The Dark Side of Thinking

One of the reasons Think-A-Holic Lounge has so few customers in the afternoon isn't because most people are at work during those hours. That might be a good reason anywhere else but the Lounge is not located in real time or real space.

No, the real reason this cosmic watering hole has only a handful of regulars in the afternoon is because of an anomaly that often occurs there and always without warning. It's a powerful vortex that tries to split struggling authors into two people, one of them a failure who gives up writing altogether because of abysmal book sales and the other a wide-eyed fool who continues to court and even suck up to the publishing gnomes of Bad Apple City who have been known to chew up new authors and spit them out without even tasting them.

I got caught in the vortex, myself, last night just before last call (see pic). As you can see, I was way over my limit of think-a-hol and deluded into believing that I was Michael Casher — the real McCoy — and not merely Jonco Bugos, his reflection and alter ego. Anyway, I got caught in this powerful vortex last night and, even though it nearly split me in two, it couldn't even begin to wipe the shit-eating grin off my face. Over the years I gradually became immune to its effects and, in fact, each time it tries to split me in two, it only squeezes another book out of me.

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.