Last Call for Think-A-Hol

The other night I was in the Lounge around last call when I spotted this smug little prick (see picture) talking to the Think-A-Holic Lounge bartender, who is the ghost of a big-ass Scot named Angus. I recognized the little guy who was busting the bartender’s chops because he was bragging about something I’d suspected all along. The little turd was telling Angus that he was the alien presence on Earth responsible for making sure that I had no readers.

He clowned around a lot while he yakked it up — buttering up ol’ Angus by telling him that he was the most frightening ghost he had ever seen and that he had a flair for making Manhattans that tasted more sophisticated than the Stork Club’s (as if the little goober had ever been in that elitist New York watering hole) and typical new customer crap — but I got the gist of what he was saying.

He said he put suggestions into people’s heads just when they were about to click on the ADD TO CART button at Lulu.com, usually making them think the phone was ringing or that they had to pee right now or else they’d have an accident. The little green bugger even went so far as to convince prospective buyers that the end of the world was happening at that very moment and that they should hide under their desks immediately. Then, while they were answering a phone that wasn’t ringing or trying to pee when they didn’t really have to or hiding under their computer desks like terrified snails, they would lose their Internet connections and then either get mad at me or forget about me altogether.

I was getting really peeved, sitting there nursing my draft and listening to all this crap, and I finally asked Angus to throw the little prick out. But all Angus did was smile like the big goof he really is and say, "Last Call! Last call for think-a-hol!"

A Warning from Hell

I looked in the mirror today and this is what looked back.

I said, "Who are you?"

"The Jersey Devil, who in the hell do you think?" it said.

Then I said, "Why do you look like one of the Great Publishing Wizards of Big Apple City who scare off all the new voices in fiction and spend all of your time guarding your worn-out lair of ethnically-chosen authors?"

And the thing in the mirror said to me, "Because we are one in the same."

I said, "You're wasting your time, here, because you don't scare me."

It laughed and then its image began to waver and fade, but not before I heard it say, "You'll never sell a book, Michael Casher, you'll never sell a book Michael never sell a book never sell...."

And then my own face smiled back again and I continued shaving like it had never happened. Actually, I was tickled pink that someone had recognized me as Michael Casher and not merely his alter ego. Just like a lot of psychological side kicks, I like hearing a good lie once in a while and then pretending that I'd just heard the truth.

Author's Note 5-5-14: That's right, you lurking Jewish bastards, It's YOU who kept me out of the bookstores. Because my fiction wasn't filthy enough to be promoted by whores and dark-souled greedy traitors like you and Steven Spielberg to fill your filthy coffers. God's chosen people, YOUR ASS. The Draconians invented that "iniquitous fairy tale" just for you people, because they knew how to get you fuckers by the short hairs, with the hideous notion that you were members of an "exclusive club" when what you really were was the greediest and most hateful group of human beings to ever cover the earth with your terrible numbers. You call us Goys and revel in it and when we type the word "Jew" into Google search we're committing a hate crime. Not on your life. Who in the hell do you people think you ARE? YOU are the goddamn criminals. And you damn well know it.