Watch Your Back, Beck: Blistering Excerpts from Rumproast’s New Prog-Blog Novel!

I will not lie to you. I will not “spin” you. And I absolutely, positively will not be undersold.

“Raven had been with many ‘progressive’ men since she first ‘went online’...”

A woman, some men and the Internet. What great story isn’t built on those three simple elements, and/or a sadistic female prison guard? But in a market crowded with marquee names like Glenn Beck and Larry Sinclair, I knew I needed more than just a dependable, workhorse premise to light up all those jaded Kindles. And that’s when I wrote discovered the Ten Rules of BlogFiction, which made Who Blog in Darkness the eminently-optionable fake book you see before you today.

BlogFiction Rule #1: Lead with a Left Hook

Raven had been with many “progressive” men since she first “went online.” They had all been sleek, hip and wicked funny – more than a few, in fact, with genius-level intellects – and her soul ached to be a dancer in their mad, noble, intoxicating dream. But, no matter how much that ache ached, and no matter how failed and dishonest her trembling weakness made her feel, she had always selfishly withheld a small, secret part of herself, even from her blog-leader, Hillaire. A part she had protected and nurtured like the pearl in an akoya ever since the day she found out Rock Hudson was gay. The part called “sex.”

Hillaire, whose proud. idealistic mind was yet no stranger to empathy, detected the subtle tremor in her embrace. “Is everything all right, Raven?”

“Of course,” she said, lyingly, as she brushed her flowing hippie-hair back from a face that fiercely bespoke generations of benignly-enforced social diversity. “Will I see you tonight at the blog-slam?”

BlogFiction Rule #2: Look for an Open Character, and Throw Deep

Like a shivering Bolshevik moth drawn to the twirling candle-flame of Leftist Utopianism, Raven glared into the beckoning incandescence of her flat-screen display. As her fingers closed around the molded shell of her ergonomic, wireless mouse, a thousand memories suddenly flooded her mind, like a sudden, thousand-fold flood of memories. People. Moments. Lessons learned. And in a flash she realized, It was time.

Armand had awakened her to the poetry of Ché; while OortVoyager had opened her eyes to the yawning chasm of urgency and style that separated “Access Bloggers” from “whiny-ass-titty-babies.” And despite her silly Midwestern corn-country fears, she had permitted SithDude to teach her how to field-strip, clean and fire a hibachi with the cool precision of an Iron Chef. 

She remembered Hillaire’s teasing question at the end of the weekly editorial conference call: “Do you really think you’re ready to ‘go live,’ Raven?”

Hell, yeah, she thought to herself, as she typed her password into the Admin gateway page.   

BlogFiction Rule #3: Bridge Plot Holes With Gratuitous Comic Relief

“Axerod? Fuck Axelrod,” HarajukuGod32 thundered, via email. “I’ve got a fucking RL day-job, for Chrissake. I spend my waking life trying to parse the difference between ‘Half-Off,” “2-for-1” and ‘BOGO,’ and that slimy bastard wants to slide a knife between ‘Single-Payer’ and ‘Universal Coverage’? I’m a copywriter, dammit, not a rocket-enterologist!”

BlogFiction Rule #4: MORE SEX, PLEASE!

“Have you ever been with a real woman before?” Raven asked, cooingly.

“Fuck if I know,” I answered, with a look of brooding, mannish intensity. “But I keep condoms in that Mentos tin, as Chairman Mao instructed.”

BlogFiction Rule #5: Life is Conflict, Conflict Means Hits

“Damn,” Hillaire whispered, as he clicked down the SiteMeter referrals. “It’s what I’ve always feared most.”

“DOS attack?” piped Were-Hamster.

“No,” said Hillaire, slumping down in his Pininfarina Aresline Xten with Twitter-adjustable lumbar support. “It’s a blog-war. I never wanted this. I swore I’d never let it happen. But now it’s come. You’d better break out the Bunnahabhain and stand by to close comments.”

“Good God!” rumbled a smoky voice from the phalanx of co-bloggers behind me. “We’re gonna need more ice on that server!”

BlogFiction Rule #6: Make the Main Character Just Like Yourself, Only WAY COOLER

“How long?” I screamed into the five-mile-deep wedgie separating K2 from the adjacent peak, not really expecting to hear an echo. How long had it been since I first started posting? How many aliases? How many spoofs? How many dreams had I crushed, how many hopes ruined? Had it all started with Denver? No, long before that…“back in the day” when Wingnuts wore their colors with pride, like Harley patches, and you could surf 24/7 without finding a single trollish comment that began with “I know we’re not supposed to link to WorldNetDaily, but…” 

In the Grand Blogmology of the Universe, I guess I knew that was really no time at all—hardly a fart in a Black Hole. But 5,000 years—that’s a shitload of time,” I thought, flicking my sputtering, broken kreteck onto the pristine ice, “and that’s as much time as the fookin’ Arabs have had to come up with a decent clove cigarette that doesn’t die on you like a stick of wet moss, but they haven’t licked it yet. And so we wait.

BlogFiction Rule #7: Where There’s Friction, There’s Fire

“My Mother smoked Cheroots,” I typed, crisply, in a larger-than-usual Italic font. “What’s your point?”

BlogFiction Rule #8: You, Too, Can be a Dead-POTUS-Whisperer

It occurred to me that I had seen that gaunt, schoolbookish face before, and I frantically searched my meat-memory for a match. “You look tired, son,” he said, resting a low-opacity, weightless hand on my shoulder.

Then it hit me, and I felt myself rising reflexively to attention. “Tired and sober, President Wilson,” I lamely japed. “And, if it’s all the same to you, I think I need to fix the ‘sober’ part right now.”

BlogFiction Rule #9: Don’t Forget the Obligatory Epiphany and Flounce

“Yes, Ayn Rand wrote books that were more juvenile and simple-minded than Tom Swift and His Repelatron Skyway. And, yes, you have to be some sort of slobbering, congenital dickhead to pitch fuck-the-useless-eaters ‘selfishness’ as a ‘virtue.’ But—Christ on a red, twisty swizzle-stick—is this what ‘progressive’ blogging has been reduced to? Do we bestride this twinkling global synaptic cloverleaf merely to point and laugh at the colossal dimwittery of people who confuse cutouts with candidates, varmints with pundits and ‘de Tocqueville’ with ‘de Tocque-a-Planned-Urban-Center-of-Tomorrow’? Maybe I don’t speak for many of you here tonight, but I can and must cry out for everyone, everywhere who’s had it up to here with the ‘Daily Word Jumble.’ I mean—fuck—a crossword puzzle is one thing, but that shit’s just freakin’ ridiculous.”

BlogFiction Rule #10: There Can Never, EVER Be “Enough” Sex

Raven set her open copy of Going Rogue on the nightstand, and nuzzled against my shoulder. “Can there possibly be a bigger dick in this whole wide, crazy Universe?”’ she inquired, softly, sleepily.

And as I peered into the gathering shadows at the foot of the bed, I could swear I saw Woodrow Wilson smile.

Here he paused, the pen fell from his fingers…

Posted by StrangeAppar8us on 06/12/10 at 07:05 PM • Permalink

Categories: Rumproast Related

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Strange, you are so awesome. Will you be my dad?

“bestride this twinkling global synaptic cloverleaf” is just one Colossus, wearing circular specs.

Oh Strange, having delivered yourself of this transcendent piece of semi-fictionalized wonder, please do not dematerialize in a blue flash of pure energy! Your work is not yet finished!

We still have much to learn of you, to interpolate, internalize, and yes, to filch.

And also what Mike said. Times plenty.

Dept of Deliberately Missing the Point Out of Sheer Jealousy: Mentos come in a tin?

(In other words: I’d marry this post if I could.)

I look forward to the next exciting installment of this serialization.  However will our handsome and stalwart hero escape the clutches of the killer assassin (and nymphomaniac!) sex doll Shara Plain?

Damn, that’s some super funny twisted shit!  Its like Mystery Science Theater for blog novella’s.

My favorite painful lines:

As her fingers closed around the molded shell of her ergonomic, wireless mouse, a thousand memories suddenly flooded her mind, like a sudden, thousand-fold flood of memories. People. Moments. Lessons learned.

Oh, and my favorite part of the book cover - an endorsement by an online Grand Moff!  hahahaha.

Mentos come in a tin?

For members of the Progressive Blogging Cadres and Party Officials, yes…although this is the only time in my book that “Mentos” are mentioned specifically by name, or so I’ve been informed by the intern who wrote it for me.

@G—Thanks! Actually, though, I owe that basic formula to Henry Beard and the late Doug Kenney (Bored of the Rings), who likely cribbed it off a cave-painting.

Will you be my dad?

I am your father, Luke.

do not dematerialize in a blue flash of pure energy!

Transubstantiation onto a Higher Plane? Hell, I couldn’t even afford a bus ticket to DC.

Heck, there’s a charge for transubstantiation? They’re putting fees on everything these days.

(She typed limply in the same ole, same ole font)

I join with Allan and all the Internets in calling for MOAR MOAR MOAR.

This book is what An Army of Davids should’ve been. Unpublished.

Unpublished.

Dude, you think that cover’s fake?

I’ll see you at the Barnes & Noble in Wasilla!

I am your father, Luke.

Yay! Sign me up for the Dark Side!

Strange, you must, MUST pitch to be Palin and Beck’s next ghost writer.

And Oblo, is there any law that prohibits two women from marrying a thread?  Can I be your sister-wife?

Having passed the age of baby-making myself, I am asking, Strange, if my neutered male cat can have your kittens. Could only happen in your universe ...

That was a perfectly charred, prime cut of win nestled in a brilliantly executed bed of shredded Beck topped with a delectably rich and perfectly simmered awesome sauce.

Too bad we couldn’t get Strange to DC—we could have had some kind of big group marriage right there in the bar. I’m sure that sort of thing is legal in the District.

Strange, that is so funny!  (And if it’s coming out at 80% off cover I can already buy it!)

The only thing missing is the perl haxxor.  Maybe in the sequel?

Actually, though, I owe that basic formula to Henry Beard and the late Doug Kenney (Bored of the Rings), who likely cribbed it off a cave-painting.

Yeah, they were masters. Bored of the Rings was a snark masterpiece written long before there was any such internet.

I still have my copy of Bored of the Rings somewhere in this house.  I always loved how even the art on the cover was such a clever take on the LOTR cover art of that time period.

(And if it’s coming out at 80% off cover I can already buy it!)

Pre-maindered for your convenience. I learned a thing or two from Sarah.

Bravo, you creepy fucker, bravo. That’s some world-class snark, you’re flippin’ brilliant, if downright creepy.

you’re flippin’ brilliant, if downright creepy

Mom! You’re alive again!

“But how will we get through airport security?” wondered Raven, puzzlement spreading across her features like an oil slick across a Louisiana bayou.

It seemed to me for a moment that all our plans lay in ruins, but then inspiration struck me like an Orly Taitz lawsuit.  “Everyone knows that celebrities don’t have to go through airport security,” I exclaimed.  My eyes fell upon the hooded sweatshirt draped over the floor lamp.  “You’ll put on that sweatshirt,” I continued, “and tell the TSA guards that you’re Kim Kardashian.”

Then it hit me, and I felt myself rising reflexively to attention

Wow. A guy with a thing for dead (and need I add male) presidents’ ghosts.

This beats Lewis Libby’s bear rape scene all hollow! Sign me up!

-fred

God bless you, Fred. You win a signed copy!

@Johnny Pez—You know, we should talk about the sequel, dude.

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