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Maurice Stoker on Tom Bradley's Even the Dog Won't Touch Me
"In France they call them artistes. Here we call them cocksuckers." — Unnamed Administration Official
I'm leading a tour of fellow literary professionals. Writers, editors, publishers, and agents. Lots of agents. A tour for a clutch of charities. A service tour of the glory holes of Europe. Western Europe. We do the US and Canada later in the year.
It seems that with Cheney and Bush Jr. having memoirs surreptitiously penned and to be published in the near future, they are both going to be with us on the US leg. I can't wait to see the Secret Service agents on their knees beside the former President and his Vice chowing down on anonymous wiener dogs protruding from holes in stark bathroom walls. Although I have been informed that SS will require all anonymous participants submit to short arm inspection and penile toivel, probably laving away the tasty smegma from around those few remaining lovely foreskins. At any rate I look forward to Cheney coaxing the creamy surprise fillings from those luscious elongate eel-like fleshy wall-breaching pastries. I understand he has taken lessons from fellow north westerner and former “conservative” politico Larry Craig, who is supposedly no stranger to working men's rooms.
At any rate, my European tour leading the notable literary luminaries of Europe was interrupted in Sintra with an urgent request to review a book of short, uh, fiction. Fiction, supposedly. Of course, I will have a word or two to say in that regard in due course.
The book is Even the Dog Won't Touch Me by one Tom Bradley. Bradley is among those handful of dickwads who believe it is their right to write and have published books that are not tailored to a specific audience within the God-given parameters of genre. This conceit is rampant now with the plethora of small presses, given the digital age. What a hideous cultural aberration that is. Where once we controlled the printed word, now anyone, not just those we choose, can spew shit.
The problem is when people like Bradley spew shit outside the accepted norms of fictional genre. Fortunately the fix is in. I have devoted much effort to a team developing software for producing novels and short stories. And more recently essays. Parameter driven and user friendly, it can generate oeuvres in a mixture of styles across the entire spectrum of genres in seconds. And one can specify down to the sub-sub-genre, mixing styles by pop writers as diverse as Nabokov, Palahniuk, Atwood, Robbins, Smiley and Chandler. No need for those damnable writers.
In fact, a significant portion of the fiction (and “non-fiction”) now on the best seller lists and literary prize-winner lists of all nations is the automatic product of our software. No more need for the book packaging committee to fuck with words, designing the write-by-number guides. We need now only package the artiste. Cover art and book design are handled along with authorship by the software, given the target audience.
Bradley had his chance to join the list of successful writers. Instead he opted to be a bozo writing what he chose. What an ass. Worse, WTF was he thinking when he publicly disclosed the workings behind the veil? His stories The Stylist, At the Airport, At the Creative Writing Workshop and Closet Fiction spill the beans on the truth behind the publishing industry. But so what? No one will read any of this.
And for your information, Mr. Bradley, that fingernail was NOT ormolu-enameled. That is real gold, dude. I sincerely hope you have since trimmed your nose hairs; they no longer harbor pecuniary value, sir.
Now I simply must get to my party assembling even now at one of Portugal's, no Europe's, finest restaurantes specializing in goat. To enjoy with fine old Colares highly concentrated of Ramirez from deep sand.
Tom Bradley, Even the Dog Won't Touch Me
Publisher: Ahadada Books
© The Drill Press 2009