthermore, if you buy ten you get one free! Well if they're sitting around for 20 years or longer, I'm not sure that you'll be needing them in those kinds of humongous quantities, would you? Unless the eventual release after all that time is... yes, let's not go there.

And the sign also boasts 'free Pepsi, free chocolate and free beer'. That's some fucked up kind of shop.

Thank you Chris, from Somerset West. You made my Tuesday.

The Condom Conundrum

Morning, morning, morning, (said like the stewardess, waiting at the front of the plane to greet you.)
Here's yesterday's Sunday Times Column, hope you enjoy it.

THE CONDOM CONUNDRUM

It’s astonishing how far the condom has come. Just 400 years ago chaps were using everything from animal horns to linen or even animal skins, bladders and intestines, dipped into scary-sounding chemicals such as sulphur and lye, and tying them to their thingies with a ribbon. (I can’t help imagining that they looked a little like a gift, all wrapped up and tied with a bow.)

At one point they were even made out of rubber by Mr Goodyear himself, and were about as thick as the inner tube of a bicycle tire. I’m not quite sure how that worked.

Fortunately there have been some incredible advances and the humble condom has gone from being made out of ridiculous materials and being outlawed and internationally banned to finally being commonly accepted, absolutely necessary and freely available just about everywhere and in every way. Extra-large, extra-small, ribbed, studded, fruit-flavoured and lubricated for your enjoyment, there are no shortage of options. They even make a condom for women these days.

But while we have come very far, there are still some areas of condom usage and etiquette where we are seriously lacking.

The first question we’re still not so clear on is who should be responsible for supplying the condom — the guy or the girl? On the one hand, pulling a condom out of your pocket, wallet or bedside drawer shows that you’re a responsible, thoughtful and safe adult, but on the other hand, nobody wants to come across as easy, over-eager, promiscuous, or even worse, presumptuous.

A girlfriend of mine went on a first date recently. Everything was going well, the conversation flowed and she said she felt like they were getting along really nicely. When the time came to pay the bill, she did the requisite reach for her purse, and then they did the mandatory “allow me, no allow me, no really, allow me” dance, wherein the woman offers to pay and the man gallantly insists that he wants to pay. Finally she conceded, thanked him for his generosity, and sat back to finish her wine while he did the necessary. But when he opened his wallet to take out his cash, a condom fell out onto the restaurant bill. An awkward silence ensued, followed by the guy’s desperate attempt to rescue himself. But he only managed to dig himself deeper into a sexless hole in the process.

The irony is that, over dessert, my friend had actually decided that she might consider sleeping with him because they were having such a good time. But when the condom fell out, it all just became too awkward and pre-planned.

You can hardly blame the guy. It was an unfortunate accident. Nobody wants to be caught unprepared when the opportunity to have sex arises, but on the other hand, you don’t want to come across as so absolutely sure of your devastating charm and good looks that you know for a fact you’re going to get laid before you’ve even met the girl.

Then there are the other questions of condom etiquette that raise their ugly heads during the course of a single person’s life. Another friend of mine recently found herself in a relationship with a gentleman who required a larger sized condom. When that relationship ended she was in possession of the remainder of a box of (imaginatively named) Mr Big’s Condoms. An awkward position to be in, because she didn’t want to throw out three perfectly good condoms, but was concerned that perhaps the next guy she found herself with might be slightly less well-endowed, and she didn’t want to embarrass him by offering him a raincoat four sizes too big. In the end she decided to hold onto the big guys. Rather safe than sorry, right?

Shame, there’s really no winning. One of the guys I work with says he doesn’t carry a condom because he’s worried it might jinx him. Maybe he’s got a point. You can carry a condom in your wallet for years and never get laid. But Sod’s Law, leave it at home for one night and the entire touring Swedish women’s beach-volleyball team will be queuing up for a shag.

It's a win, win situation.

If you like pretty things, and macarons, and funny things, and cute things, and fashion, and cape town, and winning my book, then you'll love this blog:

There's a 99.999% chance that you already visit her blog regularly but just in case you haven't been recently, here are three great reasons, and one semi-good reason why you should pop by here:

1. It's kinda cool.

2. She's giving away two copies of both my books.

3. She interviewed me on her blog.

4. Just cos, okay!

Both of the second comings.

Two books coming out at the same time, from two different authors, on oppposite sides of the world, with an almost identical plot! You couldn't make this shit up.

Remember James Frey?

Some people spend their whole lives being dogged by controversy. They can't help it. It just is. He is one such person.

He was the guy who brought out a book a few years ago about his life as an alcoholic, that Oprah praised to kingdom come, making it a major worldwide bestseller (over 5 million copies), before she found out that it wasn't really as much a true-story memoir, as a big piece of liar, liar, pants on fire, fiction. Loosely (and I mean loosely) based on the sort of, kind of, not really, true story of James Frey's life.

Well according to this article from The Guardian, he has a new book out called 'The Final Testament of the Holy Bible'.

Again according to the Guardian Piece, Frey's new book is the story of the return of the Messiah in contemporary New York City, in the form of Ben Zion Avrohom, an alcoholic bisexual who impregnates a prostitute.

Fortunately he's not trying to convince anyone that this book is based on his true-life story. 

But here's the thing, it seems Frey is unable to avoid controversy.

How's this for a coincidence...

At the very same time that Frey launches his new work, a British author named John Niven is launching his new book, called 'The Second Coming'.

Which is the story (wait for it) of the return of the Messiah to contemporary New York City, as a struggling musician, who smokes dope and gets laid.

Seriously, like I said, you couldn't make this shit up if you tried!

Alright, I'm off to write a book quickly, it's going to be called 'The Final Testament of the Second Coming', and it's going to be the story of the return of the Messiah to contemporary New York City, as a midget Elvis impersonator, who cross-dresses and juggles chain saws.

Do you think it will sell?

If you'd like to read further reviews of both books, you'll find them here on The Book Lounge's website.