Ryan Sayles sent me the garbage that I have deposited below. In his staggering megalomania, he somehow thought that he was supposed to write about five of his own stories. I wasn't going to publish it, but then I realized that by publishing it I was providing a public service--letting the world know NOT to read anything by this dangerously insane manchild.
Proceed at your own risk...
Later that night, he called me to apologize. Because he lost. Anyways, the point is, he recognized (Urban Dictionary: 1) respect; give honor by public acknowledgement… 3) When you disrespect someone, and they in turn burn your ass, you must "RECOGNIZE". Sometimes followed by a quick "HELL YEAH!"). As he should. As all people should. Because I am incredible.
However, it got me thinking. Above all else, there is one man who must recognize my glory in all things. There is one man who, without a constant reminder of my vast set of skills and abilities, might one day fall short. That man is me. If I don’t take the time out to really reflect on what I have done for mankind, how my presence has brought joy and wonder to a bleak world, how can I expect-nay, demand, that others do the same?
So, it’s recognizing time. Hell yeah. You’re welcome, because this is a gift.
28 Days of Mutilated Zombies Whores Later – Fellow author Brian Panowich and I made a pact to give the world the greatest zombie stories ever. He failed, but that’s understandable. He’s not me. I delivered. My story, set two years after a worldwide zombie apocalypse, is about a man who runs a zombie harem and sells the undead prostitute’s services to scavengers in return for survival goods. One man decides to pay with a living woman and everything, well, stops running smoothly. This story rules because when people finish it, they ask, “What the f*ck is wrong with Sayles?”
By which, of course, they mean no disrespect. They better not.
They’re recognizing my ability to baffle them with incredibleness. It’s all in the plot twists, baby.
The Roach Motel Reputation – This is under the pen name Derek Kelly. At the time I was a stage dancer (a lot of lesser dudes complain about how the T-backs can really cut into your ass but I enjoyed the burn) and it made sense to write under my glitter name. This story features my private detective Richard Dean Buckner (why yes, I did write a novel about him) as he storms a bar that caters to sexual deviants. He’s looking for a murderer, blah blah blah. This story rules because—and I don’t care who you are—any story based around abusing child molesters deserves the story version of a steak dinner and a happy ending.
People recognize my ability to exude testosterone and all that is deliciously manly. It’s all in my musk, baby.
Grease Monkey Bokur – When I say something, it’s true. Even if that means people have to realize what they’ve believed all along is false simply because I just contradicted it. So, let me put Al Gore at ease and say global warming doesn’t exist.
There. Because I said it, Mother Nature will recognize and stop heating up. Sorry Al, better luck with whatever hippie religion you start next.
In this story, I state that mechanics are better than doctors. What people found so shocking about that absolute fact was I only needed 700 words to make it true (EL James wrote three entire novels claiming some torture porn douche was what all women wanted and that never made it true). Sorry doctors, better luck with paying off those school loans while simultaneously learning how to work on a transmission if you want to continue being “a healer.”
People recognize my ability to make it so by sheer act of will. It’s all in my “I am because I am,” baby.
Junior Detective – Some of the great satire of our time—The Office, The Onion, The Biggest Loser—needs me before they are simply written off by history as “the poor man’s Junior Detective.” In this gem of literature (or, for me, what is considered my daily warm-up) I dissect the inner workings of the Common Man, embodied here as a humble hospital security officer who is working against the odds to save the day. Seinfeld, Jon Stewart, The New Yorker, you guys can learn something about your craft here. Hell, you’ll get your doctorate here.
People recognize my ability to acutely capture the iconic human spirit in ways so fresh and invigorating that it makes both Leo Tolstoy and Mark Twain look like bitches. It’s all in the unique perspective, baby.
Collection – I like this story because the last few paragraphs bother people on a deep, deep level. Some folks spend their whole lives hoping, praying for the opportunity to affect just one person. Just one. Just plant one little seed that might grow into a fruitful experience. Just one? Ha. One is for losers who don’t deserve to share the same sunlight as me. I affect millions. I make it happen. Every day when I wake up and snap the waistband of my tightie-whities (I retired the T-backs along with my always-used-out-of-context Mueller Runner’s Lube and rape whistle) people exhale in relief that I’m still around to give them purpose. That’s when you know you’ve had an effect on people, when they consider suicide the only option if you’re not there to inspire them.
People recognize my influence towards a better world. It’s all in being a guiding light, baby.
In this story, I state that mechanics are better than doctors. What people found so shocking about that absolute fact was I only needed 700 words to make it true (EL James wrote three entire novels claiming some torture porn douche was what all women wanted and that never made it true). Sorry doctors, better luck with paying off those school loans while simultaneously learning how to work on a transmission if you want to continue being “a healer.”
People recognize my ability to make it so by sheer act of will. It’s all in my “I am because I am,” baby.
Junior Detective – Some of the great satire of our time—The Office, The Onion, The Biggest Loser—needs me before they are simply written off by history as “the poor man’s Junior Detective.” In this gem of literature (or, for me, what is considered my daily warm-up) I dissect the inner workings of the Common Man, embodied here as a humble hospital security officer who is working against the odds to save the day. Seinfeld, Jon Stewart, The New Yorker, you guys can learn something about your craft here. Hell, you’ll get your doctorate here.
People recognize my ability to acutely capture the iconic human spirit in ways so fresh and invigorating that it makes both Leo Tolstoy and Mark Twain look like bitches. It’s all in the unique perspective, baby.
Collection – I like this story because the last few paragraphs bother people on a deep, deep level. Some folks spend their whole lives hoping, praying for the opportunity to affect just one person. Just one. Just plant one little seed that might grow into a fruitful experience. Just one? Ha. One is for losers who don’t deserve to share the same sunlight as me. I affect millions. I make it happen. Every day when I wake up and snap the waistband of my tightie-whities (I retired the T-backs along with my always-used-out-of-context Mueller Runner’s Lube and rape whistle) people exhale in relief that I’m still around to give them purpose. That’s when you know you’ve had an effect on people, when they consider suicide the only option if you’re not there to inspire them.
People recognize my influence towards a better world. It’s all in being a guiding light, baby.
