The novel is almost here

What novel, you rasp? This one of course. See you are expecting some boring piece of garbage filled with boring predictability like characters, plot, meaning and other related drivel, but I have really outsmarted you this time! According the the painstaking H Q Picadilly Strunket rules of style, all you need for a novel is 200 hundred straight pages of words, be they composed on paper, papyrus, velvet, cellophane, baseball cards, hummingbird skins, or whatever medium you happen to have hand at present. SO I am almost there! I really never thought I would do it. Of course I now have to dedicate myself to the arduous task of knitting all this sewage together into a single handsome collectors edition format computer file, but this task should be a mere basket of baubles compared to the work I have already completed. I may just rent a hamster for a weekend and let the beast exercise her lily paws on the keyboard to finish this thing off. The only difference that cold possibly noted could be the sharp erudition of the hamster.

Burroughs cutting method? Hah! For sissies! This loot is numenally cut! Saves loads of labor! I can pad it out with rarely seen Bazooka Joe strips and no one would be any the wiser...

Onthe subject of cutting, I think that it would have been better if the cutting had only been the beginning. He should have then buttered it up, put it in a blender, and fried it on an open flame before lovingly ladling it onto his editor' red pen.. It would have been similar nonsense, but at least it would have been delicious. Another book that is cutting resistant: The Bible. no one can mess with the transcendental cutting techniques obviously in operation there...Who would believe me if I plead that this shining parchment was the result of randomly collecting scattered typeset that had been skydiving the night before... I didn't think so...

Well anyway, here is the editorial for today, to try to bring you back to reality. You evidently have trouble controlling your imagination. Haiti. Need I say more? What can be done for these poor people. Of course they are just acute sufferers of the human condition. BAH! you snort behind narrowed eyes, overstuffed in your armchair. What the duat is he talkin' about now? You sit there, satisfied and self-possessed, encaged by your seductive mistress extra sodium pork rinds, and sincerely believe that is could never happen to you, as you shrewdly plotted to live in a locality that hasn't experienced an earthquake since the time of North American mountain building, that is, well before you were born. And you are right. But as you reach in satisfaction for the the last lonely rind, you are seized by the pain representing your accumulated pork rind slaughtering karma, and dissolve into a fine goo on your living room rug. Food for thought.