The life of a blogger can often be a lonely one. Hours in front a computer. Lack of companionship. Doubts as to whether one is making a difference. All the while with one thought going through one’s mind: Why haven’t my meds kicked in yet? Did the dealer cheat me out of $2000?
That’s why I am excited and pleased to announce that I have signed a 3.7 million dollar book deal with Random House. All I did was send them a 66-page proposal. And they accepted! They even called me a “rare literary talent.”
I don’t want to give away all the book but as a service to my readers I’d like to give you a “tease“, so to speak, of this magnificent book by a “rare literary talent.” I smell Pulitzer!
Thirteen percent of my book will be dedicated to reproducing a diary I kept in 2010 that details what I ate. Here is a taste (pun intended.) God I’m so f*cking brilliant and witty.
January 12. I ordered pizza. God I feel fat.
January 13. I ordered two large pizzas. God I feel fat.
February 25. I ordered two large pizzas with extra cheese. I dropped a slice on the floor but still ate it. In my underwear. I feel fat.
March 31. Decided to eat something different. Instead of pizza I ordered 75 chicken wings with extra hot sauce. Thank god I’m writing this in my diary because one day people will want to know.
June 8. I ordered three large cheese pizzas. God I feel fat.
You see? Wasn’t that fascinating? Weren’t you pulled into the narrative? Rare literary talent. You bet your ass!
Some of it will be my thoughts and advice for men. Let me give you a taste. (No pun here.) A goddamn rare literary talent such as myself doesn’t need puns.
I went to my first Men’s Action Coalition meeting when I was three.
That sentence speaks volumes about my political consciousness and my desire to help men overcome the Matriarchy.
When I was nine I wrote a vow of celibacy.
The above sentence shows that even at an early age I was in charge of my own orgasm.
Once I had a order out pizza dinner party that was chronicled in the style section of the New York Times.
Funny thing about that. I actually lied to the Times and said it was a vegan dinner party and they said sure we’d love to cover that it sounds leftist and I was all validated inside but then I realized that I hate vegan meals so I was like all conflicted and shit so I broke down and got pizza and then the reporter for the Times showed up and he was all like “What is this?” and I was all like “I feel so unvalidated” and he was all “I’m leaving” and I was all “This can’t be happening where’s my ice cream” and then I cried.
Once at poetry camp I saw my best friend King Shamus in a bikini.
I know what you’re saying. Poetry camp? Where can I sign up. And Nipsey Russell was the greatest American poet ever.
Every ice pop I ate, every movie I watched, every Nipsey Russell-inspired poem I wrote was tinged with a fearful loss.
What can I say? I’m a deep-thinking intellectual.
I will also be devoting a section in my book to my fear that I am developing a FUCA, or “Fat Upper C*ck Area.” If you’ve ever had a FUCA you know it can be pretty, like you know, traumatizing. Sometimes I eat lots of pizza to get my mind off my FUCA.
Note: The blogger known as Manhattan Infidel has made all this up. He does not in fact have a book deal. He wrote this post to parody a pathetic nontalent. Increasingly the blogger known as Manhattan Infidel finds it hard to live in a world where Lena Dunham gets a 3.7 million dollar book deal for having as much talent and personal appeal as an apple that’s been lying in the sun for two weeks and after being shit upon by a monkey.
For those of you who do not know Lena Dunham she did the annoying campaign commercial comparing voting for Obama to getting f*cked. And here are some articles about the Fat Upper P*ssy Area’s book deal. Let us all weep for America.