Before we begin tonight, yes, I'm high. I'm near the edge of not being able to write this.
So a while back I remember someone came up with a joke (maybe?) of doing a calendar of hot male bizarro authors. I'm disappointed that I was not invited. It's OK. I get it. I have a mirror. I look plain with my clothes on. Take 'em off? It's a horror show.
But this being the week of Mardi Gras, I couldn't help but think of Girls Gone Wild and how it might apply to authors. What if we really, really wanted those Mardi Gras bead necklaces? Would we flash our breasts to earn them?
Probably not. Who the fuck wants beads, anyway? Unless you can cash them in for prizes like getting arcade tickets for playing skeeball. Fuck, I loved that when I was a kid.
But it's a great marketing idea. Imagine me at Mardi Gras, getting into the groove, and when I'm offered beads (or some other excellent incentive, like I don't know, Amazon gift cards) I decide to reciprocate. Now imagine me lifting my shirt to expose my tits. Except instead of my tits you see twin copies of TALES OF UNSPEAKABLE TASTE? That's right, now you're excessively horny AND you want to buy my most recent book. It's a win-win.
Or I've just lost the plot. I can't tell for sure. Probably the latter.
Fuck. I've not been sleeping well. Goodnight, fuckers.
By the way, earlier tonight while I was planning this column I thought it would be a wonderfully horrible idea to post a shirtless picture of me with a couple of my books covering my breasts. I thought better of it. You're welcome.
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