I’ve recently released my book Rumored to Exist as an eBook on the Kindle and other e-readers, for only $2.99. I’ll be running some excerpts here to let you take a look. For more info, see this post or go to http://rumored.com/rumored.
I am God. I drank a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, saw Richard Nixon eat an entire canned ham with his bare hands, and bought every single piece of PVC pipe in the United States. I paid Van Halen to play at my birthday party, when they still had Diamond Dave in the band. I could beat any of the great chess masters—human or fucking IBM computer, even without my queen. I can read minds and tell the future, with a 99% certainty. (I thought Dukakis would win for some insane reason.) You’ll die in an auto accident when a crazed Canadian fan goes spastic and forces the car off the road, but don’t expect me to hide you any clues.
I wandered the streets in my state of invulnerability, and met this chick at The International House of Pam, a clinic that genetically modifies peoples’ bodies to look like Pamela Anderson. Not only did it give you huge tits and a tight ass, but it modified your mutated DNA so you wouldn’t age as fast. (They could also change your nationality, like if you wanted to be the Asian Pam Anderson.) She found my phone number encoded in somebody’s genetic code, something I used to do to random females in nightclubs when I was too bored to think of pickup lines. We met, went bowling, ate at Waffle House, and went on a bender that later resulted in a plummet of Argentina’s currency value. She had round hips, nice smile, five years of C++ development under her belt, and a decent rack—not a bad catch, but she never returned my calls
I did see her again years later at a K-Mart in Lynnwood, Washington, but didn’t have the nerve to tell her I wrote a screenplay about the tryst and optioned it to Terry Gilliam (who got stuck trying to clear the trademark issues on the whole International House of Pam thing, and ended up rewriting the script extensively to have this weird Breakfast at Tiffany’s meets The Thin Red Line thing going on, which I was never into, except for this part where she wakes up 143 minutes into the dream to find herself getting savagely raped by a pack of Puerto Rican glue-huffers with tire chains and flaming swords, and then the production ran over budget and Universal wanted to cut all of that and glue in a happy ending and Gilliam had a shit-fit and killed 23 Paramount executives with his bare hands.)
The blue light special sent everyone into a all-out violence frenzy, and the store manager started firing a Crossman BB gun into the ceiling and screaming about how his numerologist predicted the end of the world. It took 14 men to beat the shit out of him, and convince him that astrology was not a science you could get a degree in. He kept telling us that you could get a Masters of Science in tarot reading, so we brought him next door in the strip mall to the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety, strapped him to a side-impact airbag test rack and shot him at a metal barrier at 35 miles an hour. A group of physician assistant interns came in with dissecting kits and studied pieces of his spleen, and the rest of us headed to Kentucky Fried Chicken.