My fellow Americans, I am a firm believer in Pritchardian exceptionalism.  As the greatest individual in the world, I have unique responsibilities and moral obligations.  Responsibilities and obligations you probably don’t understand, as you are not as great as I.  That’s why some have questioned my recent action of pushing a fourth-grader to the ground when he tried to take the last slice of quiche at a funeral last week.  Hence, I’d like to take a moment to explain what I’ve done, what I plan to do, and why this matters to me.

         When my interests and values are at stake, I have a responsibility to act.  As the most indispensable person in the world, if I am weakened in any way, all hope is lost.  Such was the situation that confronted us when little Jonathan reached for the quiche.  I wasn’t really hungry, but I knew if I didn’t eat something I might become hungry later.  True, I had already eaten six of the eight slices, but I wanted another.  It was no selfishness that drove me, but an honest appraisal of the necessity of me having one more slice. 

         Some would claim that because it was his grandmother in the casket, I should have simply let him have the quiche.  Some would say I wasn’t entitled to the food at all, as I didn’t know the deceased or any of the bereaved and had in fact merely wandered into the funeral home to use the bathroom.  Clearly they are not as exceptional as I.  The truth is I would not be living up to my sacred and moral obligation to continue to live and eat if I did not use all necessary measures. 

         Some have criticized me for excessive force.  But truly, one must ask oneself, was not the amount of force used, if anything, the very essence of restraint?  This time-limited, scope-limited physical action was judiciously conceived and executed, in less than one second.  Besides, I think Jonathan is milking that elbow injury. 

         Ask yourself, if what I did was so bad, who would you rather have done it?  The Chinese?  The Russians?  You’re lucky I was the one to shove little Jonathan, because they would have shoved him much harder. 

         Also, I happen to know that Jonathan is a bad little boy.  Even though his grandmother just passed away, I detected that he wasn’t crying with enough fervor.  How could he even think of eating at a time like that?  In fact, that I should have shoved him aside on my way to the buffet table is truly karmic, an act of divine justice, of the naturally self-correcting mechanism of the cosmos. 

         I know there are those who would seek to blame a Pritchard first.  These elitists, acting from a deep-seated hatred of me, would deny that I am the greatest force for good the world has ever known.  They see me, it seems, as being somehow imperfect.  This is wrong.  The crux of the issue is this: we must never accept any limit on the right of me to do whatever I want.  Anyone who apologizes for my actions is only giving aid and comfort to my enemies. 

         Thank you.  God bless you, and may God bless me and keep me safe.  (Cue for applause.)

            Goldfarb leafed through the Victoria’s Secret catalogue and debated, which of the models should he fantasize about while masturbating?  First he went through the catalogue quickly, giving each model a brief but fair appraisal, and noting with a tick made with a red felt tip pen in the corner of each glossy page the ones he thought the most promising.  Then he returned to the first page and went through the catalogue again slowly, looking at all the models but paying special attention to the ones he had marked.  The next step was to do the same thing, but in reverse, because looking at them in a different order sometimes stimulating different feelings.  Sometimes, Goldfarb thought, after looking at a number of blondes, he, upon seeing a brunette, thought that he found brunettes more attractive than blondes, but sometimes just the opposite was true.  For the same reason his fourth pass through the catalogue was random, and he spent the next quarter of an hour opening to random pages and studying the models on those pages intently, and marking off the pages he had already looked at on a list of the page numbers on a separate sheet of blank paper so that he gave each model an equal chance and no model was viewed more than once.  Next he wrote the page numbers and names—Goldfarb knew that the models’ names were likely merely the inventions of the catalogue copywriters, but he still liked to refer to them by their names, as he felt it humanized what he was well aware were photographs taken in some photography studio where women he would never meet had been photographed, and then assembled into the catalogue by catalogue-assembly professionals, and also he felt it lessened the possibly very icky and/or exploitative and/or retrogressive and/or chauvinistic character of his imaginings involving the models, which was without their consent even if it was, Goldfarb told himself, although even in the telling he was aware of the possibly ickily self-justifying rationalizations that line of reasoning involved, harmless, although he sometimes wondered how it affected him socially, to have imagined these women whom he would never meet in flagrante delicto with him, namely, Goldfarb, vis-à-vis the women he might very well meet and in fact did meet throughout the course of his quotidian life—of the models he thought were  the best candidates on the separate sheet of blank paper, now of course no longer blank because it bore, in neat red all-caps in red felt tip pen in a long vertical column, all the page numbers in the catalogue, each with a short diagonal slash through it indicating he had looked at that page in accordance with his procedures.  Having selected a shortlist of the best candidates he then repeated the above procedures for them, i.e., looking at each of them quickly, then slowly, then in reverse order both quickly and slowly—this last being an addition to this latter stage of the process, being a step not present in the beginning stages, which perhaps represented a kind of slackening, a kind of giving less than one’s best effects, a kind of surrender to the demands of a finite lifetime, which made him, should he have stopped to think about it, which he did not exactly do in an explicit sense but it did seem to perhaps affect him slightly unconsciously, depressed, if that was not too strong a word, and perhaps he would have said, had he stopped to think about it, which he did not exactly do in an explicit sense, that the sense the demands of a finite lifetime inspired in him more a kind of vague discontent or restlessness, rather than of depression, with his lot in life, which after all consisted largely of elaborate procedures designed to select the best model in the Victoria’s Secret catalogue about whom to fantasize when he masturbated—and, looking through these top candidates, in what was perhaps his favorite part of the procedure because by this stage all the models who had survived the process of elimination thus far were excellent candidates, unlike when he first started and there were many whom he would have liked to discard right away but to whom his sense of conscientiousness drove him to give them a fair consideration, he was able to narrow the list down by stages to a final candidate and, laying the catalogue across he countertop he was about to get to business, when he was interrupted by a knock on the door. 

            “What in God’s name is taking you so long?” his mother screeched.  “Other people need to use the bathroom too, you know!”

            If, years ago, you had told me that I, a mild-mannered bro, would someday become a minor celebrity for my star-making, Three’s Company-esque turn as the unemployed stoner housemate of Gary Sinise in the Kevin Costner witchcraft trials and then, later, for being tased by security guards at a forum with John Kerry at the University of Florida, I would have said, “You’re crazy,” and “Who’s John Kerry?”  Yet I swear, everything I have written here is 100% true, except for this sentence. 

            I had just come off a widely praised Broadway revival of The Importance of Being Ernest, having been singled out for my “transformational*” (*Nathan Lane) performance as Bunbury.  Also I was making beaucoup bucks selling the cars I got when people just handed me their keys as I stood outside Sardi’s every evening in a red vest.  But what I really wanted to do was write, because I had heard it involved serifs, of which I was a big fan.  So I went to a party in Hollywood—hoping to network with some bros who might be able to tell me what order the letters of the alphabet go in—when this girl walked in and it was like the universe was sending me a message: the good kind, not the kind where you end up playing Tigger in an open-air, all-nude adaptation of The House at Pooh Corner in South Central L.A. 

            Coolly, I approached her, handed her a rose, and launched a droll conversational gambit: “Y’know, studies show more Americans watch TV than fuck raccoons.”  She was intrigued, I could tell.  She asked what I did for a living, and even though at that point all I had written were some random letters in a crossword puzzle on the back of a box of Count Chocula, I confidently announced, “I’m a writer.” 

            She said, “Have you written anything I might have heard of?” 

            “Have you heard of the New York Times?” 

            “Yeah.” 

            “Well, I wrote that.” 

            “Really.” 

            “Oh yeah.  Didn’t even take too long either.” 

            Needless to say, after that we were inseparable for nearly thirty seconds, and after I was released from prison (muchas gracias to all the bros at Cell Block D for such a lovely send-off, that chocolate mousse went straight to my thighs; p.s., I’m sending you the bill for the dry cleaning—j/k, love ya!) I knew I had to do something to get her attention besides dressing as Optimus Prime, something that would identify me as a special bro with ideas and ambitions and all his teeth.  I followed her to somewhere in Florida where a certain “John Kerry” was interacting with the great unwashed, and when it was my turn to ask a question (“Why,” I would have asked, “in Back to the Future Part 3, did Doc and Marty ever think that two horses pulling an automobile over rough ground could possibly reach 88 miles per hour?”) but they were all like, “Time’s up,” and I was like, “Bro, that is so not cool.  A bro would let a bro ask a question.”  So the security guards came and that’s when I delivered my immortal catchphrase: “Don’t tase me, bro!”  But, alas, they did tase me.  They tased me hardcore.  All the tasing must have kicked in the Florence Nightingale syndrome, because she came over and tried to stop them.  So they tased her too.  Then me again.  Then both of us at once, plus they put fake fuzzy “antlers” on our heads.  But before they put me in the squad car I held out a diamond ring and said, “I gotta say, I could see us being bros.”  To make a long story short, she accepted and made me the happiest bro in the world except for people with Velcro shoes.  When I get out of prison she promises to tell me her name.

.

We [Blank] You

            Do you have a moment?  Let’s step over here so we won’t be disturbed.  Y’know, a lot of people around here have been noticing what you’ve been doing, and I just want to let you know how much we—excuse me, I have to take this.  Hello?  Yes, nothing is in the intellect which is not first in the senses.  No, cut the green wire, don’t cut the red one.  Goodbye.  Now where were we?  Ah yes, I was just saying how we all really—just one second.  Jimmy, hail fellow, well met!  Just chilling with my peeps.  You know Jimmy, right?  Hey, what about them Steelers?  You know it, my man.  Catch you later.  Anyway, we all feel that you’re—is that man over there wearing a brown belt with black shoes?  Excuse me, hello I say, are you wearing a brown belt with black shoes?  That, sir, is a faux pas.  Well, same to you.  Listen, we wanted to say that we think you—y’know, in the Jonny Quest episode “The Devil’s Tower,” when Dr. Quest gets out of the plane on top of the plateau, he takes a rifle with him, but the gun is never seen or mentioned again.  It just disappears.  That always bothered me.  Wait, was I about to say something to you?  Why are you standing there with that look on your face?  Do I know you?  No, I will not give you a quarter. 

.

Don’t Stand on My Ice Cubes

            Somebody is standing on my ice cubes.  Who is he?  Why is he standing on my ice cubes?  Where did he come from and how did he arrive at his present spatial location, namely, immediately above and contiguous to my ice cubes.  I hope other people don’t think it’s okay for them to stand on my ice cubes.  That would be an error in logic.  If they do think so, they will surely be disappointed when I tell them otherwise.  Then they will not be happy they stood on my ice cubes.  They will rue the day they stood on my ice cubes, as will that person presently standing on said ice cubes.  If there’s one message I’d like to impress upon people, it is this: don’t stand on my ice cubes. 

.          

You Never Know Who Has It

            You never know who has it.  The successful businessman in the Hugo Boss suit?  The high school quarterback?  The Hispanic mother of three?  You can’t tell who has it just by looking.  It’s not something that shows up on a supermarket bar-code reader.  You can’t check for it with a Geiger counter.  You could have it and not even know.  Maybe you have it and you’re afraid to tell.  Or maybe you don’t want to brag about having it.  Perhaps you take a drug to control it, or enhance it.  Side effects may include dry mouth, cold fingers, numb lips, inability to assemble phonemes into words, or lack of confidence in certain situations, such a deactivating a live nuclear bomb with no training.  If you are experiencing any of these conditions, please consult a metaphysician immediately.  But even he won’t be able to tell you whether or not you have it.

            Some of you may have caught British comedian and actor Russell Brand’s cameo on The Simpsons on February 20.  What you may not have known is that the yellow “Simpsonized” cartoon image of Brand is, in fact, his original form.  The truth is that Russell Brand has no more reality than does Bart Simpson. 

            My friends, we have been victims of a hoax of mammoth proportions—Russell Brand does not exist.  The planes of his face, too smooth to be human, and the raster graphics of his tangled hair, unmistakably identify him as a simulacrum, an image conjured up by a computer.  In the following photographs, I will take you step by step through the irrefutable evidence that shows that Russell Brand is an animated computer-generated construct, like Schrek.  However, unlike Schrek, Russell Brand is infecting everything around him with his essential unreality. 

            Russell Brand originated in 2003 as a rough sketch on a cocktail napkin, recovered from the trash at London’s chic restaurant Nobu.  A source in the wait-staff indicated that Simon Cowell had just eaten there, fueling speculation he played a part in the conspiracy.  Brand was soon developed into a more realistic pen-and-ink portrait and eventually given a body, but for some years he remained incapable of fooling anybody. 

            His name is thought to have emerged as an inside joke among his creators—”Brand” being a reference to the identity of their creation: as hollow and meaningless as the Nike Swoosh.  Just as every criminal—Jack the Ripper, the Joker—leaves a calling card, so Russell Brand’s creators could not resist the temptation to “sign” their crime. 

            These creators (the plural is unavoidable, because we have unanimously rejected the idea of a single creator, some transcendental Leibnitz working in modest obscurity) grew emboldened after James Cameron’s Avatar showed that CGI characters could be convincingly lifelike.  They developed Russell Brand into a fully fleshed out facsimile and began inserting him into likely settings.  At first he only appeared in magazines, because still photography allowed more leeway in the illustration, but soon they felt confident enough to release video footage.  Next came appearances in feature films, including Forgetting Sarah Marshall and Get Him to the Greek.  

The Photographic Evidence: 

This creature is being presented to us as a human being?  This isn’t, like, a proof-of-concept from some Hollywood special effects laboratory, meant to demonstrate the realism of its CGI animation?  Nice try, unknown conspirators.  It may appear human-like at a glance, but detailed analysis shows its flaws.  For example, in these two photos, notice the teeth, which experts believe have been photoshopped from a horse. 

In this next photo, notice the way the hair in front lies in smooth locks against the skull, whereas the hair in back stands up in an immense, tangled bouffant; the disjunction provides textbook evidence that two pictures have been combined.  Also notice the perfect V formed by the upper lip stubble. 

This next provides especially strong evidence of Russell Brand’s ersatz condition.  Whoever was responsible for this one was clearly not on their “A game” that day.  We know that the people behind Brand use a variety of methods to convince us of Brand’s reality; in this case, what I think we’re looking at is a wax sculpture, flanked by two paid actresses who may have been killed afterward, used to allow Brand to appear to interact with physical objects when time does not permit extensive postproduction studio work.  This may account for the blank eyes, the unnaturally featureless skin, and the obviously fake hair.  Notice too how the first three pictures showed Brand against blurred or nonexistent background, helping to disguise the wholly CGI images), whereas the fourth shows a background in focus; this is no doubt because it is an actual photograph of an actual object, the wax sculpture.

            No one should be surprised by this revelation.  In a world were dinosaurs and Transformers flourish onscreen, the only surprise is that CGI personages have not emerged sooner.  (Perhaps they have; who can say whether Russell Brand is truly the first simulacrum to masquerade as a human being, or only the first to be exposed?)  This raises the question: who else is a graphical representation?  A prime suspect is Brand’s own “wife,” singer Katy Perry.  A cursory analysis of her face would indicate, as a first approximation, an origin as a digital polygonal bitmap.  She also recently appeared on The Simpsons, albeit with much more convincing animation than her “husband.”  Is The Simpsons a vector of unreality, a “Patient Zero” of trompe l’oeil?  Other suspects include Miley Cyrus, Mark Zuckerberg (if you look closely, his appearance changes from image to image, sometimes quite drastically), Sarah Palin (fact: there is no record of her existence prior to 2008—anywhere), Kim Kardashian, Veronica Mars, and Justin Timberlake.  

            Is it a coincidence that, in the two years immediately prior to the first appearance of Russell Brand on that cocktail napkin, two movies involving CGI actors were released?  In 2001, Final Fantasy: the Spirits Within, a Japanese-American science fiction production, starred what was touted as the world’s first photorealistic CGI actor.  In 2002, there was S1m0ne, in which a Hollywood producer played by Al Pacino creates a digital actress who subsequently acquires a spurious reality in the minds of the public.  One of my informants speculated that this movie could have been used by the conspiracy to prepare mass opinion for the coming of Russell Brand and others of his ilk, similar to the way in which The Boys from Brazil was used to prepare the populace to accept the rule of an oligarchy of Hitler clones.  “I strongly feel someone is pulling a “S1m0ne” on us, if anyone has seen that movie,” he opined. 

            Who created Russell Brand, and for what purpose?  Does he represent merely the first stage in an invasion of simulacra that will eventually replace every human in the world with lifelike replicas capable of appearing in Us Weekly magazine?  Is there a connection with what is known in Tibetan mythology as a tulpa (“thoughtform”), a physical manifestation of mental energy?  We may never know the whole truth.

            It was a warm day in Washington DC, but Glenn Beck was perfectly comfortable in a dove-gray Ermenegildo Zegna suit, Brooks Brothers shirt, and Pierre Cardin tie as he stepped into the elevator and inserted the key that gave access to the 150^th floor of the Vulpine Inc. skyscraper, which afforded sweeping views of the DC metro area.  Whenever his thoughts turned to Modesty Palin, he was filled with admiration and awe.  Here was a woman who, with only the help of John McCain and Rupert Murdoch, had clawed her way to the top of an organization spanning several continents.

            Beck went into the tastefully decorated inner sanctum, where Modesty Palin was negotiating with Chinese billionaires: “Oil and coal? Of course, it’s a fungible commodity and they don’t flag, you know, the molecules, where it’s going and where it’s not. But in the sense of the Congress today, they know that there are very, very hungry domestic markets that need that oil first. So, I believe that what Congress is going to do, also, is not to allow the export bans to such a degree that it’s Americans that get stuck to holding the bag without the energy source that is produced here, pumped here.”  (#1)

            “You have enlightened us, Palin-san.”  The Chinese billionaires bowed.  “May herons always steam-press your pantsuits.” 

            After the billionaires departed, Modesty Palin turned to Beck, her eyes flashing.  “Summon my secret stealth jet that travels at Mach 9.  Our spies have learned the location of the hidden lair of the mastermind known only as The Kenyan.” 

            Doffing his black-framed glasses and gesticulating them for emphasis, Beck said, “The jet is prepared, Princess.  And you’ll have a sidekick on this mission: Ron Paul.” 

            “Ron Paul?  He’s cool. He’s a good guy. He’s so independent. He’s independent of, like, the party machine, and I’m like ‘right on!’, you know, so am I.  (#2)”

            The Black House was a forbidding, spiky black castle built high atop the sinister mountains of Maryland.  The two freedom fighters shot up grappling hooks.  Reaching the top, they quickly KO’d the guards, the fearsome New Black Panthers.  Herr Doktor Paul pumped a round into a shotgun and delivered his catchphrase: “Let’s return America to the type of monetary system envisioned by our Nation’s founders, one where the value of money is consistent because it is tied to a commodity such as gold, bitch!  (#3)

            In the castle’s inner sanctum, lined with spears and shields in the Pan-African colors, hundreds of dashiki-wearing acolytes were chanting in front of a statue of Halie Selassie. 

            Then The Kenyan took the stage.  “Soon, we will realize our goal of destroying the Imperialist Amerikkkan Regime.  Only one thing stands in our way, namely, ‘these wonderful little pockets of what I call the real America, […] hard working, very patriotic, um, very, um, the pro-America parts of this great nation (#4).’  So far, only a few individuals who may not be book-smart but they have common sense, have divined our true plan—that health care reform will lead inevitably to a caliphate in America!  Ha ha ha!” 

            “Look, he’s reading off a teleprompter,” Modesty Palin read off a teleprompter.  Then she stepped onto the stage.  “Hey you,” she said.  “I’m about to go rogue on your ass!” 

            “Get her!” The Kenyan said to his henchmen. 

            Thirty second later, when Modesty Palin stood atop a mountain of the acolytes’ bodies, The Kenyan faced her, saying, “Your maverick kung fu is very powerful.  Now try my Rastifarian judo!” 

            They fought all over the castle.  Finally, when The Kenyan was dangling hundreds of feet above the ground from the girder of a construction crane, he begged for mercy, saying, “Spare me!  I’ll never try to reconstruct your way of life again!” 

            Then Modesty Palin unleashed a devastating witticism: “Buck up or stay in the truck!” 

            Screaming, The Kenyan fell to his death. 

            Back on the ground, they approached the body.  Reaching around the back of The Kenyan’s head, Modesty Palin removed a small gray box with an antenna.  It had been wired directly into The Kenyan’s brain.  “Just as I suspected,” she said.  “The Kenyan was only the puppet of another, even more sinister mastermind.  You betcha!” 

Coming Next Ish: Who is behind The Kenyan?  Is it the Communists?  The Nazis?  The Judeo-Commu-Nazis?  And are they in fact the employers of the unknown assassin who ritualistically murdered Christine O’Donnell and Sharon Angle in his quest for the lost Aztec amulet referred to in the Codex Mendoza only as “the Eye of the Lamestream Media”?  And why does the possibility there’s a traitor in Modesty Palin’s organization excite her so much? 

#1 Grand Rapids, Michigan, Sept 17, 2008

#2 MTV, Feb 5, 2008

#3 House of Representatives, Sept 10, 2002

#4 Greensboro, N.C., Oct 16, 2008

            The field of zoology has recently been turned upside down by the discovery of free will in animals. 

            “It turns out that our previous understanding of animal behavior as being a product of genetic and environmental histories was simplistic and reductionist,” said prominent zoologist Stefan Nichtswisser.  ”A science that studied only the chemistry, anatomy, neurology, ethology, evolution, genetics, pathology, and biogeography of animals would obviously be inadequate.  Today, we realize that a science of animal behavior is only an appendage to a science of animal feelings.” 

            In the new paradigm, every action is caused by a feeling, which arises spontaneously from the animal’s innermost being.  For instance, the clustering seen in African water buffalo when confronted by lions turn out not to be a product of an interaction between predator and prey developed over millions of years of co-evolution—a naïve answer easily arrived at—but instead of the animals’ desire to be closer to each other at that particular moment.  Dr. Nichtswisser summarized it thusly: “Fear engenders solidarity in the buffalo, which leads to a sense of social cohesion, which may in turn cause a sense of agape for all living creatures, causing the buffalo to crowd together.”  The explanatory power of this theory is clearly much greater than the old one, focused on such crude, unsophisticated notions as natural selection or operant conditioning.  

            How foolish we were, scientists are now saying, to have paid so much attention to what animals did, when we should have been paying attention to what they were feeling.  If we want to change the way an animal acts, we must start by changing its feelings.  Clearly, changing an animal’s feelings is an easier and more direct task than the task it replaces, that of changing its behavior.  Every action has its cause in a feeling, the existence of which we can infer from the action.  

            In the past, it was debated whether conscious states of mind in the wildebeest or raccoon were epiphenomena—that is, secondary phenomena that occur alongside or parallel to a primary phenomenon but can in no way affect it.  The canonical example of an epiphenomenon is the reflection of a tree in a still pond; it would not exist without the tree, but it cannot possibly affect the tree.  Fortunately the cognitive revolution in zoology allows us to finally see that it is actually the behavior that is the epiphenomenon.  It turns out that the thoughts and feelings of the wildebeest or raccoon are the primary phenomena, and they give rise to the secondary phenomena of its behavior.  

            The new thinking makes the animal itself responsible for its behavior.  Previous theories absolved the animals of blame, thereby contributing to the many zoological problems plaguing our society.  As Dr. Nichtswisser noted, “Every theory changes the thing it describes.”  The new theory, by locating the cause of the animals’ behaviors inside the animals themselves, will restore a sense of personal responsibility to them.  By the way, it is definitely not a contradiction to say that animals are the sole causes of their own behavior, and, simultaneously, that promulgation of certain theories caused the animals to behave differently.  

            This change in zoological thinking parallels a recent change in the science of optics, when it was determined that the traditional description of a rainbow as being created by the refraction of light through tiny droplets of water suspended in the atmosphere is reductionist because it leaves out something important: the rainbow itself.  ”All the time we spent studying meterology and the physics of light was entirely wasted—we should have been looking at the rainbow itself.  That’s why I wrote a song,” said noted physicist Hans Dummkopf.  He began strumming a guitar and crooned: “Do not all charms fly / at the mere touch of cold philosophy? / Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings / Conquer all mysteries by rule or line / Unweave the rainbow.  Well, something like that.  I haven’t worked out the kinks yet.”

            You are wanting to imitate esteemed writers of the past such as Dean Koontz, Bone Thugs-n-Harmony, or Fritz the Cat, but you don’t know where to start?  Relax now.  Learn from me, your learned elder, how to write the easy way.  I am qualified to teach writing because I am the author of many famous instruction manuals about writing.  Whether your goal is writing a glorious paperback that will adorn a swiveling metal rack at an airport or a presentation for the big business client, writing is the way to do it.  People who do not learn to write will eat bitterness.  They are warned! 

            Utensils to write.  Prepare yourself with the right “tools.”  Something to write with: a pen, a feather, an acetylene torch.  Something to write on: a paper, a computer, a cup of Bai Hai Yinzhen Tea.  If using paper, be sure to orient the paper properly: i.e., write on the wide, flat surface, not on the edges.  People who write on the edges of the paper rarely score multi-million dollar publishing deals, and even when they do, the bulk of their earnings are eaten up by paper costs.  So think wisely. 

            Put the paper on something hard, such as an armadillo.  If using a computer, wear Mickey Mouse-style gloves to protect self from radiation.  Then comes time to write.  What to write.  What to write.  This is where it gets tricky. 

            Experts agree: writing is a series of letters.  Put the letters in the right order.  But what letters? 

            Know your apparatus.  There are many letters in the English language.  Some of these letters have names, such as “Randall Cuisinart” (after the famous inventor of the Cuisinart space shuttle).  Others are anonymous, such as this one letter that is on the left side of my keyboard that looks like the Four Pillars of Destiny pushing a baby stroller, in which rides an allegorical figure representing the People’s Revolutionary Will—nobody knows what this letter is called.  Either way, you have to know your alphabet.  If using a computer, some letters will be on the keyboard, but beware!  Some keys will fool you!  “SHIFT” is not a letter.  Nor is “CAPS LOCK.”  Most of the letters you want to use are grouped in the center of the keyboard, but do not rely on them overmuch.  If you do, you will be restricted to writing unpopular words like “fjg” and “ghg” and “fgh.”  You will not be popular if you write only these words.  There are also letters that are not on the keyboard, such as the “shmoo.”  It is imperative to use the shmoo in many important words. 

            If you are not using a computer, you will have to remember all the letters using your mind.  This is impossible—there are too many!  But if you have no choice, try to memorize a few “old favorites,” such as the “3.”  If pressed, just say it is a backwards “E” and all is forgiven. 

            Assemblage of letters.  When letters are grouped, they are called “words.”  Some words are: “ur,” “lol,” and “SRSLY!”  But careful!  Without constant vigilance, words can dissolve back into their constituent letters.  Hyphenated words are especially likely to break at their weak spot: the hyphen.  If your words fall off the page, do not step on them—they may gum up the treads of your shoe, thus making it slippery to walk.  Instead, coax them back onto the page with promises of two-for-one Mai Tais. 

            Assemble words until you have 90,000 of them.  Then take a break to ingest consumables.  Plot points may be resolved with an Ouija board.  Advanced students are encouraged to experiment with such concepts as “paragraphs” and “punctuation.” 

            Others.  Not all wish to write the best books such as native English-speaking A. E. van Vogt’s World of Null-A, which contains the line: “His leveling off on a basis of unqualified boldness permitted no prolonged time gap.”  Fortunately, there are other types of writing forms. 

            Business presentations: Wear a suit and try not to drool; at least, not on other people. 

            The Poetry: This is to be avoided.  You never will score a million dollars with the poetry. 

            Romance: Put Fabio on the cover and your name embossed in gold.  Serves 50 million satisfied readers.  Rinse and repeat. 

            Final tips.  To be a writer, you must do two things: get a top name to blurb your book, and appear on talk shows with celebs.  Try to have no arms or something—readers will be more impressed if they know you wrote the book without arms.  Otherwise, try to look like Tom Cruise.  For that, I cannot help you, but good plastic surgeons can be found through the yellow pages in Tijuana or Kuala Lumpur.  In the meanwhile, follow my simple steps and writing can be exxxkd#3x@%£*¥&!